Psalm 8.2: "Out of the mouth of babies and infants, you have established strength because of your foes, to still the enemy and the avenger."
Jesus also quoted this passage towards the end of Matthew's gospel, though he changes "strength" to "praise."
This morning Clara worked so I was pulling double duty getting Owen and Eleanor ready for the day. I had them both dressed and went downstairs to start the car to let it heat up a bit before I took them to their friends' house to play for the day. I asked Owen to watch his sister. I came back upstairs and he had not heard me. This is what I overheard:
[Owen, reading from a Valentine's Day card from Papa and Granma]: "Jesus is so good. And he's here. And he's always happy. Amen. Now, let's sing a song."
[Owen, grabbing my old racquetball racket that doubles as a guitar and standing on the bench we use in the bathroom to help him brush his teeth which he had dragged into the bedroom. Elie, staring at him fixedly.] (Singing) "God is so good. God is so good. God is so good." [Pause] (Normal voice): Amen. Now let's pray.
[Owen descends from the bench, begins prayer. Elie, still fixated, one leg of a stuffed giraffe in her mouth.] "God, we love you. Thank you that you are here." [Pause] "Thank you that you are here." [Taking a Nietzchean turn] "Thank you that you are dead." [Returning to orthodoxy] "Thank you that you are alive again. Thank you for your smation (ed. note, "creation"). Amen."
[Authorial figure enters the room] "Son, that was beautiful."
Owen: "Daddy, I was singing to Elie. Sit down. I sing you a song."
[Remounts red bench, holds guitar flat.] "I'm playing slide guitar. Now let's sing." (Singing) "He loves us, oh he loves us. He loves us. He is good. And happy." (Normal voice) "Amen. Let's pray."
[This same process, and nearly same prayer repeats three times. The car is excessively hot and the author is late for work.]
13 March 2014
Miracles and Adoption
Last weekend we drove to Kansas City to see a boy that Clara took care of when she first became a nurse. She fell absolutely and entirely head-over-heels, over-the-moon in love with this boy. His parents were deadbeats, lazing about the hospital room, refusing to change the boy's diapers because the nurses were paid to do it, leaving the room to smoke pot and do God knows what else. So Clara was his mom for the first seven months he spent on earth.
We had been married about six months when she asked me if we could adopt him. I did not know what to do with that request. We had always talked about adoption down the road, but certainly not within our first year of marriage when we were still paying off school debt and enjoying the coveted freedom of the newlywed. Moreover, his parents still had legal custody and CPS was dragging their feet. But I did think about it. I even went to the hospital to meet him, which I am quite sure is not legal.
The cynical part of me thought that this was just Clara's mother instinct kicking in, like some girl who sees a Sarah McLachlan commercial and wants to adopt every dog at the pound. But her love for this boy has been unmatched by any of her patients since then. It should go without saying that we did not adopt this boy. But the state did rescind his parent's rights and he was adopted by a military family in El Paso.
After his last deployment, the dad was stationed at Fort Leavenworth, just outside of Kansas City. Clara had met the boy's adopted mother before and she reached out to us through Facebook and we set up a time to come see him.
We went to a place called the Trex Cafe, which is a place you scoff at until you have kids, in a mall/sporting complex structure on the periphery of Kansas City that looks like a place where capitalism threw up. We walked in and a gigantic T-rex animatronic dipped down as if to eat my toddler son. The bottom lip started to quiver. I assured him that the dinosaur was not real. Every time he saw him the rest of our time there he would say to himself as much as anyone else, "He's not real. He's just a machine."
And then Clara got to see her first little boy, so to speak, for the first time in four years. She got to watch him hold Owen's hand and play with him in the archaeological dig area of this restaurant and lead Owen through a cave and just play quietly side by side. She got to talk with his mom, an incredible woman who with her husband has adopted two other children, including one of Clara's boy's half-sisters. She got to hear about his teeball and his guitar lessons and his cousins. She got to see the miracle of redemption lived out.
If this boy had stayed with his birth parents he might well be dead. He was highly special needs for his first few years and they had neither the intelligence nor the resolve to care for him. Instead he gets to be a normal kid and eat at places with animatronic dinosaurs and take karate lessons and play teeball and be raised by parents who love him and discipline him with kindness. He gets to have a sister and a brother. He gets to pray before meals.
His parents bought him back from the grave, just like my Father did for me. That is the glory of adoption. We all, as believers in Christ, have been adopted. And as much of a mess as this boy was when he was adopted by his parents, I was far more of a mess when God adopted me. In moments like this, the beauty of this world becomes almost too much for me. And the only thing I can feel is gratitude. We have all been given so much.
"The one who offers thanksgiving as his sacrifice glorifies me." Psalm 50:23
We had been married about six months when she asked me if we could adopt him. I did not know what to do with that request. We had always talked about adoption down the road, but certainly not within our first year of marriage when we were still paying off school debt and enjoying the coveted freedom of the newlywed. Moreover, his parents still had legal custody and CPS was dragging their feet. But I did think about it. I even went to the hospital to meet him, which I am quite sure is not legal.
The cynical part of me thought that this was just Clara's mother instinct kicking in, like some girl who sees a Sarah McLachlan commercial and wants to adopt every dog at the pound. But her love for this boy has been unmatched by any of her patients since then. It should go without saying that we did not adopt this boy. But the state did rescind his parent's rights and he was adopted by a military family in El Paso.
After his last deployment, the dad was stationed at Fort Leavenworth, just outside of Kansas City. Clara had met the boy's adopted mother before and she reached out to us through Facebook and we set up a time to come see him.
We went to a place called the Trex Cafe, which is a place you scoff at until you have kids, in a mall/sporting complex structure on the periphery of Kansas City that looks like a place where capitalism threw up. We walked in and a gigantic T-rex animatronic dipped down as if to eat my toddler son. The bottom lip started to quiver. I assured him that the dinosaur was not real. Every time he saw him the rest of our time there he would say to himself as much as anyone else, "He's not real. He's just a machine."
And then Clara got to see her first little boy, so to speak, for the first time in four years. She got to watch him hold Owen's hand and play with him in the archaeological dig area of this restaurant and lead Owen through a cave and just play quietly side by side. She got to talk with his mom, an incredible woman who with her husband has adopted two other children, including one of Clara's boy's half-sisters. She got to hear about his teeball and his guitar lessons and his cousins. She got to see the miracle of redemption lived out.
If this boy had stayed with his birth parents he might well be dead. He was highly special needs for his first few years and they had neither the intelligence nor the resolve to care for him. Instead he gets to be a normal kid and eat at places with animatronic dinosaurs and take karate lessons and play teeball and be raised by parents who love him and discipline him with kindness. He gets to have a sister and a brother. He gets to pray before meals.
His parents bought him back from the grave, just like my Father did for me. That is the glory of adoption. We all, as believers in Christ, have been adopted. And as much of a mess as this boy was when he was adopted by his parents, I was far more of a mess when God adopted me. In moments like this, the beauty of this world becomes almost too much for me. And the only thing I can feel is gratitude. We have all been given so much.
"The one who offers thanksgiving as his sacrifice glorifies me." Psalm 50:23
27 February 2014
The New Yorker Presents: Another Nuanced Take on Middle America
Apparently the guy who founded Cabela's, the behemoth of an outdoor store that figures prominently in the exurbs of many of the large cities of this great nation, passed away last week. I don't know anything about the man. I don't know much about the stores. I think I bought a pair of pants at the one in Denver before a backpacking trip. I also think it would be cool to take Owen to the one in Wichita sometime and blow his toddler mind. That said, I have a limited dog in this fight. However, reading Amy Merrick's brief account of his life in the New Yorker, I couldn't help but feel how ridiculous her view of the man's life is. Now, this is the New Yorker. If you are looking for a nuanced take on Middle America it is probably not the place to go. I think that in order to be hired by that esteemed publication you have to register a "San Francisco vegan gardener" on the smug scale.
Merrick gives short shrift to Dick Cabela's literal rags-to-riches story, instead focusing on his connections to the NRA ($1 million in donations for a company doing $3.5 billion in annual revenue does not strike me as extreme, especially seeing as they sell firearms) and how he is just like those Duck Dynasty guys who we all know are knuckle-dragging homophobes. Therefore, he is probably a gun-loving, knuckle-dragging, homophobe himself who Merrick somehow crams into the problem of gun violence among inner-city youth. Seriously. Here is the final paragraph:
Of course, what it looks like to have guns in the hands of kids depends on where you live: Do you envision 4-H members shooting at a paper target in an empty field, or teen-agers settling a dispute in an urban neighborhood? In his interview with LaPierre, Dick Cabela lamented his struggles to attract a younger audience, presumably unaware of the double meaning of his words, “We’re losing our youth, big time, especially in the inner cities.”
I don't know that Cabela's explicitly caters to the gangbanger set, and I don't know that many an inner-city murder is committed with a hunting rifle, but this is the standard crappy journalistic practice of guilt by contrived association. Notice it is entirely unclear the context of Cabela's quote in this article. Is he lamenting the fact that inner-city kids are not buying guns at his stores? Plausible, but unlikely. More likely is the fact that kids these days, especially city kids, can hardly be bothered to go outdoors. But that would mean reading Cabela with charity (as well as crediting him with some degree of business acumen).
The most frustrating part of Merrick's article is that there is the seed of a legitimate point here. When I began the article I had thought I was going to enjoy it. We do mythologize the outdoors as we pave it over with parking lots and condos and strip malls and Cabela's stores. But anyone who has listened to "Big Yellow Taxi" in the past 40 years could tell you that. I wanted Merrick to go deeper. Was Dick Cabela somehow cynical about the outdoors and using our idealization of nature as a convenient way to make a buck? Do Cabela's customers prefer their outdoor experience to be climate-controlled and taxidermied? We don't ever get a meaningful answer to these questions.
Further, these critiques always strike me as a bit silly coming from people who live in gargantuan cities. Merrick cites the St. Louis store and how the building of Cabela's wiped out forest and wetlands. Which is true, no doubt. But do you know what lies just west of St. Louis and stretches for about 700 miles? Open space, wetlands, and forests. Punctuated ever so briefly by Kansas City, Topeka, and my fair city. So while I am not a huge fan of urban sprawl--the one thing that frightens me about the prospect of moving back to Denver someday is having to drive through that hellscape on a regular basis--I wonder if the same complaint would register from liberal quarters over the building of some All Faiths Peace and Love Center or some such nonsense. I guess what I am driving at is that it is chic these days to support the outdoors, perhaps nowhere more acutely than in cities where nature is mostly eliminated and always safely contained. It is easy to be romantic about something you never experience. These people want the great outdoors to exist in case someday they choose to partake. Whereas if I walk three miles in any direction from my home I am in the middle of nowhere.
The most striking part of Drew Magary's GQ piece on the Duck Dynasty clan was how much he was awed by their actual abilities and willingness to live out their ideology. He saw himself as a pansied city boy and he felt like he was missing out on something with his coddled life. I wonder if what Magary saw in Phil Robertson couldn't be said about Dick Cabela. That he was a true believer in the power of nature, but also a shrewd businessman. Merrick makes these two positions out to be contradictory but I don't see how they are. Davy Crockett also embodied the frontiersman and he was a self-promoter and a politician. It takes little imagination to unite the two.
While I doubt the title of Merrick's article was selected by her, the obit in no way answers the principle question in any meaningful way. That might require research. Better to listen to one interview, raise the specter of the NRA, and make dubious connections. In the end we don't really know anything more about Dick Cabela, the store he built, the nation that supports it, or the plight of inner city youth. Just more confirmation that those people in flyover country say and do the darndest things.
Merrick gives short shrift to Dick Cabela's literal rags-to-riches story, instead focusing on his connections to the NRA ($1 million in donations for a company doing $3.5 billion in annual revenue does not strike me as extreme, especially seeing as they sell firearms) and how he is just like those Duck Dynasty guys who we all know are knuckle-dragging homophobes. Therefore, he is probably a gun-loving, knuckle-dragging, homophobe himself who Merrick somehow crams into the problem of gun violence among inner-city youth. Seriously. Here is the final paragraph:
Of course, what it looks like to have guns in the hands of kids depends on where you live: Do you envision 4-H members shooting at a paper target in an empty field, or teen-agers settling a dispute in an urban neighborhood? In his interview with LaPierre, Dick Cabela lamented his struggles to attract a younger audience, presumably unaware of the double meaning of his words, “We’re losing our youth, big time, especially in the inner cities.”
I don't know that Cabela's explicitly caters to the gangbanger set, and I don't know that many an inner-city murder is committed with a hunting rifle, but this is the standard crappy journalistic practice of guilt by contrived association. Notice it is entirely unclear the context of Cabela's quote in this article. Is he lamenting the fact that inner-city kids are not buying guns at his stores? Plausible, but unlikely. More likely is the fact that kids these days, especially city kids, can hardly be bothered to go outdoors. But that would mean reading Cabela with charity (as well as crediting him with some degree of business acumen).
The most frustrating part of Merrick's article is that there is the seed of a legitimate point here. When I began the article I had thought I was going to enjoy it. We do mythologize the outdoors as we pave it over with parking lots and condos and strip malls and Cabela's stores. But anyone who has listened to "Big Yellow Taxi" in the past 40 years could tell you that. I wanted Merrick to go deeper. Was Dick Cabela somehow cynical about the outdoors and using our idealization of nature as a convenient way to make a buck? Do Cabela's customers prefer their outdoor experience to be climate-controlled and taxidermied? We don't ever get a meaningful answer to these questions.
Further, these critiques always strike me as a bit silly coming from people who live in gargantuan cities. Merrick cites the St. Louis store and how the building of Cabela's wiped out forest and wetlands. Which is true, no doubt. But do you know what lies just west of St. Louis and stretches for about 700 miles? Open space, wetlands, and forests. Punctuated ever so briefly by Kansas City, Topeka, and my fair city. So while I am not a huge fan of urban sprawl--the one thing that frightens me about the prospect of moving back to Denver someday is having to drive through that hellscape on a regular basis--I wonder if the same complaint would register from liberal quarters over the building of some All Faiths Peace and Love Center or some such nonsense. I guess what I am driving at is that it is chic these days to support the outdoors, perhaps nowhere more acutely than in cities where nature is mostly eliminated and always safely contained. It is easy to be romantic about something you never experience. These people want the great outdoors to exist in case someday they choose to partake. Whereas if I walk three miles in any direction from my home I am in the middle of nowhere.
The most striking part of Drew Magary's GQ piece on the Duck Dynasty clan was how much he was awed by their actual abilities and willingness to live out their ideology. He saw himself as a pansied city boy and he felt like he was missing out on something with his coddled life. I wonder if what Magary saw in Phil Robertson couldn't be said about Dick Cabela. That he was a true believer in the power of nature, but also a shrewd businessman. Merrick makes these two positions out to be contradictory but I don't see how they are. Davy Crockett also embodied the frontiersman and he was a self-promoter and a politician. It takes little imagination to unite the two.
While I doubt the title of Merrick's article was selected by her, the obit in no way answers the principle question in any meaningful way. That might require research. Better to listen to one interview, raise the specter of the NRA, and make dubious connections. In the end we don't really know anything more about Dick Cabela, the store he built, the nation that supports it, or the plight of inner city youth. Just more confirmation that those people in flyover country say and do the darndest things.
20 February 2014
The Story of the Human Body
In his epic history of Western culture, From Dawn to Decadence, Jacques Barzun identified multiple tendencies or impulses that tend to infiltrate the Western mind and Western culture with remarkable regularity. Such things as individualism, self-consciousness, and emancipation. One of the most common is what Barzun calls Primitivism, the notion of some bygone day before everything got screwed up and how we ought to return to the wisdom of that period. We see this in multiple philosophers--prominently in the American scene Thoreau and Emerson and their Transcendentalist friends and heirs. It is alive and well today in the Paleo-diet and people who wish we could all churn our own butter and drink milk straight from the cow. Pasteur, I scoff at you.
What is interesting about the impulse toward primitivism is that we often see it in conjunction with the embrace of most other modern technologies. Think of the Paleo-eating Cross-fitter who listens to an iPod while working out and can't wait to blog about how totes great Paleo-eating and Cross-fitting is on the interweb. While it is easy to poke fun at little inconsistencies like this, in this case it is germane to the topic. If our hunter-gatherer ancestors really were so much healthier than us I imagine that we cannot abstract this fact to one root cause, i.e. diet. Plus, I don't know that bacon was a part of the average hunter-gatherer diet. (Sidebar: Seriously, what is with bacon these days? I get it; it tastes good. It always has, but now we can't seem to leave it off of cupcakes or out of mixed drinks. I was at a bar with a friend the other night and there was a whole pig's worth of bacon in a plastic bin behind the bar to add to drinks. Beer, please. No meat required in my drink. A pig still has to die for you to get bacon. Make his sacrifice worthwhile, folks. I would be super pissed if someone killed me and then put one of my ribs in a glass as an accoutrement, gotta have that rib flavor!, to a Bloody Mary.) The first time I see someone on a Paleo diet hunt a mastodon with a homemade spear I will tip my hat to that lad or lass. Until then, you can take your disgusting Paleo pizzas (!) and eat them in silence. No one wants to read your blog about them.
All of this is a very roundabout way to say that I just read a book by Harvard biologist and anthropologist Daniel Lieberman (he of Born to Run fame) called The Story of the Human Body which tackles issues of Paleo-living, human evolution and adaptation, and the way the modern world has pretty much wreaked havoc on our bodies (except for all the no longer dying from bad diarrhea or plagues transmitted by rat poop anymore).
I intend to blog through some various parts of the book that appealed to me. This is a true test of my devotion to writing. I got the book through interlibrary loan since I am trying to spend less money on books and therefore only have it for five more days. So, if this is my only post on the topic (I said above that I intend to write more) I will say a couple of things here that I found important.
One conclusion that Lieberman draws and which is terribly true of the human race is that we are super bad at taking the long view of things. A donut right now that is front of me and is a chocolate cake donut with peanut butter frosting or not getting diabetes or worse yet, eating a carrot instead. We always take the donut. Lieberman argues that is precisely because we are programmed to do so. Food used to be scarce and our freakishly huge brains want energy now and they want it fast. The donut gives more, quicker than a carrot can.
Further, we always minimize future risk and at the same time we give ourselves way too much credit for self-control down the line. I will eat this donut today and then run 72 miles and do 6,000 push-ups tomorrow. No problem. Combine these two things and no amount of educating or raising awareness will keep people from drinking sugary soda, eating fried foods, sitting all evening in front of the television, taking the escalator, driving three blocks to the grocery store, or, God forbid, drinking a Bloody Mary with a piece of bacon in there. (Sidebar: Seriously, people, seriously. Did I miss the earthshattering study that said bacon makes you live to be 112 and poop rainbows and be able to compete in all of those adventure races with the live wires and mud pits? I must have missed that.)
Lieberman's argument is that cultural evolution got us into this mess, not some sort of rapid degeneration of human biology, and that it will have to be cultural evolution that gets us out. He therefore advocates what he calls a paternal libertarianism, with the aim of weaning people off of the sandwiches called the gutbuster and soda cups that could double as an aquarium. The libertarian part is that McDiabetes can sell the gutbuster; the paternalistic part is that junk like that starts getting taxed like cigarettes or booze. Really, this seems fine to me. People hem and haw about Bloomberg and the soda thing in New York and that was a dumb move, but what if instead of limiting the size (extremely paternalistic) he had raised the tax on all sodas. We spend 20% of our GDP on health care in this country. Which is a lot. And the reason we tax cigarettes and booze is because, on average, a habitual smoker and a habitual drinker cost more to the state. A higher tax, and one that is completely voluntary, helps offset those costs down the road, at least in principle.
The same is almost entirely true for fatty fried things and drinks with bacon in them (can't get away from this, sorry). Now as a casual partaker in various spirits it does not bother me in the least that they are taxed higher than paper clips or funny t-shirts. Similarly, as a casual partaker in something called the Big Daddy Bacon Cheeseburger (with wild fries and a soda) it would not bother me in the least to pay an extra dollar or two for making the short-term excellent decision to eat this delicious monstrosity.
Another libertarian paternalistic suggestion is restricting the sales of fatty foods and sugar-bombs to children, in the same way we don't let them buy booze or guns. I remember in eighth grade we somehow got free of school for a bit (legitimately, I never ditched, mom) and we went to 7-11. Do you know what I bought? I still remember. I bought a full-size bag of Doritos, a hot dog, a Slurpee (of course the biggest they sold), and a bag of Skittles. Fortunately this was a rare, and in hindsight entirely abused freedom, but there are some kids that eat junk like that everyday. Increasingly, we are calling them diabetics. That is a problem. Foremost, for those kids. Then, for those of us who have to pay for that treatment for 60 years while modern medicine keeps them propped up. When we can't trust the kids to make good choices, and you can't trust kids, and increasingly you can't trust the parents, it seems right for the state to step in.
There is a lot more worth discussing in this book. Hopefully, I find the time and the inclination (evolution, after all, predisposes me to conservation of energy). If not, hopefully that functions to whet your appetite.
11 February 2014
Faith & Change
Christian Wiman:
I don't think Wiman means in any way that the source or grounding of our faith changes--God is not so mutable as to change as we age, Christ is the same yesterday, today, and forever--but that the way we experience and interpret faith changes as we go through life. It has to. Otherwise that faith becomes idolatry, a dull imitation of faith by rote, more important to us than growing and experiencing God. If we cling tight-fistedly to our adolescent or childish understanding we might still believe something at the end of our life, but it will not be a faith equipped to deal with life.
As I read this I thought about the failings of the Jesus People that I wrote about a few weeks ago. The type of faith they promoted was inherently based on a youthful and immediate interpretation of Scripture. Acts 2 without Acts 5-28.
In fact, there is no way to return to the faith of your childhood, not really, not unless you've woken from a decades-long and absolutely literal coma. Faith is not some half-remembered country into which you come like a long-exiled king, dispensing the old wisdom, casting out the radical, insurrectionist aspects of yourself by which you'd been betrayed. No. Life is not an error, even when it is. That is to say, whatever faith you emerge with at the end of your life is going to be not simply affected by that life but intimately dependent upon it, for faith in God is, in the deepest sense, faith in life--which means that even the staunchest life of faith is a life of great change. It follows that if you believe at fifty what you believed at fifteen, then you have not lived--or have denied the reality of your life.
I don't think Wiman means in any way that the source or grounding of our faith changes--God is not so mutable as to change as we age, Christ is the same yesterday, today, and forever--but that the way we experience and interpret faith changes as we go through life. It has to. Otherwise that faith becomes idolatry, a dull imitation of faith by rote, more important to us than growing and experiencing God. If we cling tight-fistedly to our adolescent or childish understanding we might still believe something at the end of our life, but it will not be a faith equipped to deal with life.
As I read this I thought about the failings of the Jesus People that I wrote about a few weeks ago. The type of faith they promoted was inherently based on a youthful and immediate interpretation of Scripture. Acts 2 without Acts 5-28.
04 February 2014
Lance Armstrong and Willful Blindness
I had the chance last week to read Wheelmen: Lance Armstrong, the Tour de France, and the Greatest Sports Conspiracy Ever, a page-turner with a bit of a hyperbolic subtitle. It is, obviously, about Lance Armstrong and the cover-up of his decades of doping and his rather vindictive streak against anyone who spoke out about him.
It was a great book, deconstructing the Myth of Armstrong--Cancer Survivor, Warrior, Beater of the French--that he built to insulate himself from accusations of doping. I was blown away at times by just how fiercely competitive the man is. In the end, when he agreed to do the Oprah interview and come clean (sort of) about his history of doping and general a-holeishness, it wasn't to alleviate some burden on his soul or to try to seek restitution and move forward with his life, but because he hoped that it would shorten his lifetime ban from competition and allow him to be a professional triathlete. I still have trouble believing that he feels he did anything wrong. The last believer in the Armstrong myth might be Armstrong himself. Which is very sad and quite pathetic.
As I read I recalled how vigorously I defended Lance in the midst of his unworldly winning streak at the Tour. The accusations were out there, of course, but I never gave credence to a single one. And this wasn't merely because I wanted to believe that someone could come back from cancer and do something as incredible as what he was doing, but also because I had a very sharp ethnocentrism at the time that told me that Americans rule and all of those frogs griping about drugs are just sore that one of our boys went over their and whupped them at their own game. USA! USA! Rumors of Lance's douchiness were everywhere at the time, but he was OUR douche. So it was less a matter of thinking Lance was a great dude and more of a matter of thumbing our noses at the French. Which is very strange. And allows us to blind ourselves to horrible realities. But we all do this.
I listen to Rush Limbaugh some at work. Never on purpose. The guy I share on office with likes conservative radio and if I don't have something else on first I get to listen to Glenn Beck, Rush Limbaugh, and Dave Ramsey, the conservative trinity. President Obama could disarm Iran, get unemployment under 4%, balance the budget, and drink some of Rush's tea during a press conference and the next morning Limbaugh would still be calling him a wimpy socialist.
Limbaugh is an extreme example and it is only to illustrate the point. When our default is opposition we are blinded to glaring realities. Like the fact that Obama is probably not the antichrist. Or that the French might have actual reasons for believing Armstrong is doping, such as HE FREAKING WAS THE WHOLE TIME! But when Obama=bad or French=arrogant + jealous then we get to skim over the harder truths. We can say, well I wouldn't Lance to date my daughter, but screw you Frenchies.
My guess is that most of the people who defended Lance for so long did so for the same reason. If it was a British guy who did the same thing or, God forbid, a Frenchman it barely would have registered over here. Who has heard of Miguel Indurain? But he was our national hero, and in the wake of 9/11 we were looking for national heroes. We were also pissed at the French. The timing makes sense and Lance exploited that well. But the shoe eventually dropped, as it had to. And those of who were so willfully blind for so long were confronted by a harsh light.
It was a great book, deconstructing the Myth of Armstrong--Cancer Survivor, Warrior, Beater of the French--that he built to insulate himself from accusations of doping. I was blown away at times by just how fiercely competitive the man is. In the end, when he agreed to do the Oprah interview and come clean (sort of) about his history of doping and general a-holeishness, it wasn't to alleviate some burden on his soul or to try to seek restitution and move forward with his life, but because he hoped that it would shorten his lifetime ban from competition and allow him to be a professional triathlete. I still have trouble believing that he feels he did anything wrong. The last believer in the Armstrong myth might be Armstrong himself. Which is very sad and quite pathetic.
As I read I recalled how vigorously I defended Lance in the midst of his unworldly winning streak at the Tour. The accusations were out there, of course, but I never gave credence to a single one. And this wasn't merely because I wanted to believe that someone could come back from cancer and do something as incredible as what he was doing, but also because I had a very sharp ethnocentrism at the time that told me that Americans rule and all of those frogs griping about drugs are just sore that one of our boys went over their and whupped them at their own game. USA! USA! Rumors of Lance's douchiness were everywhere at the time, but he was OUR douche. So it was less a matter of thinking Lance was a great dude and more of a matter of thumbing our noses at the French. Which is very strange. And allows us to blind ourselves to horrible realities. But we all do this.
I listen to Rush Limbaugh some at work. Never on purpose. The guy I share on office with likes conservative radio and if I don't have something else on first I get to listen to Glenn Beck, Rush Limbaugh, and Dave Ramsey, the conservative trinity. President Obama could disarm Iran, get unemployment under 4%, balance the budget, and drink some of Rush's tea during a press conference and the next morning Limbaugh would still be calling him a wimpy socialist.
Limbaugh is an extreme example and it is only to illustrate the point. When our default is opposition we are blinded to glaring realities. Like the fact that Obama is probably not the antichrist. Or that the French might have actual reasons for believing Armstrong is doping, such as HE FREAKING WAS THE WHOLE TIME! But when Obama=bad or French=arrogant + jealous then we get to skim over the harder truths. We can say, well I wouldn't Lance to date my daughter, but screw you Frenchies.
My guess is that most of the people who defended Lance for so long did so for the same reason. If it was a British guy who did the same thing or, God forbid, a Frenchman it barely would have registered over here. Who has heard of Miguel Indurain? But he was our national hero, and in the wake of 9/11 we were looking for national heroes. We were also pissed at the French. The timing makes sense and Lance exploited that well. But the shoe eventually dropped, as it had to. And those of who were so willfully blind for so long were confronted by a harsh light.
29 January 2014
Grad-studenting the Golden Classics: Conformity and Queer Fear in Tootle
As most of you know I went through the voluntary ordeal of graduate school in English. Why? Because I love books. No kidding. I thought that would be enough. This would be sort of like signing up for the military because you are good at pushups.
Books aren't really the thing anymore in the world of English. Books about books? Yes, sir. Queer re-readings of classic works? Bring it! Critical explorations of television shows about vampires? Oh, hellz yeah! I count it one of the great accomplishments of my life to have escaped loving books, real ones (and, no, I don't mean only dead white guy books).
In the spirit of the buffoonery we were required to write every semester, I thought it would be fun to look at kids' books and give them the Earnest English Graduate Student Treatment (EEGST). I probably spend an hour of every working day reading books to my son in the evening and sometimes three or so hours on the weekends. As such a whole new library has been opened to me and I feel it my duty as a person who has read Critical Theory to apply some of the principles to these books. First up, Tootle, a seemingly benign tale of a young train coming to terms with limitations and making the right choice, but under the surface graduate-studenty things lurk. Read on. If it must be noted, all works quoted and scholars cited are fictitious.
"Conformity and Queer Fear in Gertrude Crampton's Tootle"
Marissa Walsh-Rodriguez notes in her seminal work on the topic of conformity and children's literature, To Mine Own Self Be True: Power and Politicking in Pre-Teen Literature, that " [children's literature] exists merely as a vehicle for enforcing the dominant bourgeois cultural structures of the day. . . without which the system would ineluctably collapse" (5). This is so manifestly true that is hardly bears mentioning. We tell our children stories to enforce our own morality with little forethought to the ways in which that morality will change as new social movements come to life. In this, we often hamstring the future of our children, making them moral automatons rather than the freethinkers needed to navigate a complex, gray-shaded world.
Nowhere in the whole corpus of socially-approved children's literature is the conforming element of children's stories more evident than in the Golden Classics work Tootle by Gertrude Crampton. Crampton is an artist for whom conformity was something of an oeuvre. Her other works include the appalling Scuffy the Tugboat and the laughless and lifeless The Large and Growly Bear. First published in the halcyon postwar days of conservative romance, Tootle effectively undercuts any chance of raising children that might buck the system, explore their divergent desires, or experiment with new identities. The conformity expected by young readers of Tootle is well-documented by Honeycutt-Baker, Przybyszewski-Smith, and Palomares-Levin amongst others, but the specific issue of gender conformity and the fear of homosexuality has never been treated by a scholar before, especially one with my pedigree and aptness with polysyllabic words. In this paper I will show the degree to which the conformity expected of young Tootle is gendered in nature, explore the work's own use of the word "queer" as a pejorative to describe Tootle and its implications for a queer reading of the character, and suggest ways in which the book might best be modified for a contemporary reader.
The character Tootle is introduced to us in the opening pages of Tootle as a young engine who has come to the Lower Trainswitch School for Locomotives to receive his formal education in pulling a train across an idyllic America. If you will pardon the expression, Tootle is under the tutelage of Old Bill, a grizzled veteran of the school and presumably the tracks who instructs the young locomotives in a curriculum of proper training technique as well as the principles of conformity that undergird the program. Tootle is introduced to us from the beginning as a brash young engine, confident in his own abilities and desirous of future acclaim as a fast engine on the most prestigious route to which a young engine may aspire: that of the flyer between New York and Chicago. Even Bill accedes to Tootle's exceptional abilities, but from the beginning the need for conformity becomes manifest when Bill enjoins Tootle to work on the one lesson most tied to conformity: Stay on the Rails No Matter What. This course also represents a type of mantra for the young engines. Bill cloaks his desire to suppress Tootle under the auspices of helping him to achieve his dreams but it is impossible not to read resentment in Bill's words to the young engine who he fears might make his cushy job just a bit more difficult. Bill, a lonely bachelor, is confronted by a virile and flamboyant young engine and he is appalled at the contrast to his own decrepitude.
Tootle is diligent in his lessons until one day he is tempted off the track while racing a horse across an open meadow. There is a curve in the track that if he follows will allow the horse to win and Tootle therefore makes the rash decision to leave the track. He ties the horse in the race and returns to the roundhouse in shame. Though the amount of time he has thus far spent at Lower Trainswitch is indeterminate in the text, the degree of indoctrination in the articles of submission propagated by the school is manifest in young Tootle's fragile consciousness. Fearing repercussions for his actions and desirous to remain in line to achieve his career ambitions Tootle hides his dalliance in the field from Bill and the other authorities that impose upon him.
The next day out practicing his lessons, the siren song of the open field rings again. With ostentatious abandonment Tootle breaks loose of the shackles of the track and frolics in the meadow happily. He smells buttercups and makes himself a daisy chain and dances through the meadow. From these descriptors it is quite clear that Tootle has homoerotic tendencies, tendencies highlighted by an evening conversation between Bill and two of the other railmen, the Day Watchman and the First Assistant Oiler. At their nightly card game, the three bachelors sit in their work garb playing checkers. The bathos of the scenario is palpable. These three pillars of conformity, representing efficiency and cleanliness, the surveillance state, and institutional control sit in their free time and discuss the actions of young trains who refuse to comply to their mold.
"It's queer," says the First Assistant Oiler to Bill. Now while some would argue that the usage of the word "queer" in the mid-1940s differed from the pejorative usage common today, as preeminent queer theorist Alain Fournier argues in his seminal work The Arc of Justice Bends Slowly: The Ubiquity of Unwitting GLBTQILMNOP Prejudice in Literature, even anachronistic readings of texts using today's linguistic tropes and attitudes towards homosexuality are accurate given "the vicious and unrestrained homophobia latent in all of our forebears." In other words, though Crampton might not have explicitly intended a homophobic utterance on the part of the oiler, the effect was latent both in the language she used and in the undoubtedly homophobic attitude she harbored herself. It is important that we remember and judge people from earlier epochs for their unmitigated homophobia, even without explicit evidence to do so. The fear of homosexuality ran so deep and was so acute that it undoubtedly colored an otherwise innocuous remark in a children's story.
What is more, Gertrude effectively queers Tootle, by having him dancing in a field with a daisy chain around his anthropomorphic neck. The drawings by the ghastly Tibor Gergely--his first principle in art appears to be as little imaginative as possible, his second to whitewash the world with nondescript European faces--highlight the flamboyance of Tootle's actions. Tootle represents the worst fear of mid-twentieth century culture--an out and proud young person, escaping the false constraints of Neo-Victorian culture. As such, both his individuality and his sexuality must be crushed with all of the weight of the prevailing culture.
We see this in full display in the denouement of the story. Tootle has been spotted in the field by the mayor or Lower Trainswitch who brings the vast bureaucracy of the town to bear on the young engine. Working with Bill and the townspeople, Tootle's jackbooted conformity police work through the night making a number of red flags for each member of the all-white town to hold. It should be noted here that another of Tootle's cringe-inducing courses was Stopping for a Red Flag Waving, something every engine knows he must do.
The next morning when he leaves the track to enjoy his small moments of freedom he is accosted by a red flag behind every bush and tree. He stops for each one and looks for a way around. Alas, in their cold efficiency the townspeople assure there is no other option but to return to the track where a triumphant Bill awaits, green flag in his steely grip. Tootle returns to the track and offers the following heartrending line: "There are nothing but red flags for trains who leave the track."
His will broken, Tootle grows up to achieve his ambitions to run the route between New York and Chicago. Moreover, he becomes a mentor to the next generation of young engines, imparting his wisdom about the importance of staying on the rails no matter what. Fully repressed, Tootle can never be fully happy.
Perhaps the most appalling fact about Tootle is not that such a work was produced in a time of high conformity but that it continues in print and influencing the minds of what ought to be a generation freed from such concerns. Part of my effort in this paper is directed toward addressing this error, not merely in highlighting how backwards older generations were in what they expected from youth. It is not difficult to conceive of a revision of Tootle more in the spirit of the times. In this version, the young engine would be nurtured in his non-traditional pursuits by a progressive headmaster and his lover the Day Watchman. They would tailor a curriculum toward Tootle's desires and perhaps even encourage him in a transition from a track-bound locomotive implement to something freer to roam the meadows outside of town, for example an ATV or a Jeep. Some simple cosmetic work ought to allow for that transition. The opposition would come from a greedy corporate railman in the model of a Vanderbilt who wants to harness Tootle's raw speed and virility for his proposed route that would carry baby seal carcasses and oil fracking equipment with greater speed. Bill and his lover and the townspeople would help Tootle break free of the railman and become who he feels he is at the time.
Isn't that more of the type of book we want to be reading our children?
Next up: The Protestant Work Ethic and the Spirit of the Third Little Pig: Industriousness, Capitalism, and Anti-Semitism in The Three Little Pigs.
Books aren't really the thing anymore in the world of English. Books about books? Yes, sir. Queer re-readings of classic works? Bring it! Critical explorations of television shows about vampires? Oh, hellz yeah! I count it one of the great accomplishments of my life to have escaped loving books, real ones (and, no, I don't mean only dead white guy books).
In the spirit of the buffoonery we were required to write every semester, I thought it would be fun to look at kids' books and give them the Earnest English Graduate Student Treatment (EEGST). I probably spend an hour of every working day reading books to my son in the evening and sometimes three or so hours on the weekends. As such a whole new library has been opened to me and I feel it my duty as a person who has read Critical Theory to apply some of the principles to these books. First up, Tootle, a seemingly benign tale of a young train coming to terms with limitations and making the right choice, but under the surface graduate-studenty things lurk. Read on. If it must be noted, all works quoted and scholars cited are fictitious.
"Conformity and Queer Fear in Gertrude Crampton's Tootle"
Marissa Walsh-Rodriguez notes in her seminal work on the topic of conformity and children's literature, To Mine Own Self Be True: Power and Politicking in Pre-Teen Literature, that " [children's literature] exists merely as a vehicle for enforcing the dominant bourgeois cultural structures of the day. . . without which the system would ineluctably collapse" (5). This is so manifestly true that is hardly bears mentioning. We tell our children stories to enforce our own morality with little forethought to the ways in which that morality will change as new social movements come to life. In this, we often hamstring the future of our children, making them moral automatons rather than the freethinkers needed to navigate a complex, gray-shaded world.
Nowhere in the whole corpus of socially-approved children's literature is the conforming element of children's stories more evident than in the Golden Classics work Tootle by Gertrude Crampton. Crampton is an artist for whom conformity was something of an oeuvre. Her other works include the appalling Scuffy the Tugboat and the laughless and lifeless The Large and Growly Bear. First published in the halcyon postwar days of conservative romance, Tootle effectively undercuts any chance of raising children that might buck the system, explore their divergent desires, or experiment with new identities. The conformity expected by young readers of Tootle is well-documented by Honeycutt-Baker, Przybyszewski-Smith, and Palomares-Levin amongst others, but the specific issue of gender conformity and the fear of homosexuality has never been treated by a scholar before, especially one with my pedigree and aptness with polysyllabic words. In this paper I will show the degree to which the conformity expected of young Tootle is gendered in nature, explore the work's own use of the word "queer" as a pejorative to describe Tootle and its implications for a queer reading of the character, and suggest ways in which the book might best be modified for a contemporary reader.
The character Tootle is introduced to us in the opening pages of Tootle as a young engine who has come to the Lower Trainswitch School for Locomotives to receive his formal education in pulling a train across an idyllic America. If you will pardon the expression, Tootle is under the tutelage of Old Bill, a grizzled veteran of the school and presumably the tracks who instructs the young locomotives in a curriculum of proper training technique as well as the principles of conformity that undergird the program. Tootle is introduced to us from the beginning as a brash young engine, confident in his own abilities and desirous of future acclaim as a fast engine on the most prestigious route to which a young engine may aspire: that of the flyer between New York and Chicago. Even Bill accedes to Tootle's exceptional abilities, but from the beginning the need for conformity becomes manifest when Bill enjoins Tootle to work on the one lesson most tied to conformity: Stay on the Rails No Matter What. This course also represents a type of mantra for the young engines. Bill cloaks his desire to suppress Tootle under the auspices of helping him to achieve his dreams but it is impossible not to read resentment in Bill's words to the young engine who he fears might make his cushy job just a bit more difficult. Bill, a lonely bachelor, is confronted by a virile and flamboyant young engine and he is appalled at the contrast to his own decrepitude.
Tootle is diligent in his lessons until one day he is tempted off the track while racing a horse across an open meadow. There is a curve in the track that if he follows will allow the horse to win and Tootle therefore makes the rash decision to leave the track. He ties the horse in the race and returns to the roundhouse in shame. Though the amount of time he has thus far spent at Lower Trainswitch is indeterminate in the text, the degree of indoctrination in the articles of submission propagated by the school is manifest in young Tootle's fragile consciousness. Fearing repercussions for his actions and desirous to remain in line to achieve his career ambitions Tootle hides his dalliance in the field from Bill and the other authorities that impose upon him.
The next day out practicing his lessons, the siren song of the open field rings again. With ostentatious abandonment Tootle breaks loose of the shackles of the track and frolics in the meadow happily. He smells buttercups and makes himself a daisy chain and dances through the meadow. From these descriptors it is quite clear that Tootle has homoerotic tendencies, tendencies highlighted by an evening conversation between Bill and two of the other railmen, the Day Watchman and the First Assistant Oiler. At their nightly card game, the three bachelors sit in their work garb playing checkers. The bathos of the scenario is palpable. These three pillars of conformity, representing efficiency and cleanliness, the surveillance state, and institutional control sit in their free time and discuss the actions of young trains who refuse to comply to their mold.
"It's queer," says the First Assistant Oiler to Bill. Now while some would argue that the usage of the word "queer" in the mid-1940s differed from the pejorative usage common today, as preeminent queer theorist Alain Fournier argues in his seminal work The Arc of Justice Bends Slowly: The Ubiquity of Unwitting GLBTQILMNOP Prejudice in Literature, even anachronistic readings of texts using today's linguistic tropes and attitudes towards homosexuality are accurate given "the vicious and unrestrained homophobia latent in all of our forebears." In other words, though Crampton might not have explicitly intended a homophobic utterance on the part of the oiler, the effect was latent both in the language she used and in the undoubtedly homophobic attitude she harbored herself. It is important that we remember and judge people from earlier epochs for their unmitigated homophobia, even without explicit evidence to do so. The fear of homosexuality ran so deep and was so acute that it undoubtedly colored an otherwise innocuous remark in a children's story.
What is more, Gertrude effectively queers Tootle, by having him dancing in a field with a daisy chain around his anthropomorphic neck. The drawings by the ghastly Tibor Gergely--his first principle in art appears to be as little imaginative as possible, his second to whitewash the world with nondescript European faces--highlight the flamboyance of Tootle's actions. Tootle represents the worst fear of mid-twentieth century culture--an out and proud young person, escaping the false constraints of Neo-Victorian culture. As such, both his individuality and his sexuality must be crushed with all of the weight of the prevailing culture.
We see this in full display in the denouement of the story. Tootle has been spotted in the field by the mayor or Lower Trainswitch who brings the vast bureaucracy of the town to bear on the young engine. Working with Bill and the townspeople, Tootle's jackbooted conformity police work through the night making a number of red flags for each member of the all-white town to hold. It should be noted here that another of Tootle's cringe-inducing courses was Stopping for a Red Flag Waving, something every engine knows he must do.
The next morning when he leaves the track to enjoy his small moments of freedom he is accosted by a red flag behind every bush and tree. He stops for each one and looks for a way around. Alas, in their cold efficiency the townspeople assure there is no other option but to return to the track where a triumphant Bill awaits, green flag in his steely grip. Tootle returns to the track and offers the following heartrending line: "There are nothing but red flags for trains who leave the track."
His will broken, Tootle grows up to achieve his ambitions to run the route between New York and Chicago. Moreover, he becomes a mentor to the next generation of young engines, imparting his wisdom about the importance of staying on the rails no matter what. Fully repressed, Tootle can never be fully happy.
Perhaps the most appalling fact about Tootle is not that such a work was produced in a time of high conformity but that it continues in print and influencing the minds of what ought to be a generation freed from such concerns. Part of my effort in this paper is directed toward addressing this error, not merely in highlighting how backwards older generations were in what they expected from youth. It is not difficult to conceive of a revision of Tootle more in the spirit of the times. In this version, the young engine would be nurtured in his non-traditional pursuits by a progressive headmaster and his lover the Day Watchman. They would tailor a curriculum toward Tootle's desires and perhaps even encourage him in a transition from a track-bound locomotive implement to something freer to roam the meadows outside of town, for example an ATV or a Jeep. Some simple cosmetic work ought to allow for that transition. The opposition would come from a greedy corporate railman in the model of a Vanderbilt who wants to harness Tootle's raw speed and virility for his proposed route that would carry baby seal carcasses and oil fracking equipment with greater speed. Bill and his lover and the townspeople would help Tootle break free of the railman and become who he feels he is at the time.
Isn't that more of the type of book we want to be reading our children?
Next up: The Protestant Work Ethic and the Spirit of the Third Little Pig: Industriousness, Capitalism, and Anti-Semitism in The Three Little Pigs.
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