Ich Bin Ein Latino

 | 

Who is a Latino? According to the Oxford English Dictionary, the word “Latino,” as used in North America, means, “a person of Latin American origin or descent.” That seems pretty straightforward. So, if you’re looking for a simple answer to a seemingly simple question, there it is. If, on the other hand, it strikes you as too neat and you’d like to know why that is, read on.

* * *

In order to use the OED definition to determine who is a Latino, one must first take out an atlas and determine exactly where Latin America is. While this may seem like hair-splitting, it’s not. The boundaries of Latin America and the parameters of the definition are inextricably intertwined. For example, if my grandfather was born in, say, Cuba, am I a Latino? Yes? How about Haiti? OK. Jamaica?

The first line that can be drawn is along the southern border of the US. While some suggest that it should be drawn considerably farther north to include the territory the US took from Mexico, for the moment, there is general agreement that Latin America is composed only of lands south of what may one day be called Trump’s Wall.

There is also some disagreement about which of the lands south of the US should be considered part of Latin America. While the United Nations takes the broad view, considering all of the nations and territories in the Western Hemisphere south of the US to be part of “Latin America and the Caribbean,” intentionally overlooking all historical and linguistic differences, the people who actually live in the Americas are more selective. While they generally agree that nations whose primary language is Spanish are part of Latin America and that those whose primary language is either English or Dutch are not, there is a difference of opinion regarding the inclusion of those whose primary language is either Portuguese or French.

Just because a person is of Latin American origin or descent does not mean that he speaks a language directly descended from Latin.

A circumnavigation of the blogosphere gives a fairly clear picture of the dispute. The majority opinion seems to be that because Portuguese and French are, like Spanish, directly descended from Latin, nations that speak one of these languages should be considered part of Latin America. Support for the inclusion of Portuguese was stronger than for French, perhaps because Portuguese and Spanish are more alike. That there are about 400 million Spanish, 200 million Portuguese, and around 11 million French speakers in the region may have had something to do with it as well. (Interestingly, the OED joined the minority in this case and chose to exclude francophone countries in its definition of Latin America.)

In any case, this is the map of Latin America, with all the Romance speaking countries in and all the Germanic speaking countries out, as confirmed by the collective wisdom of Wikipedia. In South America, by this reckoning, only Surinam (once Dutch Guyana) and Guyana (once British Guyana) are not part of Latin America, while in Central America the only country that is excluded is Belize (once British Honduras). In the Caribbean, all the English and Dutch speaking islands are excluded, including Jamaica, Barbados, Aruba, Curaçao, and all the others. The rule is simple, really: English and Dutch need not apply. (The island that in English is called Saint Martin has been divided since 1648 between France and the Netherlands. The French side is in Latin America, the Dutch side is not.)

* * *

Does it follow that because a nation must speak a Romance language to be part of Latin America, a person must speak a Romance language to be considered a Latino? It does not. Just because a person is of Latin American origin or descent does not mean that he speaks a language directly descended from Latin.

For instance, consider a child born in Peru of Peruvian parents who is raised to speak only Quechua, the language of the Incas. That the child does not speak Spanish, or any other Romance language, does not alter the fact that he is of Latin American origin and is, therefore, a Latino.

This is not a hypothetical case. There are millions of people in Latin America who speak Quechua, Guarani, Kekchi, and Nahua, to name the most widely spoken of the hundreds of indigenous languages still in use. In 2007, Richard Baldauf, in Language Planning and Policy in Latin America, estimated that 17% of the 40 million or so indigenous language speakers in Latin America were monolingual, which means that there are something like seven million people in the region who not only don’t speak a Romance language but don’t speak any Indo-European language at all, who are, nonetheless, Latinos.

Whatever their numbers are, the millions of people of Latin American origin or descent in the US who speak only English are also Latinos.

Neither is it hypothetical that monolingual speakers of indigenous languages from Latin American countries migrate to the US. In 2014, the New York Times reported on a Mixtec speaker from Mexico who arrived in East Harlem without Spanish or English. An estimated 25 to 30 thousand Mixtec speakers live in New York City alone, and there are about 500,000 Latin Americans in the US who speak indigenous languages. They are all Latinos.

To be clear, monolingual speakers of indigenous languages born in countries south of the US border where the primary language spoken is Germanic, meaning English or Dutch, would, of course, not be considered Latinos. This restriction would apply, for example, to Guyana (the former British Guyana), and to Surinam (the former Dutch Guiana), but not to French Guiana, which is, curiously, part of the European Union.

Next, consider the case of Mexican migrants living in the United States with a child who has been raised to speak only English. Is he a Latino? The answer has already been given. As he is of Latin American descent, he is a Latino.

Although neither the US Census Bureau nor the Pew Research Center seems to know how many English-only Latinos there are in the US, their stories abound on the internet and polling by the Pew Research Center shows that with each successive generation, the descendants of Latin American migrants are less likely to rely on the primary language of their antecedents. A 1999 Stanford report on the linguistic isolation of Hispanics of age 60 and older showed that more than 10% of the 125,000 polled spoke only English. Whatever their numbers are, the millions of people of Latin American origin or descent in the US who speak only English are also Latinos.

(As an aside, according to 2015 American Community Survey of the US Census Bureau, 3.4 million Spanish speakers in the US who were asked how well they spoke English responded “Not at all.” The question, presumably, was asked and answered in Spanish. They, too, are Latinos.)

* * *

Is it possible for a person who is not of Latin American descent and who was born outside of Latin America to be considered a Latino? Well, no, at least not according to the OED.

Before us is a Spanish child, born in Spain, of Spanish parents, raised and educated in a Spanish speaking home, then brought to the US at ten. Listen carefully. Just because a person is of Romance language country origin and descent does not mean he is a Latino. This child is not, and can never be, a Latino. It is simple, really. He is not of Latin American origin or descent.

But then there is Enrique Iglesias. His father, the singer Julio Iglesias, is from Spain, and his mother, the journalist Isabel Preysler, is from the Philippines. Enrique was born in Madrid, raised speaking Spanish, and currently lives in Miami. In 2010 he was named the King of Latino Pop by Latin Gossip magazine.

Just because a person is of Romance language country origin and descent does not mean he is a Latino.

While I will grant that the editors of this journal know far more about the scuttlebutt in the Vatican cafeteria than I could ever hope to, bestowing that title on Enrique makes as much sense as awarding the Nobel Prize for Literature to Bob Dylan. Unless, of course, the folks at Latin Gossip know more about the word “Latino” than the contributors to the Oxford English Dictionary.

Or consider Carmen Miranda. She was born in Portugal of Portuguese parents. She was taken to Brazil as a child, became a great singer, and then took America by storm, singing such hits as “Chica Chica Boom Chica,” and starring in such films as “Copacabana” before dying tragically in 1955. She is viewed as a latina icon by Literanista, a wonderfully eclectic blog that covers such matters. A quick review of feminist, Latino, and multicultural blogs confirms that Ms. Miranda has been universally designated and welcomed as a latina icon.

But hold on. Latin American origin? Well, no. Latin American descent? Again, no, not really. Far be it from me to second-guess the creator of Literanista, who undoubtedly knows far more about the life of Ste. Bernadette of Lourdes than is absolutely necessary, but to beatify she-of-the-fruit-hat as a “latina icon” makes no more sense than the coronation of Enrique. To be fair, it could be that the editor of Literanista hadn’t consulted her copy of the OED while researching the piece.

The case of New Mexico is trickier. About half of the people of the State of New Mexico are Spanish speaking, to one degree or another. Many of them have their roots in Mexico, but most of them, particularly those in the northern part of the state, are the direct descendants of the original Spanish settlers. (Santa Fe, the current capital, was founded in 1610, ten years before the Mayflower dropped anchor in Plymouth Harbor.) Often called Hispanos, many of them speak a sort of Old World Spanish. That the New Mexicans who are of Mexican descent are Latinos is clear, but are the Hispanos, who are direct descendants of Spanish settlers, Latinos?

To beatify she-of-the-fruit-hat as a “latina icon” makes no more sense than the coronation of Enrique.

Let’s say that the family tree of a Hispano man named Juan is populated exclusively by Spaniards who came directly from Spain to settle in New Mexico. As in the case of the “King of Latino Pop,” Juan was not born in Latin America and his ancestors were not Latin American. Is Juan a Latino? Well, no.

Let’s try this: New Mexico itself was once part of Mexico. If Juan’s ancestors were born in New Mexico at that time, they could be said to be of Latin American origin, which would mean that all of their descendants, including Juan, could be said to be Latinos.

Then there are the genizaros. During colonial times, the Spanish colonists of New Mexico snatched Native American children away from their tribes and forced them to work as domestic servants and, tragically, slaves. By 1776, a third of the people in what would become New Mexico were genizaros. According to some sources, the practice continued into the early 20th century. Today, there are about 300,000 direct descendants of genizaros in New Mexico, most of them Spanish-speaking.

(The word “genizaros” comes from the Turkish word “yeniceri” that translates into English as “janissary.” The Janissaries were Christian children captured by the Ottomans and then trained and compelled to serve in their military as shock troops.)

Are the genizaros Latinos? The same reasoning that could make it possible for Juan to be considered to be a Latino could also apply to the genizaros. If their ancestors were born in New Mexico when it was a part of Mexico, then those ancestors could be said to be Latinos. As direct descendants of those ancestors, the genizaros could be said to be Latinos, too.

If that line of reasoning is accepted, however, then the descendants of the children of American settlers in Texas who were born in Texas when it was a part of Mexico would have to be considered Latinos, too.

For example, the older children of Samuel May Williams, a close associate of Stephen F. Austin, were born in Texas when it was part of Mexico. Under the broad interpretation of “origin” used with the genizaros, any descendants of these children would have to be considered Latinos as well. It sounds rather Talmudic, but it could be viewed as heartless to deny the genizaros a place at the Latino table. If the only price that would have to be paid would be to make a little room at the table for a few Anglos whose patriarch acquired the 125-ton schooner Invincible, credited with depriving Santa Anna of much-needed supplies and reinforcements, thereby (arguably) ensuring Sam Houston’s victory at San Jacinto and the independence of Texas, it might be a good deal. After all, seven Tejanos died defending the Alamo.

That’s right, even the Inuit of Baffin Island would have to be considered Latinos. The same would probably have to apply to New France.

One more Talmudic twist: genetic tests have proven that many of the Hispanos of New Mexico were Jews from Spain who had either converted to Catholicism or feigned conversion to avoid the Inquisition. Their descendants, sometimes called conversos or marranos, could be considered Latinos, in the same way that Juan could. In fact, Juan may be a converso. (In Judaic scholarship, they are called the “anusim,” or “the forced ones.”)

There may be a problem. If the boundaries of Mexico prior to the creation of the Republic of Texas and the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo are allowed to define Latin America, then the window of opportunity for a birth to convey latinidad to subsequent generations is small. While Mexico gained its independence from Spain in 1821, in 1836 Texas won its independence, and in 1848 the rest of the American Southwest became part of the US, so New Mexico was only part of Mexico for 27 years. Unless an ancestor of Juan gave birth to another of his ancestors during that interval, Juan might have no ancestor who was of Latin American origin, which would mean that Juan could not be a considered a Latino.

A possible solution hinges on the fact that, prior to becoming part of Mexico, New Mexico was part of the Spanish Empire. It would be tempting simply to stipulate that anyone who has an ancestor within the borders of Spanish America is, under the OED definition, a Latino. The sticking point is that Mexico is a Latin American country and Spain is not. If this exception were allowed, there would be people calling themselves Latinos who were not of Latin American origin or descent. This “Hispano exception” will be considered further, if only to see where the twisted path leads.

In 1494, Spain and Portugal signed the Treaty of Tordesillas, which divided the Americas with a single line, drawn north to south. Spain got everything to the west of the line; Portugal got everything to the east. The Pope gave the treaty his blessing, with the proviso that only non-Christian lands were fair game for conversion and conquest.

Is it correct to infer, from the fact that the OED definition of “Latino” makes no mention of the construct of race, that a person of any racial identity can be a Latino? Yes, it is.

An inescapable consequence of using the boundaries of Spanish America to determine “Latin American origin or descent” is that every Native American from Tierra del Fuego to Point Barrow would have to be considered a Latino. That’s right, even the Inuit of Baffin Island would have to be considered Latinos. (The same would probably have to apply to New France. Everyone with an ancestor who lived within its boundaries would also be a Latino.)

All of which illustrates the difficulties that can crop up when the OED guidelines are ignored. The line has to be drawn somewhere, and adherence to the OED parameters ensures consistency and clarity. “Hispano,” after all, means “Spanish,” not “Latin American,” and the Inuit probably have no wish to be Latinos, anyway.

* * *

Is it correct to infer, from the fact that the OED definition of “Latino” makes no mention of the construct of race, that a person of any racial identity can be a Latino? Yes, it is. Over the past 500-plus years, millions of migrants traveled from Europe, Africa, and Asia to join the millions of Native Americans already in Latin America. They are all Latinos.

A few examples will help underscore the point.

There are at least 17 million Latinos of German descent living in Latin America, of whom at least a million speak German. A handful of them are descendants of Nazis who fled Allied justice after Word War II.

Because of differing methods of determining race, estimates range from 19 to 67 million Latinos of African descent in South America alone, a fraction of whom are descendants of the thousands of runaway slaves, or maroons (from the Spanish cimarrónes), who created their own free communities, called palenques by the Spanish andmocambosorquilombos by the Portuguese.

if you’re riding on the city bus in Des Moines and a stranger sits next to you, you cannot know from his appearance or his language whether he is a Latino or not.

There are at least 2 million Latinos of Japanese descent living in Latin America, a few of whom who may be descended from the samurai recruited by the Spanish crown and brought from Manila harbor to protect the mule trains filled with Asian treasure being carried from Acapulco to Veracruz.

There are also thousands of Latinos who are descendants of the “Confederados” who fled Yankee occupation at the end of the Civil War and settled in southern Brazil.

All these people are Latinos.

In addition, there are many millions of people living in Latin America whose genes reflect the endless combinations that such diverse ancestors make possible. In colonial times, there was a peculiar and intricate system of classification called “las castas” that assigned names, some of them quite exotic sounding, to a multitude of the combinations. Some of the names are still in use today. The bearers of these names, too, are all Latinos.

In the US, there are Latinos of many racial identities as well. In the 2010 US Census, the more than 50 million who marked the box for “Hispanic, Latino, or Spanish,” went on to identify their “Race,” by indicating one of the following categories: “White, Black or African American, American Indian and Alaska Native, Asian, Native Hawaiian or Other Pacific Islander, Some Other Race, or Two or More Races.” In excess of 26 million, or 53% of the respondents, identified themselves as “White.” Latinos, all.

Further proof is unnecessary: Latino is not a race.

* * *

To summarize:

  1. Latin America comprises all the Romance language speaking countries in the Western Hemisphere south of the United States.
  2. A person born in Latin America is a Latino.
  3. A person born outside of Latin America who has Latin American antecedents is a Latino.
  4. A Latino does not have to speak any particular language.
  5. A Latino does not have to have any particular racial identity.

In other words, if you’re riding on the city bus in Des Moines and a stranger sits next to you, you cannot know from his appearance or his language whether he is a Latino or not. Two examples will make this point.

A dark-skinned man with the distinctive profile of a Mayan aristocrat takes his seat and starts to talk with the man in front of him in Spanish. Is he a Latino? No. He is from Belize.

A blonde-haired, blue-eyed man sits next to you and starts talking to his friend across the aisle in German, but with a soft accent that you can’t quite place. Intrigued, you gather up your courage and say, “Excuse me, I hope you don’t mind my asking, but, are you by any chance Swiss?”

He quickly purses his lips in suppressed amusement before answering, “Nein, ich bin ein Latino.”




Share This


Hi. I’m Me. Where’s My Prize?

 | 

I heard the bad news on the radio, but the press confirmed it: David Letterman has been selected to receive something called the Mark Twain Prize for American Humor. The award won’t be presented until October 22, but to satisfy a world breathlessly awaiting news about this coveted prize, the media were activated early. Way early. Well, bad news usually arrives with haste.

Here’s part of the announcement as it appeared in the Washington Post. Have towels ready, because this is a gush:

David Letterman, who reinvented late-night television with his irreverent and distinctly original comic sensibility, will receive the Kennedy Center’s 2017 Mark Twain Prize for American Humor.

Letterman, 70, will be honored with the 20th-annual prize at a gala performance Oct. 22. The event will be televised later nationally. [I take that as a threat.] The Twain, considered the most prestigious honor in the world of comedy, will be awarded to Letterman five years after he was made a Kennedy Center Honoree.

“Reinvented”? “Irreverent?” “Sensibility?” You gotta be kiddin’. The guy isn’t even funny. Tell me one funny thing he’s ever said. See! You can’t.

And why drag Mark Twain into it? I don’t especially like Twain. Some of his stuff is good; lots of it is simply tiresome (and there is lots and lots of it). He’s seldom funny, and never so seldom as when he insists on telling you that this is what he’s being. But some of his aphorisms are memorable: “Whenever you find yourself on the side of the majority, it is time to pause and reflect.” And as I was taught — I believe by a professor with the unusual name of Blake Nevius — Twain actually did “reinvent” something. Before Twain, America’s professional humorists made money by laughing at people who were socially inferior to them. Twain made money by laughing with people whom he treated as social equals. As Nevius put it, “unlike the others, he wasn’t above his material.”

I don’t know when the mania for awards hit this country, but it’s a sign of cultural degeneration if ever there was one.

The really horrible thing, however, is the idea of somebody deciding to give an award for American humor at a “gala” at which people in tuxedos will schmooze and chuckle, presumably about how much better they are than people without tuxedos. There are far too many awards, anyway — and for humor? Gimme a break. Anybody with a sense of humor has already gotten the point of the penultimate scene of The Wizard of Oz, the awards-giving scene. The point is that awards are silly and unnecessary and unconsciously funny. If you have the qualities for which an award is given, you should probably laugh at the very idea of an award. If you don’t have those qualities — well, do you think that giving a Mark Twain Prize for American Humor will inspire some wannabe comic to become the next (ugh) David Letterman? It won’t happen. Such awards have no purpose — no legitimate purpose, anyhow.

I don’t know when the mania for awards hit this country, but it’s a sign of cultural degeneration if ever there was one. I’m picturing a mob of creepy-looking guys in monkey suits who, contrary to all evidence, think they’re cool, talking about how funny David is, and never having a clue that they are the funny ones. Well, they, and the president, and Congress — all of whom should be getting an award, if you’re giving out awards for laughs.




Share This


Single Vision

 | 




Share This


It’s Ideas that Count

 | 

Bourgeois Equality is the third book in Prof. Deirdre McCloskey’s trilogy, following Bourgeois Virtues (2006) and Bourgeois Dignity (2010), on the rise of the modern economy. In Dignity, she knocked down rival theories of what made the modern world. Now she argues for her theory — that the modern world was started by ideas, rhetoric, talk.

It’s a better theory than it sounds. In Bourgeois Equality she defends it ably and with flair.

“Equality” has been the Left’s word. Libertarians have no interest in an equal possession of income or wealth, and we don’t believe that everyone’s voice has an equal claim on our attention. We do believe in equal liberty to strive for income and wealth, to talk and write and thereby attempt to win our attention. We forget, sometimes, how powerful that kind of equality can be, and rarely imagine what the world was like before people had it. A third of a millennium ago the Englishmen who dared proclaim it were smeared as “levellers” and put in prison.

That is when the modern world was just beginning.

Deirdre McCloskey is a libertarian and professor of economics, history, English, and communications at the University of Illinois, Chicago. In Equality, her attention is on the development of “a business-respecting civilization,” with its seed in Venice and Florence in the 1500s, its sprouting in Holland in the 1600s, and its flowering in England in the 1700s. Since 1800, the result has been what McCloskey calls “the Great Enrichment.”

Libertarians believe in equal liberty to strive for income and wealth, to talk and write and thereby attempt to win our attention.

Everyone knows the world got richer, but they seldom reflect on the magnitude of it. Consider Afghanistan. People in villages there live on $3 a day, “which before 1800,” McCloskey writes, “was what the average human more or less everywhere expected to make.” In the rich countries, average income per person is about $100 per day. The earth carries vastly more people than in 1800, and life expectancy has doubled.

What started all this? It was not mere saving and investment, “piling brick upon brick” of the medieval economy. It was creating a new economy, over and over again, and destroying the old one.

The mental picture, McCloskey writes, “should not be nuclear fission, the reaching of a threshold — in which, with the creative people bouncing against each other, the reaction becomes self-sustaining. It was more like a forest fire. The kindling for a creative conflagration lay about for millennia, carefully prevented from burning by traditional societies and governing elites with watering cans. Then the historically unique rise of liberty and dignity for ordinary people disabled the watering cans and put the whole forest to the torch.”

Everyone knows the world got richer, but they seldom reflect on the magnitude of it.

The match was the idea that the aristocracy and established church had no right to rule. The alternative was the practical egalitarianism of accomplished commoners — merchants and artisans. These bourgeois had been around for centuries, but always had to bow to their betters. Then they stopped bowing and made a new world.

“No bishops,” McCloskey writes. “And at length no lords and kings. And then no central planning or expert regulation. Laissez faire.”

She calls the new idea “the Bourgeois Deal”: You are free to try something new. If it pays, you get to keep the money and push on.

The change had begun with religion. Printing had put the Bible in the hands of well-off commoners, who could interpret the Good Book in any way they liked — focusing on worldly works rather than an afterlife, for instance. This brought the Reformation, bloody war, and eventually a godly compromise: religious laissez-faire. An early apostle of it, when it was still new and strange, was the English Leveller John Lilburne, who wrote in 1649 that every person should be free “to exercise of Religion according to his Conscience, nothing having caused more distractions, and heart burnings in all ages.”

These bourgeois had been around for centuries, but always had to bow to their betters. Then they stopped bowing and made a new world.

Along with freedom to print Bibles came freedom to print other things. “By 1600 the Dutch had taken over from the Venetians the role of unrestricted publishers of Europe,” McCloskey writes, “publishing the books of heretics like Baruch Spinoza in Latin, John Locke in English, and Pierre Bayle in French, not to mention pornography in whatever language would sell.”

A marketplace of ideas — and other things.

Freedom also came to science, an event that some historians say created the modern world. McCloskey disagrees. “Science didn’t make the modern world,” she writes. “Technology did, in the hands of newly liberated and honored instrument makers and tinkerers.” The economic payoffs from elite science came later. The method of science, in her view, is what mattered first. A scientist was free to advance a claim, and other scientists were free to check it. Innovation, but a market test: the Bourgeois Deal.

“The only alternative to a marketplace of ideas,” McCloskey writes, “is a socialism of ideas.” Or an aristocracy of ideas, which amounts to the same thing.

The break from the aristocracy of ideas began with talk, much of it in the new coffeehouses of the late 1600s. “It is the habits of the lip that shape the habits of the mind and heart,” McCloskey writes. “Rhetoric therefore is fundamental. We can know the rhetoric of an age, the habits of the lip, by reading its literary and other written products.”

In Bourgeois Equality, McCloskey pays much more attention to words than numbers. In her hands, for example, Daniel Defoe’s pathbreaking novel Robinson Crusoe (1719) becomes an example of a commoner who demonstrates a “prudent calculation of costs and benefits” as he scavenges items from his wrecked ship. She also has a whole chapter on the word “honest,” and how it changed from its aristocratic meaning, “honorably high-class,” to its modern meaning, “truthful.”

The economic payoffs from elite science came later. The method of science, in McCloskey's view, is what mattered first.

Others have written that economic development has cultural roots. David Landes, for example, wrote in The Wealth and Poverty of Nations (1998), “Culture makes all the difference . . . What counts is work, thrift, honesty, patience, tenacity.” Which at any point in time is true enough. McCloskey’s take is to specify that it is the attitude toward these things — “the rhetoric people presently find persuasive” — that comes first.

Can rhetoric really be more important than law and institutions? Yes, she says: “There is nothing weird or scary or unscientific or self-contradictory about claiming that rhetoric matters.”

As a Christian, McCloskey makes a few jabs at fellow libertarians who don’t care about the poor. She does care. She is accepting of the welfare state, as long as it stays within reasonable bounds. Her concern is that political, cultural, and economic life remain open to innovation, and always with that egalitarian regulator: a market test. Innovation should not mean giving power to experts and elites. “Engineers,” she writes, “are full of bad ideas, too.”

So are some economists and historians. Read Bourgeois Equality, and give it the market test.


Editor's Note: Review of "Bourgeois Equality: How Ideas, not Capital or Institutions, Enriched the World," by Deirdre McCloskey. University of Chicago Press, 2016, 787 pages.



Share This


The Hallowe’en Horror

 | 

I remember driving through a little town, someplace in mid-America, that had a sign at its border: “Smithtown [or whatever it was]: Population, 1104 Friendly People, and 1 Ol’ Grouch.”

Lately I’ve been feeling like that ol’ grouch. The cause is Hallowe’en.

Is it just my misanthropy, or has this thing gone too far? I know there’s nothing wrong about turning what used to be a one-night opportunity for kids to pretend to be scared, or to be scary, into a months-long costume party for adults. I know that people like to have an excuse for parties, and there’s nothing wrong with that. I have no wish, I really don’t, to lecture other people about how to have fun. And, to tell you the truth, I can’t quite identify the reason for my increasing grouchiness over Hallowe’en.

Irrationally or not, I put Hallowe’en in the same box with Hump Day, a day in honor of hating one’s job.

But: isn’t there something weird about walking into a store a week before Labor Day, and seeing it decked out with Hallowe’en goods? Isn’t there something weird about walking into a bank and handing your money to a teller dressed like a pirate? Isn’t there something weird about adults celebrating scariness by dressing as French maids or cowboys or Harry Potter? If they dressed as Hillary Clinton, I might understand. Nevertheless . . .

I admit it: my last visit to a Hallowe’en party may have soured me a bit. Since the host and guests were all antiwar liberals, I showed up in some old Army fatigues. Maybe that would scare them, I thought. Granted, it was also my way of not spending time or money, but I thought I deserved a more sympathetic response than, “So what? That’s the kind of stuff you normally wear.” The prize went to a nice lady who dressed as Dennis Rodman. Isn’t there something wrong about a holiday that celebrates Dennis Rodman?

All right, many of my objections would apply to Thanksgiving and Christmas too — at least to what has happened to them. They go on forever, and celebration of them is thought to be obligatory — a sure sign that there’s something wrong. Come to think of it, Mother’s Day and Father’s Day went in that direction long ago. At least Hallowe’en is not an occasion for family guilt. People don’t say, “I wish I’d been kinder to my mom on Hallowe’en,” or “I wish I’d thanked my brother for dressing me up like a corpse.” Not yet they don’t.

Isn’t there something weird about adults celebrating scariness by dressing as French maids or cowboys or Harry Potter?

Maybe one’s feeling about Hallowe’en depends on the category one puts it in. If the category is “let’s have a party,” the feeling is benign. But, irrationally or not, I put Hallowe’en in a different class. I put it in the same box with Hump Day, a day in honor of hating one’s job. That’s the box that also houses hundred-thousand-dollar weddings in Thailand, Christmases honoring children who furnish lists of the presents they want to get, and the relentless multiplication of national observances (9/11, Martin Luther King, Stonewall Riot, the moronic “thank you for your service” workups to Veterans Day). And it seems that no one in America can mark any occasion without overemphasis.

My grandmother told me that when she was a girl, rowdy boys observed Hallowe’en by putting a cow on somebody’s roof. The neighbors enjoyed the spectacle, and the boys were soon identified and “persuaded” to take the cow down. There must have been pretty good roofs in those days, and pretty understanding cows. But Christmas took only a day or two, weddings were accomplished without years of planning, the optimal Hallowe’en decoration was a hand-carved pumpkin — and I doubt that any joy was lost.




Share This


Libertinism is Not Libertarianism

 | 

During the past decade or so, liberty-lovers have picked up the fight for legalization of prostitution and drugs. This has often involved a good deal of context dropping and evasion of other issues.

When Stephen Harper lost the Canadian elections in 2015, some well-known libertarians celebrated, for they now anticipated complete legalization. But the biggest competency of the new prime minister, Justin Trudeau, is his looks and the dynasty he represents. He was voted into power primarily by those who lack self-responsibly and self-control and who want either a neverending hedonistic slugfest or mere free stuff, in what otherwise is one of the world’s so-called most educated and supposedly rational countries.

Trudeau lost no photo-ops when he greeted immigrants from Syria with open arms. Those for freedom of movement rejoiced, sometimes in nearly incredible terms. “The more [Syrian migrants] the better,” wrote one of the best known pro-liberty authors. Some antiwar libertarians, who want the US to end all entanglements in the Middle East, were also full of praise — and on this occasion, unconcerned about collateral civilian deaths — when Russia in a matter of days indiscriminately bombed parts of Syria to destroy rebel groups, including ISIS.

In a true, anti-statist, free society, prostitution and drug addiction would be tolerated, but very hesitatingly.

Some libertarians have taken it upon themselves to rebel against everything that Christianity, and in some cases other religions, stand for. Some encourage promiscuity and drunkenness — libertine behavior and trash-talk being the fast way for some women to rise in today’s “liberty” circles. If a woman works as a call-girl to pay for her education, this is a smart move, according to some in the liberty camp.

All of the above, particularly the pursuit of single-issue goals without thought of the larger ecology, is not a fight against the state and its tyranny but a fight against civilization and reason. Consequently it is, ironically, a fight against freedom and liberty, and must increase the size of the state.

In the past, such fights were the domain of the shallow, non-thinking, materialistic cult of the left, which plays on people’s unexamined emotions, particularly those related to the biological instincts of survival and procreation. But now cultural Marxism — and its mind-ossifying methodology of “argumentation” — has become so infused in society that many libertarians, especially anarchocapitalists, have come to see emotionally provocative, unexamined, single-issue goals as their own.

Prostitution and drugs

In a true, anti-statist, free society, prostitution and drug addiction would be tolerated, but very hesitatingly, because they present an inherent contradiction. Civilizations know that freedom comes from self-control and self-responsibility — not from giving in to impulses — and that certain conventions have evolved in societies around the world because they lead to an increase in human happiness and freedom. A free society would appreciate the fact that gluttonous sensuality is not a sign of freedom but an assertion of the anti-libertarian forces of unreason.

Liberty by its very construct must be founded on discipline, respect, self-control, and self-responsibility. Any society that lacks these virtues cannot be a free society, because its citizens will labor under a mental debility. Irrespective of the kind of written laws they have, their lack of necessary virtues will create a tyrannical state.

I dislike living in places where prostitution and drugs are rife. I have nothing personal against those who indulge in them. I have my own inner journey, and they have theirs. But I have nothing in common with them. I see virtually no channel of communication — nothing that connects us in values — open between us. Mostly we talk through each other, wasting everyone’s time.

Liberty by its very construct must be founded on discipline, respect, self-control, and self-responsibility. Any society that lacks these virtues cannot be a free society.

Those who watch too many James Bond movies, the adventures of Kim Kardashian, etc. — and even those who don’t — believe that promiscuity is a Western product and export. Quite to the contrary, it was European missionaries who found themselves horrified by the unrestrained promiscuity of most non-Western societies. This was one of the reasons they deemed the non-western societies uncivilized. Hence the widely used term “Victorian morality” — although people hardly imagine the historical implications of how this term came to exist, tending to use it only when they want to blame the English for sexual repression.

Contrary to popular belief, non-Western societies are very materialistic and impulsive, mostly because the concept of reason never got traction there. Women in vast parts of the world — in Africa, Latin America, tribal parts of India, and so on — are available merely for the asking. You see glimpses of this in the rest of Asia and Eastern Europe, too. Alas, in such sexually liberated places, women have a very low status and are treated like commodities. Also contrary to popular belief, such sexually liberated societies are no less prone to sexual crimes, for desire, when given a free rein, is a bottomless pit, offering the ever illusory elixir of happiness.

In the same vein, middle class children in India — particularly boys — are much indulged up to a certain age, precluding them from developing self-discipline in later years. Because they fail to develop inner faculties of self-control and self-responsibility, when they gain adulthood the only way to make them a productive part of the society and keep them out of crime is fear, abuse, and punishment. Such adults just cannot be an ingredient of a free society.

A libertine society is an oxymoron, for you can either have liberty or be a slave to your desires.

Even when the satisfaction of impulses does no direct harm, hedonism is eventually not satisfying. Any sophisticated society that has evolved culturally knows this instinctively. Any thinking person comes to the same conclusion. But today, hedonism (a supposed product of Western civilization) is being promoted as liberty in vast parts of the developing world. The consumption of bad, sugary food and every other kind of gluttony is increasing exponentially. Every year I return to a developing country, and it seems that waistlines there are increasing by an inch a year. Lifestyle diseases such as heart disorders and several kinds of cancer are placing forms of medicine that deal with their symptoms among the biggest growth sectors. Not too long in the future, these diseases may become the biggest crisis for humanity. Promiscuity — even where it was more restrained — is also rising exponentially.

The two religions of the desert — Christianity and Islam — train their citizens to control their desires, although the latter, having failed to underpin its beliefs with reason, still does it mostly through repression and indoctrination, leading to many other horrendous problems. But the point remains: in general, giving free reign to impulses and desires, and a culture of high time-preference, produces a lack of civilization and hence of liberty.

Drugs do destroy the mind and create chemical dependency. They make people lethargic and subliminally dependent on others. When unable to finance their habit, they take to theft, to public welfare, or, if they still retain some brains, to fraud. All these create enough cultural poison to bring in the police. A libertine society is an oxymoron, for you can either have liberty or be a slave to your desires.

Prostitution and drugs are not mere victimless crimes, as they are commonly — and rather simplistically — depicted by people who want to legalize them. For the sake of intellectual honesty, those who favor legalization (as I do) should recognize that when one increases the demand through legalization, the supply will also increase. And there is strong evidence that legalization of prostitution worsens the exploitation of women, through increased trafficking and inducements offered to gullible girls. These girls are then controlled through fear — a problem that those who grew up in happy families fail to recognize. The situation with drugs is not too dissimilar.

Immigration and religion

Then there are those who hinge their concept of a free society on unfettered immigration. They forget that while they constantly argue with people to convert them to free-thinking individuals, hoping to end up with legal structures in which liberties are respected as they were in the glorious past of the West, they also, in effect, are advocating the admission of millions of traumatized refugees, deeply indoctrinated in uncivilized and violent behavior. For such liberty-fighters with simplistic goals, culture is a blank slate on which anything can be written. But culture, alas, is virtually impossible to change, as those who want to impose institutional changes on the backward parts of the world have consistently discovered.

The compassion shown by Europeans and North Americans to recent migrants from Syria is heartwarming, and virtually unique on our planet. I have nothing against migrants. But an awareness of the fuller reality would provide some guidance about the extent to which they should be accommodated.

The evil of religion is another, single-goal target of certain libertarians. Here again, cultural context is lacking. Religions and traditions are the repository, in concentrated form, of thousands of years of our tacit knowledge and wisdom. Without the subliminal transmission of virtues and knowledge through customs and traditions, schooling — which is mostly devoid of the complexity of real life and can at best provide theoretical underpinnings — would take too long to educate people. The individual lifespan is too short. Formal education, by itself, is an extremely inefficient tool of real education. It almost completely fails to impart wisdom and sophisticated thinking. What the USSR and China created by partially destroying their cultures were minds that lacked frameworks to absorb understanding and wisdom. We need raw math and science — to provide theoretical underpinnings, a sort of objective glue — but they cannot by themselves impart wisdom. Tacit knowledge is much complex and fundamental.

Culture, alas, is virtually impossible to change, as those who want to impose institutional changes on the backward parts of the world have consistently discovered.

Contrary to their claims, many of the vociferous atheists I have known are actually devout believers in scientism — in the idea that anything that cannot be scientifically explained is not real. They believe they have perfect answers or they are very close to them. They fail to realize that despite 500 years of scientific progress our understanding of the world is miniscule in comparison to what is there to be explained. Then these believers in scientism think they are believers in reason, but reason is not final knowledge; it is a chisel, a tool to continue exploration for better and better knowledge, in full understanding that a perfect answer might, very possibly, never come. Indeed, reason has had to work continuously to chisel religions into shape. Most religions failed and became ossified. Christianity, as major religions stand today, is perhaps the only one that carries some capacity to evolve.

Most evolved people — and every such person I have known personally — had deep religious or spiritual experiences growing up, even if they became atheists later on. As an atheist, I do want religions to come out of their tribal instincts, but the reality is that the vast majority of humanity does not think, would not think, and would rather die than think. They need something to believe in. It had better be Jesus Christ or Buddha than Obama, the stupid-box, or Miss Universe. Those in the liberty movement who want religion to end — as I do — must ask themselves whether fighting against it would not result in worse problems. Destroying religions without offering something in return would produce a very bland, passionless, immoral world.

Many people, on both the Left and the Right, who have not examined what they want to fight for see an enemy and want to liquidate it. But if they don’t understand the ecology, the complex historical, social, and intellectual surroundings, they only create space for a more resistant and harmful enemy.

Several people I know voted for Trudeau in Canada because they were against what they regarded as Harper’s attempt to create a police state. Having voted that enemy out, they now realize that not only will Trudeau retain — except for some lip-service — most of the police-state elements of Harper’s regime, but he will greatly “assist” Canada in its degeneration to a socialistic, irrational, values-lacking society. Had my acquaintances understood the ecology, they might have more sensibly voted for Harper. I myself would have suggested abstention, to avoid legitimizing the state.

Fighting legitimizes the state

Would I want prostitution and drugs to be legalized? Yes. I certainly would not fight to keep prostitution and drug consumption illegal, because I do not want to interfere in other people’s lives. Moreover, the only way self-responsibility can be developed is by letting people experience the consequences of their actions. Those who are gullible will eventually be fooled by someone else anyway. But I see no reason to fight for legalization of prostitution and drugs, because I understand that my fight for liberty has many other issues to confront, and if those are not adequately dealt with, any legalization and resulting liberties will be transitory, fleeting, and illusory.

Destroying religions without offering something in return would produce a very bland, passionless, immoral world.

Similarly I would like complete freedom of travel and I won’t resist if this is enabled tomorrow, but given the many other issues involved, I abstain from a single-minded focus on fighting for free immigration. Most importantly, any fight for legalization validates the idea of the state, the most criminal of human institutions.

My fight is for self-responsibility and self-control, which are cornerstones of civilization and liberty. My fight belongs in the space of reason. In the real world, issues are much entangled with one another. In societies that lack inherent moral impulses (which is the case with virtually every society outside the West), my fight is to shake people’s souls to infuse in them the concept of reason. Even in the West, my fight is not just to end the welfare-warfare system but to stop the hemorrhaging of the concept of reason. Unless this is done, any single-goal fight will have illusory results. Most likely, indeed, it will make the situation worse.




Share This


Turkish Savagery

 | 

For centuries, Europeans viewed the Turk as the most feared, yet least familiar enemy. Twice, the Ottoman hordes threatened Vienna, practically next door to Paris. For hundreds of years French Mediterranean towns and monasteries fortified themselves against Turkish pirates (who mostly never showed up). Algerian pirates, who were thought of generically as “Turks,” occasionally plundered the Irish coast. Once, a bunch of them even raided Iceland! Following his naval debacle at the Bay of Abukir, Napoleon brought Mamelukes, Turkish mercenary troops from Egypt, back to Europe. He used them as a weapon of terror against the insurgent Spaniards, a fact memorialized by Goya in his Tres de Mayo. In this atrocity painting, only the Spanish victims, who seem to be appealing to the viewer, have human faces. The Mameluke execution squad is shown from the rear, like a many-backed beast.

Twenty years later, the European aristocracy reveled in taking the side of Greek independence fighters against Turkish tyranny. (Lord Byron, the celebrated English poet indirectly died of it.) Ottoman power responded to the Greek insurrection with several well-publicized massacres. The most famous, the Massacre at Chios, depicted by my namesake Delacroix (Eugene), remains one of the great masterpieces of war propaganda. The painting displays in one tight space mass slaughter, including that of babies; rape; rapine; and the haughty indifference of the cruel Turk. In a perverse turn of mind, the artist made the central figure, an Ottoman horseman with saber in hand, disturbingly handsome. (I have to resist the temptation to see the painting as an early instance of soft-core porn, catering to a sadistic streak.)

Naturally, until recently, I did not know much that was favorable about Turkish society, or Turks, except that they had kept a silent, humble, and effective guard on the soft southern flank of Europe during the long years of the Cold War. Now, a disclaimer: in this story, I deliberately avoid any mention of the two massacres of Armenians, in the late 1800s, and an even worse one, in 1915–1916, because I am convinced that ordinary contemporary Turks know nothing of these events, or don’t quite grasp them. Similarly, I circumvent the on-going Kurdish rebellion in eastern Turkey and its often severe repression, because I wish to write only about the things I have seen, heard, or touched myself. My circumspection in these matters does not imply denial or affirmation.

The European aristocracy reveled in taking the side of Greek independence fighters against Turkish tyranny. Lord Byron indirectly died of it.

In the early 2000s, my wife and I took the night ferry across the Aegean from Piraeus, Greece, to Turkey. My first sighting of the blood-red Turkish national flag in the early morning somehow gave me a surge of adrenalin, a pleasant one. After the persnicketiness, the somberness, and the surliness we had experienced for two days in Athens, the Turks’ smiling warmth was more than welcome. (Why do I think Greeks hold the world’s per capita record, ahead of Argentina, for burning American flags?) But in spite of these good feelings, I was on my guard. I was born and reared in Europe. After all, I did not know how many of my great-aunts and great-grand-aunts their great-grandfathers had kidnapped to serve the obscene pleasures of the Turks’ harems.

We traveled along the Mediterranean coast in comfortable air-conditioned buses, stopping where fancy dictated, armed with our American Express card, like a new breed of aging but prosperous hippies. At every stop, as I stepped off the bus, older men, fellow-passengers, would compete for the privilege of lighting my cigarette with their invariably gold-plated lighters. Many smiles were exchanged, but conversations remained rudimentary, because the brevity of the stops made it difficult to overcome the fact that we did not have even half a language in common.

One morning stop seemed to last abnormally long, much beyond the necessities of bodily evacuation and two cups of strong muddy coffee, with cigarettes, for the driver. Previously, I had exchanged a few sentences with a 20-year-old girl who seemed eager to practice her English. She was a slight, skinny young woman with a pretty face. She wore a light cotton dress of sober color. Soon she became highly agitated, making loud and shrill pronouncements in Turkish that I did not understand, of course. I did not think she was exactly crazy, since we had had a placid and courteous conversation moments before, while the bus was still running. Nevertheless, she acted like a mad person. The other passengers were smiling patiently, while the driver seemed to be taking half a catnap.

In a perverse turn of mind, the artist made the central figure, an Ottoman horseman with saber in hand, disturbingly handsome.

Suddenly, the thin girl stepped forward and shoved the burly, middle-aged driver out of his seat. She met with no resistance and no protest. She sat in his place and pounded the loud road-horn as hard as she could. Presently we all saw, across the parking lot, a tall young man scurrying toward our bus. He was clutching a small plastic shopping bag to his chest. The girl leaped out the door like a mountain goat and ran toward the young man. She grabbed him brutally and frog-marched him to the bus on the double. When they were both inside, she managed to close the bus door by herself. I was alarmed, but the other passengers and the driver were still smiling.

The young man was athletic-looking and two heads taller than the girl. He looked to me like a deeply embarrassed 18-year-old. Shouting at the top of her lungs, the girl began to strike him across the face with all her strength. Back and forth she went, bitch-slapping him in front of everyone. Although I am a burly, strong man with a fondness for blood sports, the sound of her hand on his face made me wince. Had I been at home, I would have surely intervened to protect the boy against her fury. But the other passengers were still smiling, although by now a little fixedly.

She pummeled him for half an eternity, all the while ranting and raging as loudly as I have ever heard a woman scream. (And believe me, without boasting, I have a lot of experience with angry women.) The victim made no move to defend, or even to protect, himself. After a little while, as she was still beating him, her voice began to change; it became less loud and her tone turned softer. (Remember that I understood not a word of what she was shouting.) Soon, she was whimpering on his chest and stroking the cheeks she had been battering seconds before. She pulled him down into their seats and cradled his head in her arms while whispering what were obviously sweet nothings into his ear. The engine started, the bus rolled out of the parking lot, the passengers resumed their conversations. The two young people were soon napping cheek to cheek.

 Suddenly, the thin girl stepped forward and shoved the burly, middle-aged driver out of his seat.

Later, she apologized to us in English for her outburst, and she explained: the tall young man was her adored little brother. They were traveling together from an inland city to their uncle’s home in a pretty coastal town (where my wife and I were heading, ourselves). The brother had asked her for permission to go buy a bathing suit in a shop adjoining the bus stop. He took too long because he could not find his size, so he wandered away, with all their money. She had panicked, fearful that the bus would abandon him in the unknown town. Hence her delayed wrath when she became sure that the worst was not going to happen.

The most striking part of the episode was the seemingly perfect equanimity of the other passengers. It told me of their tolerance for lateness and of their confidence that the matter would have a happy denouement. The young woman chatted some more with my wife and me. She was trustful, insatiably curious, and charming as a songbird. We would have adopted her on the spot if it had been possible.

Soon, we reached our destination, a perfectly lovable sea town, like St. Tropez must have been 50 years ago. The blue Aegean was dotted with gaily painted little boats, as in the postcards; fresh fish were frying in all the restaurants, and not a luxury store anywhere. You could not even have bought a latte for its weight in gold, thank God!

The next day was market day. If you are a serious traveler, you never miss open-air markets. They are invariably pleasurable as well as educational. All the women there, in that Turkish market, were from the interior of the country, and all were wearing broad, long, flowing, so-called “harem pants.” An older lady crossed our path wearing such pants, silky ones, with a black on gray subtle motif my wife immediately liked. You know what to do, I told my wife. (A long time earlier, I had demonstrated to her that it was possible to buy a woman’s clothes from her ten minutes after meeting her.) But at first, she demurred.

Older Turkish men are terrific liars. Men obviously in their early sixties would announce on their fingers: I am 83. I am 86. I will be 92 next year.

I saluted the gray-haired lady and expressed to her with gestures that my wife admired her pants. She took us to a stall that sold an inferior version of the same item. No, I insisted with a smile, she wants yours. To tell all, I was a little concerned that she might misunderstand me to be proposing to her that the three of us perform exotic acts together. But what we wanted soon seemed to dawn on her. I guessed she was a bit shocked but also intrigued. Soon, several other market women joined us, and a little girl who had a bit of school English. When the female passel disappeared behind a truck, I discreetly stepped away.

I walked around; to waste time, I bought a brass pepper grinder. I guessed that my wife understood men well enough to find me, eventually. I made my way to the tea stall in the middle of the market. Soon, several wide-eyed boys surrounded me. Then, one at a time, older men joined me on the benches that were set out in the open. Each one of them offered me a cigarette, and each tried to buy me a glass of tea. Seeing no toilet anywhere, I declined the tea each time with a big smile and a hand on my heart.

Are you married? One asked. How many children? Do you have pictures? Here are mine. And, finally: how old are you? I told the truth, as usual. One by one, they felt my biceps, then my thighs. I asked each politely, one by one, how old he was. As it happens, older Turkish men are terrific liars. Men obviously in their early sixties would announce on their fingers: I am 83. I am 86. I will be 92 next year. Then they took turns blustering about how good they looked for their age. It took all my willpower to refrain from challenging each and every one of the old bastards to an arm-wrestling match, just to teach them a little humility.

Subsequently, every mature Turkish man I met who was not trying to sell me a rug displayed precisely the same kind of loud vanity. I am guessing it keeps them young. It certainly beats the despicable Western custom of old geezers casually competing with one another about who has the worse health problems. Give me a braggart every time over a whiner!

No American visitors in Turkey this summer, they said. Tell the Americans to come back. We love them. Not like the fucking Europeans.

At that point, we got into the meat of things: American, yes? Yes, I confirmed. Bush? The oldest man asked with a raised eyebrow. I lifted my conservative thumb. He replied immediately: Bush, good! Saddam . . . He drew his hand across his throat. Exactly! I confirmed eagerly. (The American intervention in Iraq was about three months old then. Hussein was hiding in a dirt hole.) There were smiles all around. The fact is that I was sitting in the middle of a cluster of Muslims while my liberal academic colleagues were prudently visiting Paris, or Florence, or London. That is, the ones who had the gonads to travel overseas at all, that warlike summer.

Then, a young man who knew some English was drafted by one of the old guys. He told me the men wanted to know my opinion of the probability that Turkey would eventually be admitted into the European Union. Turkey, I answered sincerely, might just as well apply right away to the North American Free Trade Association (NAFTA). They were interested. One thing led to another. After a while, finding me so well informed, they somehow made the assumption that I must be a man of some influence in the US. No American visitors in Turkey this summer, they said. Tell the Americans to come back. We love them. Not like the fucking Europeans: they come here with one hundred euros and they think they are kings. (Don’t ask me how I know they used the expletive. I just know. It sounds the same in every tongue, anyway.)

An hour had passed and I was vaguely and only very slightly worried about my wife. I did not think there was any danger, but it was not like her to stay away, because she is the kind of person who gets lost between our house, where we have lived for ten years, and the corner grocery store. I called over a couple of 12-year-olds (who may have been 25, according to Turkish males’ general apprehension of reality), and I borrowed a gold-plated fountain pen from one of the old men. On a paper bag, I drew a chesty female silhouette and pounded my own (flat) chest. Wife of mine, I said. My wife is from India. Hindi! I added. Everyone commented favorably on my artistic talent (I guessed).

One of many wonders of globalization is that all around the less-developed world many people know and love Bollywood movies. “Hindi” struck a chord. I gave the boys one million liras each and sent them searching, paper bag drawing in hand. (What with inflation, a million liras does not buy nearly as much as it used to!) I wished them well in my heart, hoping they would not get into trouble inspecting too closely the bosoms of all and every woman at the market.

I located my wife, eventually. She had traded the old lady’s beautiful used harem pants against two new ones, plus one for each of three other women present at the negotiation, plus a whole outfit for the little girl who had acted as an interpreter. But the pants she had acquired were truly magnificent! (My wife has many wonderful qualities and enormous talent, but a wily bargainer, she is not.)

One of many wonders of globalization is that all around the less-developed world many people know and love Bollywood movies.

The transaction completed at last, she had failed to find me, she said. This, although I was in the middle of the market, surrounded by a small but noisy crowd. Instead, guided by some obscure female atavism, against all precedents, she had decided to walk back to the hotel by herself. She was in her fifties at the time. Tall and thin, but curvy, with the gray and black, silky harem pants streaming around her long legs and her narrow hips, she must have cut a striking figure in the eyes of dozens of appreciative Turkish male spectators on the way. If this was her last huzzah, she could not have chosen a better venue; bless her heart!

Later that evening, we walked the promenade on the seafront. We bumped into the young woman from the bus and her tall little brother. She embraced my wife and kissed her on both cheeks. Then she did the same with me. She pushed her brother forward and he kissed both of us too. We invited them for ice-cream. They sat with us but would not let us pay, because the sweets kiosk belonged to their uncle who would never, not ever, forgive them if we touched the check.

I don’t mean to deny centuries of European perception, or any part of history. Yet, I have to report my own experience. This, then, was my own personal encounter with Turkish savagery.




Share This


An Amish Funeral

 | 

R.W. Bradford, founder of this journal, loved the unusual features of America and its people, and always sought articles about them. When he didn’t find good articles, he wrote them himself. Liberty has always been especially interested in the variety of communities Americans have created. As Isabel Paterson observed, even “closed communities” can succeed in America, because they are embedded in an open society. Paul Hochstetler is a descendant of an Amish community. He presents an inside-outside view of a place and a people in northern Indiana, observed when he took his 91-year-old father to the funeral of his father's sister-in-law.

— Stephen Cox

“Sis kalt du-miha,” said the man as he and his two small sons sat on the bench next to me. In my brain began the 1-2-3 count as I processed this statement. Then, recognizing the meaning ("It's cold this morning") and breaking the flow of Deitch, I agreed, and indicated that was why I was still wearing my hoodie. Though it was dark blue and I was wearing a white shirt (heavy, not dress) and black jeans, the clothing still looked a bit too flashy — too Anglish.

That wasn’t the first Deitch addressed to me that morning. One of Uncle Lonnie’s boys greeted me with “Hochstetla” as he shook my hand. I thought of Number Two at work who often barks out a last name as a greeting. Or was he playfully introducing himself? Perhaps he was identifying me as “one of them.” I thoughtfully raised my finger to my cheek as I replied in Deitch, “I believe I am.”

Roads that day were much clearer than I had anticipated. Still, getting there had adventure potential. Service begins at 9:00 a.m. on January 3, at Herman Miller’s, I was told. Yet, the location was a mystery even as my father and Iset out at 7:20 for the funeral of Aunt Katie.

Visions of crisscrossing LaGrange County roads appeared before me. We’d stop at every house that looked funereal, eventually staggering in ten or 20 minutes late. But Dad had his plan . . . revealed as we drove. Go to where Willis and Katie, my aunt and uncle,had lived (at a son’s home) and see if anything can be learned there.

The plan’s flaw was that he couldn’t remember exactly which road east of LaGrange led to this home. So we went several miles too far and zigzagged our way back in the bright morning sun. Soon we saw a buggy and assumed it was headed where we wanted to go. We passed it, and over a hill was another buggy. Dad suggested hailing them, but their side curtains were tightly drawn against the cold.

Then a van came down a crossroad — probably an Amish-transporter. We were not surprised because there are many who make money by taking groups of Amish to reunions and funerals. Many cross state lines with their cargo. He turned in our direction, so we stopped him. Yes, we were very close. In fact, the house was about one-quarter mile from the Hochstetler place we had originally sought.

When the last two rows behind me returned, one man began to sing a mournful phrase and “suddenly there was a multitude” — the choir.

The service began at 9:30 and this was not the Herman Miller place. The (apparently added-to) shed used for the funeral had three rooms and a cement floor. Scattered about were several radiant heater discs attached to propane tanks. A large tent had been erected next to the shed area (how did they get those stakes pounded into the frozen ground?), but the tent was not used for the funeral. Perhaps it was part of the viewing that had begun on New Year’s afternoon. Surely not overflow, because anyone in there would not have been able to watch and listen through closed-circuit TV. A port-a-potty was outside and I was reminded of an outhouse.

Dad was seated next to Aunt Ellen in the siblings’ area near a stove. People continued arriving and the rooms became warm enough. A group of teenaged Amish boys slid into the row behind me at about 9:25. I wondered if they had been outside being young or perhaps helping with the incoming horses and buggies. The last two rows in “our” room were filled with what was later revealed to be the male choir.

The first preacher stood, beginning tentatively but becoming stronger. His style made me think of a chant. Not a lulling chant, but more of a harangue. It clearly was not his conversational voice. Uncharitably, a passage from Elmer Gantry sprang to mind: “What a rotten pulpit voice the poor duck has.”

He spoke for 35 minutes, and the next man — much easier to listen to — went on for 50. Of course, only the occasional word or phrase was recognizable, along with several Bible stories.

Suddenly there was a swooshing of clothes and scraping of feet and benches as all rose, knelt, and flung themselves across the benches for a prayer. I reacted as quickly as I could. After that there must have been a scripture reading, because twice everyone genuflected (“at the name of Jesus every knee shall bow”). This too took me by surprise, because I didn’t properly hear the words. (I also remembered that at the funeral of Aunt Ellen’s husband, Dad was next to me and when the appropriate moment came, he placed his knee behind mine to make me “go down.”)

It was during this reading that all the women on our side turned around. I didn’t see it happen on the other side (and the third, smaller room was completely out of sight) but Ellen seems to think it did. Some inquiries did not yield a definite answer about this practice but two persons thought it dated back to early Anabaptist gatherings in Europe when it was important to watch for persecutors. The second preacher said that was probably why, but (and this seemed the compelling reason), “we’ve always done it this way.”

The minister continued with a reading of the obituary (“gross-kinna”), and the “undertaker” removed the top portion of the lid. That was the signal for all to file past. When the last two rows behind me returned, one man began to sing a mournful phrase and “suddenly there was a multitude” — the choir. It was a four-line song (I was later told the last two lines were the same on every verse). At the end of the verse, without a break, the next phrase was soloed, followed by the entry of the choir.

They sang while the rest of the gathered made their pilgrimage. Then the undertaker came to their row and gave a sign (though not the dramatic finger across the throat that I anticipated), and they stopped at the end of the verse. The family had their final viewing, the lid was replaced, wraps were brought to the family, the pallbearers picked up the casket, and the service was over.

Dad went to the cemetery in a van — red with a front license plate proclaiming “Mama’s Fire Truck.” This was another van which had been used to carry Amish to the funeral.He told me later that a tent had been erected that reduced the wind, but there was a bit of a battle to loosen the frozen top of the dirt when they were refilling the grave.

In gazing over the group I was reminded of penguins: all the dark dresses and white coverings and the white shirts with dark suits.

Immediately after the departure of the Amish hearse (a two-seat buggy with an extension on back for carrying the casket), tables replaced the benches in the smaller room and the food was arranged on both sides of the tables. This setup became the dual assembly line as each woman filled a compartment of a Styrofoam tray and passed it forward for the eventual recipient.

I’d like to say, quoting Dickens’ Christmas Carol, “O the pudding,” but there was none. It was the standard Amish funeral starch festival: white bread bologna sandwich (lightly coated with mayo or, more likely, sandwich spread), a slice of cheese on the side, a cup of chicken and noodles, potato salad, a hunk of jello with fruit cocktail, and a cupcake. Still, very good on a cold day.

I told Dad not to be rushed and stay as long as he liked. Meanwhile, I wandered around and talked to a few people — most of whom began with the question, “Are you Paul”? I also re-met Paul Hochstetler — one of Uncle Omer’s sons and was reminded of how Uncle Omer copycatted Mom and Dad with the names Lamar and Paul for his kids.

In gazing over the group I was reminded of penguins: all the dark dresses and white coverings and the white shirts with dark suits. Two other impressions: too many women looked stoop-shouldered at an early age and too many men had bad teeth. But whatever else one thinks, they do have a strong community.




Share This


Who, Me? Phony?

 | 

“The president is focused on what we can do for the middle class in this country” — Jay Carney, White House spokesman, explaining why President Obama hadn’t commented on offenses against women when perpetrated by prominent members of the Democratic Party.

"Now is not the time to go backwards — back to the time middle-class jobs and neighborhood infrastructure were sacrificed to downtown special interests. We need to continue to move forward." — Robert Filner (Democrat), mayor of San Diego, explaining why he was going to resist a move to recall him, prompted by allegations of sexual and financial improprieties.

For many years “It’s for the Children!” was the card thrown on the table of rhetoric whenever America’s rulers and managers wanted more money to do something foolish. Now another trump has been designated: “It’s for the Middle Class.”

As a member of the middle class, I find this ironic. The intended beneficiaries are invariably people who want to tax and regulate the middle class. They are ordinarily rich people, or people who are about to become rich, in money or power, from the aforementioned taxes and regulations. Robert (“Bob”) Filner, who on August 23 resigned as mayor of my town, San Diego, is an example. He apparently doesn’t have a big bank account, although he is suspected of tapping the city treasury to provide himself with certain luxuries and accommodations. But he loves the power to tax and spend. I well remember the scene in Congress when Clinton’s tax raise squeaked through the House. Filner, then a member of that illustrious body, pushed his way to the front of the chamber and did a little dance, jumping up and down with joy because of this new squeeze on the middle class.

Phony? Oh yeah.

This summer, President Obama suddenly developed an aversion to phoniness, though not to the phoniness of his own supporters — only to the alleged phoniness of people who accuse his supporters of phoniness. Phoniness about Benghazi. Phoniness about “national security” spying. Phoniness about IRS corruption. Those are the three big current scandals of Obama’s administration, and he himself had previously treated at least one of them as a distressing scandal. In every case, however, his administration has done everything that coverups and lies could do to make itself even more scandalous.

Filner pushed his way to the front of the chamber and did a little dance, jumping up and down with joy because of this new squeeze on the middle class.

Things were getting so bad, and so obvious, that sometime in the midst of a long July, the gilded flunkies in the White House decided that the catchword of the season would be “phony scandals.” From the president on down, everyone would use that phrase on every possible occasion. And for a solid month they did so.

It was a dotty attempt to end the administration’s credibility problem, and it was conspicuously counterproductive. After three weeks, polls showed that something like 70% of respondents believed that the scandals weren’t phony at all, that the phoniness was entirely that of the deniers. The campaign continued, despite the fact that only people paid to be Democrats took the message seriously, and then only in public. Do you think that even professional supporters of all things Obama sat and brooded to themselves, “All these scandals . . . all this evidence about incompetence and lies and stonewalling. . . . It all seemed so real. But now . . . now that the president has examined everything so thoroughly, I can see that . . . hard as it may be to believe . . . all of it is just, well . . . phony”? Do you think they said that to themselves? Or do you think they said, “Well, maybe somebody will believe what we’re saying. Anyway, it’s a living.”

But the message, however stupid and self-defeating, caused real concern among reflective people. Had the administration, they wondered, lost its last ties with reality? These people were right, but they were over-reflective. They couldn’t see how funny the whole thing was.

I’m glad I saw it, because for me it stripped some of the last remnants of scariness from Obama’s demagoguery. I was behind the curve, of course; all the surveys showed that with most people he had lost his credibility within the first six months of his first term. That’s one reason why he barely beat Mitt Romney, who was nobody’s idea of a strong, compelling candidate. But now I could see exactly how phony the president’s mindless repetition and affected intonation — characteristic of his whole rhetorical career — can make him look. It was irresistibly comic to see him pause and marvel, in speech after speech, about how Washington had been so distracted by all its made-up causes of concern, its phony scandals, that it couldn’t do its work (i.e., do what he told it).

Like a lot of other politicians, the man still hadn’t adapted to the age of video. He actually appeared to believe that no one could access any more than one version of what he said, or that anyone who somehow figured out how to do so would naturally forget all the other versions as soon as the next mesmerizing performance appeared on the TV screen.

The president offered a virtuoso impersonation of a poor, deranged individual who is continually surprised by what he himself is saying. First the little hesitation, the fake attempt to discover the right phrase, the twisting of the countenance as if the whole face were saying, “This can’t be true! But it is! And it’s my duty to warn my fellow citizens!” — classic signs of bewilderment. Then, at last, he found the phrase! And it was . . . wait for it . . . “All these phony scandals”! Sometimes, reaching for the ultimate dramatic effect, he added, “and the Lord knows what.”

Well, you have to admire a president who at least pretends to believe in God. His real trust, however, was in his audience’s total ignorance — or something worse, its cynicism. Because, as I said, his performance was universally recognized as what it was, a performance. The fact that professional Democrats and party bigots were actually pleased by it, though they knew it was a lie, says a great deal about a large segment of our so-called political life.

The president offered a virtuoso impersonation of a poor, deranged individual who is continually surprised by what he himself is saying.

Now then. Speaking of phonies, I don’t need to remind you of former Congressmen Anthony Weiner and soon-to-be-former Mayor Robert Filner, who, like the patron demon of “progressive” politics, Teddy Kennedy, were completely correct — politically correct — about Women, except when they met an actual woman. Their responses to the revelation of their sexual idiocies were predictably phony: “I need help.” “I need more help.” “I need yet more help.” “And I’m getting it. But what the people really want me to talk about is what I can do for the middle class. Meanwhile, pity and sympathize. With me. And if you don’t, you’re a lousy rightwinger.”

I am happy to join with my fellow Americans in saying that I do not pity and sympathize. Like most of them, I’ve enjoyed the humiliation of Filner and Weiner (as I always enjoyed the humiliation of Kennedy). For three reasons.

First, I was happy that these mountebanks, whose political nostrums, once consumed, would give the government even more tyrannical power over our lives, had been interrupted in their sordid careers. Weiner’s sexual antics (and attempted coverups, evasions, and so on, delightful in themselves) denied him any possibility of being elected mayor of New York. Filner’s sexual antics, and his plucky refusal to resign his office, paralyzed the “progressive” forces that he claimed to represent in San Diego. The extent of “progressivism” was revealed by his crazed resignation speech. After repeatedly asserting that he was the victim of a “lynch mob” organized by the enemies of progress, bent on conducting a “coup” to throw a good man out of office, he provided a list of goals that, he suggested, were the priorities of his political faction: municipal planning by a crew of “world-class urban thinkers” already ensconced in City Hall, the bikification and solarization of the city, the placement of San Diego on the front lines of the war against “climate change,” an “efficient borders” meld of San Diego with Mexico. (Many of the people who spoke to the City Council in defense of Filner had relied on a translator when they threatened political action against anyone who voted to can him.) He gave lengthy tribute to “union leaders” who, he revealed to no one’s surprise, had been his most faithful and consistent guides. He ended with an inspirational quotation from (guess who?) Teddy Kennedy.

So, my second reason for wanting Filner and Weiner to hang in there was simply the educational value of their performance. I admit, however, that Filner’s leave-taking provided its own education in the way in which cities are run. He negotiated an agreement to resign (signed on August 23 but effective August 30, which gives him a few days to do as much damage as he can) in exchange for the city’s paying lots or all of his legal bills. Among the negotiators, be it noted, was the public official who will become interim mayor and at least one other public official who, like the first, may run for his office. Filner’s lawyers will be paid by the city, and he will be defended by the city against a lawsuit filed by Gloria Allred on behalf of a former city employee. The reason for this absurd bailout? According to the soon-to-be interim mayor, “This settlement is an end to our civic nightmare and allows this city to begin to heal."Why is it that the medical metaphor sounds phony? It’s because the city isn’t sick; its political leaders are. The Filner affair continued to dramatize and explain that sickness.

My third reason for relishing the humiliation of Filner and Weiner is that I have long regarded those two as virtually the most obnoxious people in politics (since the demise of Uncle Ted). I can’t forget watching Filner’s little dance in the chamber of the House. I can’t forget all the nasty things I’ve noticed about him — and here I’m not talking about sexual things or even illegal things but all those qualities that have made him loathed, as a person, by the people who encounter him. This was one of the most notorious facts about San Diego politics, and it is a measure of “progressive” integrity that the same set of people who initiated the campaign to remove him had, a few months before, pushed him vigorously as their candidate for mayor. They craved a leftwing Democrat and thought he was the only one with the organization to win. At the same time, they despised him. Weiner, when in Congress, was the “progressive” guy who was always leaping in front of the camera to rant against all criticism of his party. He specialized in low insults, and when asked to return to the question the interviewer had asked him, would hum little tunes to himself and smirk and walk in circles and say, “Are you ready? Are you ready now? Are you ready to let me speak now?”

Imagine a more libertarian society, in which virtually all current politicians would sink to the social level dictated by their intellectual competence.

It’s interesting to ask oneself what roles various people would occupy if our political system were different from what it is. The philosophical answer may be, It’s a meaningless question, because in a different system those people would have developed in different ways. Perhaps. I have my doubts about environmental theories of character formation. But the question is fun, at least.

I like to imagine a more libertarian society, in which virtually all current politicians would sink to the social level dictated by their intellectual competence. The two Presidents Bush would be CEOs of unimportant firms, prevented by abler people on their staffs from facing any realities requiring them to do more than decide what color of paint should be applied to the men’s restroom. Several members of the Supreme Court would be justices of the peace in small towns in the Florida panhandle. Many members of Congress would be good guys running small local businesses; many others would be the people who show up at PTA meetings determined to advance Their Own Agenda; a significant proportion of them would be in jail.

Then I think about a less libertarian society — a dictatorship. What role would our contemporaries play in that? It would take an extreme case of American exceptionalism to dream that they all, as good Americans, would be fighting the Power. They wouldn’t. The Bushes would be doing what I just suggested. So would most judges and legislators. A few would actually be fighting the Power, either because they had an ideology (I picture Justice Scalia and Justice Thomas) or because they knew that a dictatorship just isn’t right. I believe that a small but significant number of legislators, Democratic and Republican, would feel like that.

But can there be any question about where the Clintons would be? Or where Obama would be? They would be the Power. They would be fighting one another to remain the Power, but that’s where they would belong, because on the evidence of what they do right now, they have no compunctions about gathering and using power. To them, the exercise of power presents no moral issues, and they are convinced of their inherent right to wield it. This is the dictatorial personality, in its several versions.

True, they would wield dictatorial power in various ways. I can imagine Hillary Clinton staging a military putsch; I can only imagine Obama getting someone else to do it for him. But you see what I mean. And Filner and Weiner are psychologically fitted for the role of dictator as few other people are. Arrogant, domineering, with no sense of limits, utterly convinced of their right to rule, they would seize the throne or die trying. It’s not for nothing that Weiner and his insufferable wife — whose prepared statement in defense of him resembled the commencement address of a high school student commenting on her Best Friends Forever, and was read in a tone appropriate to its content — are slaves of the Clintons.

Speculation, mere speculation. And none of this has anything to do with sex. Let’s think now about the sex part — or, more sensibly, about the language in which it has been discussed.

I do not wish to be misunderstood. Weiner’s sexting was gross and stupid. Filner’s (alleged) custom of cornering women and demanding a date was reprehensible. But that’s as far as I’m willing to go. You can consider sexting immoral if you want; I don’t, so long as it’s among consenting adults. I see nothing morally wrong with pornography, and although Weiner is not my idea of a pornographic object, each to his own taste. And he wasn’t exactly committing adultery. Filner’s (alleged) conduct — grabbing women, kissing or trying to kiss them, touching their posteriors, pressing them for a date — was obviously wrong; it was a way of manipulating other people in an area of their life that should be sacred to their own choice. It implied that he had a right to rule any woman he met, and that is immoral by any principles of individualism. If it’s shown that he was trying to coerce women into having sex with him in order to keep their jobs or get some favor from the government, then we don’t have to rely on principles of individualism in order to convict him; he’s a creep by any standard.

Nevertheless, this is still pretty low-level stuff. It isn’t rape, much less the rape of the Sabines. In my younger, much younger, days, I, though male, encountered similar conduct, from both men and women. I didn’t like it; I resisted it; I continue to resent it. Yet in those days I was also the victim of an attempted mugging; an attempted physical attack by a gang of other college students who should not have been drunk on the streets at midnight; the theft and destruction of my car . . . . Quite a few things, none of them out of the ordinary, as this world goes. Today, like other ordinary, middle-class Americans, I am constantly robbed by the government of a large part of my income and freedom, and this has gotten worse as I have gotten older, thanks to people like Filner and Weiner.

Meanwhile, the mayor was accused of not showing up at a meeting at which, had he voted, he could have saved the city $25 million. Oops.

But the language that is used of Filner and Weiner is about a hundred times worse than the language commonly used about a mugging, a gang attack, the theft of a car from an impoverished young person, the theft of livelihood from tens of millions of ordinary people. You would think that Filner and Weiner had committed some Hitlerlike atrocity. But they didn’t.

In Filner’s case, we have heard much about the atrocious nature of his being 70 years old and allegedly “preying on” women as old as . . . 67! What a “dirty old man,” to pick on a “great grandma”! The leader of the anti-Filner forces, Donna Frye, a former member of the city council, former candidate for mayor, and perpetual “progressive” politico who insisted that Filner be elected last year, and got her way, now proclaimed, “Bob Filner is tragically unsafe for any woman to approach.” (I’m leaving out all the tears and self-applause about how hard it was for her to say these words, but duty impelled her, etc.) The salient image is the mayor as King Kong — but worse, because the mighty Kong was interested only in Fay Wray.

Here’s a story about a retired master sergeant in the Air Force, an accuser of Filner:

"He looks at my [business] card. He looks at me. He says, 'Fernandez. Are you married? Do you have a husband?' Very quick, very direct. I said, 'No, I'm divorced,'" she told CNN. "'Well, you're beautiful, and I can't take my eyes off you, and I want to take you to dinner.' I was really shocked and I was like, 'Uh, OK,'" Fernandez said. Then came a phone call and voice mail, which Fernandez never returned.

Oh the humanity! As one of the comedians on “Red Eye” said, the first few complaints seemed serious; the later ones made you think, “What next — ‘The jerk wanted to hold the door open for me’?”

Yes, Filner’s alleged sexual behavior was stupid, and wrong. Meanwhile, the mayor was accused of not showing up at a meeting at which, had he voted, he could have saved the city $25 million. Oops. Duly noted. But that’s not a reason to get upset. It’s the sex thing that really gets us.

Why is this, in a society that long ago assimilated the virtually incredible grossness of the Kennedys’ sexual regime? In a society that regards Bill Clinton as an elder statesman? In a society that honors with profits and sanctifies with awards the grossness of hip-hop “culture”? In a society in which no stand-up comedian can succeed without sex talk that would make a street girl blush? In a society in which the most popular kind of joke about unworthy businessmen or public servants involves their being raped in prison?

Phoniness? Yes, there is a phoniness even deeper than Obama’s.




Share This


Which Way the Wind Blows

 | 




Share This
Syndicate content

© Copyright 2017 Liberty Foundation. All rights reserved.



Opinions expressed in Liberty are those of the authors and not necessarily those of the Liberty Foundation.

All letters to the editor are assumed to be for publication unless otherwise indicated.