Don’t say Don’t

(As someone who hates to be told, “We can’t do that,” when he wants to hear, “How can we do this?,” this comment from more than a century ago by Dr. Frank Crane has special meaning. Rather than a phrase, he  finds—-)

ONE WORD THAT SHOULD NEVER BE USED

One word I should like to rub out of the vocabulary used by human beings, one toward another. It is the word “don’t.”

Looking back over a somewhat full and varied experience, I can say that in my judgement didactic prohibition issued from soul to soul, for every ounce of good it has done, has made a pound of harm.

“Don’t” is the stupidest, most brainless and laziest of all parental terms. To tell a child what to do requires thought, investigation, interest. To tell anyone what not to do requires no cerebration.

“Don’t” is the language of annoyance. “Do” is the language of love.

“I like very well to be told to do, by those who are fond of me,” said Alcibiades*; “but never be told what not to do; and the more fond they are of me, the less I like it. Because when they tell me what not to do, it is a sign that I have displeased or am likely to displease them. Besides—I believe there are some other reasons, but they have quite escaped me.”

To be sure, the Ten Commandments are “don’ts.”  But they are God’s, which is different.

*Alcibiades (404-450 BCE) was a general, orator, and statesman in ancient Athens, a student of Socrates.

Michael Collins

He was the first person who could see where every human in the universe was.

Michael Collins was the Command Module Pilot on the Apollo XI mission that put the first two men on the moon.  For twenty-one hours he was alone in the CMP, Columbia, while Neil Armstrong and Buzz Armstrong “were doing their small stepping and giant leaping” on the Moon, as he put it a year later in Jefferson City.  He had watched them leave in the Eagle landing module headed for the surface.  He could look out a window and see the Earth, the only other place with humans.

No man had ever been in such a lonely position as he was in July, 1969. For part of those 21 hours, he was behind the Moon, completely alone with no communications either with earth or with the two men on the surface.

Michael Collins died yesterday. He was 90.  Only one man remains alive who shared that experience: Ken Mattingly, now 85, who was the Command Module Pilot on Apollo 16.

Only four of the moonwalkers are still with us: Buzz Aldrin, 91; Dave Scott, 88; and Charlie Duke and Harrison Schmidt, both 85.  Six men who flew to the Moon but did not land are still among us—Mattingly, Tom Stafford, 90; Fred Haise, 87; and all three members of the Apollo 8 crew—Frank Borman and Jim Lovell, both 93, and Bill Anders, who is 87.

We remember Michael Collins for the day we sat about twenty feet from him (and the other two astronauts) at the Capitol on the first anniversary of the Moon landing.  NASA had put the Columbia capsule on a big truck and sent it on a tour of state capitols.  It happened to be in Jefferson City that day.  And the radio station I as working for decided to broadcast the events at the capitol.

One of my most cherished possessions is a photograph showing me at the station table with the three astronauts in the foreground. As I recall it, Governor Hearnes’ press secretary, Jerry Bryan, sent the picture to NASA and the three guys signed it.

All three had remarks that day but I thought Collins’ comments were the most meaningful—and prophetic.

“I was born in 1930 and with luck I expect to see out the end of this century.  And when I am thinking about it in 1999, I expect to remember the 1970s as a time when oddly enough, man was hesitant about pushing his frontiers back. And in 1999 we just simply won’t be able to understand that fact because by then it will have become clearly apparent that man does in fact have the capability to step out and explore his solar system and that is something we definitely should do.”

When Collins made those remarks, Apollo XII already had successfully landed on the moon the previous November. But Apollo XIII had become the program’s most famous failure in April.  The Apollo program was in suspension while the investigation of that flight went on and there would not be another Moon landing until January of ’71, with Apollo XIV.

More ominous, however, had been the announcement in January of 1970 that the twentieth mission had been cancelled. There already had been a decline in public interest in the program, despite the drama of XIII, by the time Michael Collins spoke in Jefferson City.  “Been there, done that,” in the short attention span public mind.

About two months after the astronauts were in Jefferson City, NASA cancelled flights 15-19 and then restructured the crews for what would become the last three flights to the Moon—numbers 15-17.

Those events give a special context to what Collins said on that hot July day at the capitol.

None of the Apollo XI crew ever flew in space again.  NASA wanted Collins to stay in the program but he had decided Apollo XI would be his second, and last, trip to space (he and John Young had flown Gemini 10, practicing maneuvers necessary for a Moon landing). But he left a few months later, with no regrets. He wrote in his first book, Carrying the Fire, “I know that I would be a liar or a fool if I said that I have the best of the three Apollo 11 seats, but I can say with truth and equanimity that I am perfectly satisfied with the one I have. This venture has been structured for three men, and I consider my third to be as necessary as either of the other two.”

He was the Assistant Secretary of State for Public Affairs for a while but found “long hours…flying a great mahogany desk” was not a fit.  About a year later he became the third director of the National Air and Space Museum. He set a goal of having a building on the National Mall by the time of the national bicentennial, 1976.  The ribbon was cut by President Ford for the building on July 1, 1976.  A museum statement issued upon his death said, “That building and the museum it houses stand as a lasting legacy” to “an astronaut and statesman.”

His support for pushing the frontiers back, as he put it in Jefferson City in 1970 never waivered.  On the tenth anniversary of the first landing, he said, “It’s human nature to stretch, to go, to see, to understand. Exploration is not a choice really—it’s an imperative.”

In these times when we our vision is so often by terrestrial concerns and often-petty bickering about them, we need not forget his belief that within us is the need “to stretch, to go, to see, to understand.”

Perhaps if we look less at one another with suspicion and instead see one another as having those innate desires to achieve, we might find light.

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See you Thursday night?

Our political divisions have not always been as bad as they are.  They will be better again.

The Missouri Humanities Council will be holding a webinar at 7 p.m. Thursday called Show Me Statesmanship. The council invited me a few months ago to be part of it. If  you want to watch, sign up at the council’s web page.

Clearly, today’s political dialogue is more noted for its antagonism than for its comity. While many observers focus on the ugliness of our dialogue, this program focuses on times when opponents were not enemies, when differences need not to have been destructive, when personal differences did not preclude personal interaction.

The council asked some former Senators to be part of the program too: former President Pro Tem Charlie Shields, Jeff Smith, Scott Rupp, Jolie Justus, and Rita Heard Days. Several other senators were part of the discussion although they didn’t have speaking roles: Bob Dixon, Kevin Engler, and the late Wayne Goode and John T. Russell.

Statesmanship is not easy to achieve as an individual nor is consensus easy to achieve within groups. This program focuses on those times when seeming political opposites did join together to enact good public policy on significant issues. It concludes that those things could happen again, no matter how toxic we might consider our political environment to be today.

It was good to hear and tell those stories and I think all of us who took part in this program look forward to a time when these things can happen again more frequently.

The thought-provoking video runs about 35 minutes.  The producers have asked me to field questions and comments for the rest of the hour.  It’s a nice compliment although I am a little nervous about being some kind of Oracle.

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We, the Incompetent

(All of us are incompetent.  When a faucet leaks or a light switch quits working at my house, it is Nancy who fixes it, not me. I can help her with words when she’s trying to convey a particular thought to someone on Facebook or in a note, however.  Dr. Frank Crane says it is easy to pronounce others incompetent while ignoring our own lack of skill. But, he says, there is one overpowering competence that he believes will survive all of the abuses that we, the individual incompetents, might do to it.)

ONLY HUMANITY IS COMPETENT

One day as I passed down the street, I came to a spot where a teamster had unhitched his horses from his wagon and was giving them their mid-day oats, beneath the shade of a benevolent and comfortable oak. From one of the animals, I noticed the collar had been taken and that his neck was sore.

“Pretty hard, isn’t it?” I inquired of the man, “to make a horse pull with a sore shoulder against the collar?”

“Yep,” he answered, “plum tough.” And then he handed me a bit of philosophy which I have put among most prized possessions. “There wouldn’t be much work done in this word, mister, if only horses and folks that are plum fit had to do it.”

There you are!  That is a large and brilliant truth.  The business of this earth is carried on by the incompetent and the unfit. It is the mothers that don’t know how to bring up children that are bringing up most of them; it’s the people not at all qualified to marry marrying; it’s the teachers that can’t teach that are teaching; and the preachers who can’t preach that are preaching. Most mayors, governors, and presidents do not know how to manage states, cities, and nations; doctors who don’t know are giving us pills and cooks who are incompetent are preparing our food; and altogether the world is in the hands of the unfit.

Yet, somehow, nature manages to get things done. She gains her ends. Perfectly balancing all of imperfections, she arrives at perfection. Let us take heart. Incompetence is no excuse for despair. No individual is competent; only humanity is competent.

 

My cabbage crop

We conclude this week with a short personal note.

Technology enables us to post entries on these pages to be displayed even if we’re not in the office, the home, or even in the world.   Such has been the case these last two weeks.

I got into the cabbage business on Monday, April 12

It’s pronounced “cabbage,” but in medical circles it’s formally CABG—Coronary Artery Bypass Graft.

My surgeon—an amazing man beyond his skills of repairing the world’s greatest pump—thought I was going to get a triple.  But once he looked at the playing field, he decided I deserved a Grand Slam.

It’s not routine but it’s hardly unique any more. I’m one of about 240,000 people who will become “cabbage farmers” this year in America.  I sat in a chair the next day (Tuesday), taking a brisk walk through the halls of Capital Region Medical Center on Wednesday, a nurse hanging onto my belt with one hand while trying to keep up with a metal stand filled with hanging bags of this or that medication, taking another nurse on a similar but longer walk on Thursday, and back at home a week ago today.

I feel good.  Not good-good.  But I don’t feel bad other than a few aches here and there and a diminished energy level that will come back. For a couple of days or so, I felt bruised. And looked it, too.  And no you’re not going to see pictures.

Some of you have been through this and I hope you’ll agree with saying to those who will go through it that feeling anxious is understandable. But what happens is nothing short of amazing—although somewhat ghastly when the doctor starts removing various tubes.  The most awful part of the experience has been the removal of the dressings taped to my chest. Do not work yourself into a serious state if you are told you need to grow some cabbages

But knock me out first if I ever have to have a chest dressing removed again.

(The cabbages, by the way were parts of the artery in my left leg which has about five small incisions and extensive bruising but works just fine; Nancy and I walked across the street to see some neighbors on Sunday after coming home on Friday) and yesterday I was buzzing all about the house and even made a couple of out-of-the house trips. It’s okay when Minnie the cat wants to sit on my chest.  STANDING on it is a little different.

As odd as it might seem to say, I think I had a pretty good time at the hospital.  I got to know little bit about the nursing staff and found them to be the kind of folks I’d like to know better.  And my surgeon—–a man older than me who has been doing these operations for decades because  he considers it a sacred calling: I won’t get sick again just to talk more with him but I hope we have a chance for more conversations about everything from politics to books and TV series….and more.

See you around one of these days.

 

Who is an American?

It’s time we reoriented the history of our country. Not rewrite it.  Reorient it—because most of it starts with the assumption that this country began with Protestant English religious-freedom pioneers establishing colonies on the east coast, thus history is told from East to West.

That is a questionable assumption at best, and some would say an excuse for a nation that talks about inclusion while its national culture has created barriers against it.

The great American writer Walt Whitman refused in 1883 to take part in Santa Fe’s observance of its founding because, “We Americans have yet to really learn our own antecedents and sort them, to unify them.  Thus far, impressed by New England writers and schoolmasters, we tacitly abandon ourselves to the notion that our United States have been fashioned from the British Islands only, and essentially form a second England only—which is a great mistake.”

American-born journalist and historian Carrie Gibson, who now lives in London, quotes Whitman in El Norte: The Epic and Forgotten Story of Hispanic North America. Unlike conventional histories, her book sees our national history from West to East.

Explorers and entrepreneurs from Catholic Spain were establishing settlements in this hemisphere a century before English Protestants started settling Jamestown and Plymouth as commercial ventures.

Gibson asserts that accepting the English-settlement version of our history is the root of some of our major social issues because it has led to categorizing people as lesser Americans. And she suggests part of the problem lies in our definition of “American.”

I am an English-German-French-Irish-Scottish-Canadian American. But none of that shows up on the census form I filled out last year.  A lot of other Americans were hyphen people in the census. African-Americans. Hispanic-Americans.  Asian-Americans. And others.

I have never self-identified with any hyphens. I don’t know a word of German. I had to take four semesters of French at the University of Missouri to pass three of them. I know no Gaelic languages. I don’t say “aboot” for “about,” or refer to my car’s trunk as the “boot.”

But we identify a lot of Americans with a hyphen and Gibson suggests none too gently that in hyphenating some Americans we are subtly saying, “not white,” and in doing so we are misunderstanding our history and, in effect, not recognizing one another as equals in citizenship.

Gibson was born in Ohio but moved to Dalton, Georgia as a child, just about the time many families from Mexico began moving in to work in the factories.  She soon realized “that if my surname were Garcia rather than Gibson, there would have been an entirely different set of cultural assumptions and expectations placed upon me” although she, too, was an immigrant—from the North rather than the South; she too was Catholic as were many immigrants coming to Dalton. Her grandmother, from Italy, never spoke English well and still had many relatives in another country. The difference, she perceived, was that she and her family were “European” immigrants and our culture, as Whitman wrote, lived with the image of being a second England—-instead of being American.

 

And what is “American?”  She suggests that many of us assume too much for ourselves and exclude others because we do not recognize the word.

It is convenient to we who call ourselves Americans to forget that the word derives from an explorer who never came to OUR shores.  Amerigo Vespucci explored what we now call South America. Our continents first show up as America, with any designation of separateness, on a map of the New World drawn by Matthias Ringmann and Martin Waldseemüller in 1507, a century before Jamestown and a century-plus before Plymouth.

She finds it presumptuous to forget that the word “American” applies to everybody from Canada to Cape Horn. But those of us from the United States like to thing WE are Americans. Everybody else from this hemisphere is somebody or something else. The most common phrase used for those coming from the south is “Hispanic” as though everybody speaks Spanish, which is another erroneous assumption.

She points to another big difference.  Gibson is two generations removed from her Italian grandmother. She is not identified as Italian-American, can’t speak Italian.  But she asks, “Are you Hispanic if you don’t speak Spanish?”  Many who don’t speak that language, however, are considered “Hispanic” no matter how many generations removed they are from their border-crossing ancestors.

That’s a nagging question.  How many generations have to pass before someone is no longer African-American.  If you’ve never spoken a word in the Chinese, Japanese, Korean, or Vietnamese languages, are you still Asian-American?

Gibson writes, “Like whiteness, being ‘American’ was designed at some level to be exclusionary; it was built on Anglo and northern European ancestry, Protestantism, and, for the most part, speaking English. There was no place for the Indians or the enslaved Africans, or even southern Europeans.”

There probably are places where cultural identifications are useful—in determining, for example, what parts of our culture are not doing as well as others and what the reasons for that might be.

But hyphens create deep and unnecessary divisions in how we see each other.

Perhaps society will solve these problems with the passage of time.  But why should we wait for time to heal the wounds we continue to insist on inflicting on each other because we do not recognize that all of us are Americans, that our roots are not in northern Europe, but all of Europe? Or that many years ago, some who came here were Africans and others were Asians?

(For decades and decades, archaeologists have discovered evidence that the first people in our land came from Asia, thousands of years before anybody from England or other parts of northern Europe set foot in America. If we insist on identifying each other with hyphens, perhaps we should let descendants of the first peoples decide how the rest of us should be identified. Would the rest of us be satisfied with a designation that implies, “Not Asian?”)

Yuval Noah Harari, the author of the worldwide bestseller Sapiens says that mankind is nearing a tipping point driven by the third revolution that has shaped the history of Homo Sapiens. First was the Cognitive Revolution, about 70,000 years ago when our ancestors gained the capability of abstract thought. Second was the Agricultural Revolution about 12,000 years ago when our ancestors learned cultivation and food raising that led to longer lives and increased and diversified population.  He thinks we are living in the third, the Scientific Revolution that began about 500 years ago. Harari theorizes we are headed toward a time when Homo Sapiens will be transformed into something different by science. Biological engineering, computing, and cyber development, he thinks, will lead to creation of “a new singularity, when all the concepts that give meaning to our world—me, you, men, women, love and hate—will become irrelevant.”

It will be the death of the hyphen. And none too soon.

Do we need to wait for centuries to pass before all of the things we let divide us become irrelevant?  Do we need to listen to those who preach hatred of our fellow Americans or is it time to banish them to caves of their own ignorance where their bones might someday be discovered and puzzled over because of their narrowness?

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Old Friends—and the Greatest Friend

(Paul Simon wrote the lyrics and he and Art Garfunkel recorded it long ago. It’s kind of a melancholy song at first hearing but later reflection reveals it to be a song about the unspoken quiet comfort of longtime relationships that are greater than acquaintance with one another.

Perhaps you have heard the song. It’s been done by several artists. Here are some of the lyrics:

“Old friends, Old friends, Sat on their park bench, Like bookends…Old Friends, Winter companions, The old men, Lost in their overcoats, Waiting for the sunset….Can you imagine us, Years from today, Sharing a park bench quietly? How terribly strange, To be seventy. Old friends, Memory brushes the same years, Silently sharing the same fear…Long ago, it must be, I have a photograph, Preserve your memories, They’re all that’s left you.”

Memories and photographs are what remains. Why, then, do we become friends if in the end that’s all we have left?   The answer is simple: It is friendships that make life worth living each day that we have life.

Think about the first sentence of Dr. Crane’s meditation on—–)

FRIENDSHIP

When a man says friendship I think he utters the deepest word in human speech. It ranks even a little higher than love, being a sort of unselfed love, love with the hunger and itch extracted.

We do not love our friends; we like them. We love our children, wife, parents, and kinfolks. We like apples and custard pie and a cozy fire and a good bed and slippers—and a friend.

Like goes farther than love. Like is a voice from the subconscious self, a cry from the inward and unknown me. It lies behind the will, beneath the judgment, in the far darkness of our secret soul…

Whence, then, come friends? And who are they? And how can one make them?  All answers to these pathetic questions seem to me to be unsatisfactory, partial, and by the way. The rules of the wise will not work. We do not make friends by being noble and good. Friendships do not arise from similarity in tastes…

The fact is the secret springs of friendship are totally mysterious…As I look over my friends I find I like them as a dog likes his master. So I conclude that his emotion must originate in some Newfoundland or St. Bernard region of my nature, and is one of those instincts not yet eliminated by evolution, something I share with dogs.

For all that, I honor it as the best thing I am conscious of. I am prouder of liking my friends than of any other of my small bunch of virtues. When I think if Bill and Lige and Al and Ralph and Newt, I get a kind of warmth about the cockles of my heart no other contemplation can produce.

And the biggest hurts I have ever felt are those made by the disloyalty of others whom I had thought friends and trusted. Nothing is so salt and nauseous as the taste of Judas in the mouth of memory.

And it seems to me—for this is, after all, a sermon—that religion, rightly taken, is a friendship for God rather than a love for God, and that we would translate all the Bible’s admonitions to love God by the paraphrase to be friends with God.

To love God has a conventional sound, but to be a friend of God—that is a searching and swordlike word. It means to like him, not to avoid him, to seek his presence, to be at home with him, to the cheered, consoled, to be quieted by the thought of him.

Speaking for myself, I can say that I never came into this comfortable relationship until I had swept away all I had ever been taught, dared to presume upon the debt God had incurred toward me, and I took my rightful place as his son at his table.

It does not require any assumption of holiness or sinlessness to do this. It only needs to presume upon the vast nobleness, kindness, and forebearing wisdom of such a heart as Jesus reveals to us. It requires a tremendous burst of moral courage to believe God likes the kind of man I am. But I do believe it and the result is the greatest ethical dynamic of my life—the friendship of God.

I respectfully beg to differ

(We live in a time when disagreements seem unresolvable, when disputing forces seem more interested in fighting than serving, when disagreeing is, to use a term we wish had never come up, weaponized. Dr. Crane reminds us that disagreement can be a positive part of our existence, if respect is part of it, as he asks—-)

ARE YOU ON OPPOSITE SIDES?

Doubtless each of us knows someone in his circle of acquaintances who is intellectually contrary. Such as one delights on every occasion to take the opposite side.

If he is within a religious community he will take his stand firmly for atheism.  If he is one of the scoffers, he will argue just as valiantly for the church. He is a standing minority report. He is a crooked stick that will not lie in the woodpile. Like Goethe’s Devil he is the spirit who constantly denies.

This type of person is the steady, normal crop in the field of humanity. We would not get along without them. They keep the kettle of thing stirred, which otherwise would settle and spoil. These are they that keep the course of social life pure as a running stream and prevent it from becoming like a green stagnant pool.

They supply ginger for political campaigns. They are the party out of power. They are the watchdogs of progress. Without them religion would harden into a cruel tyranny of superstition, falsehoods would be crystallized into power, and ancient fraud live forever.

They harass mankind into being honest.

Correcting a Short, Pithy Statement

(We hear them all the time. We say them all the time—verbal shorthand that eliminates the need to explore the nuances of what we say or even the truth of what we say.  They’re called “maxims,” and sometimes we need to question their truth.  Dr. Frank Crane suggests the real truth about one of our often-used maxims is just the opposite of what is said.)

REAL SORROW SEEKS SOLITUDE

One of the maxims that is not true is, “Misery loves company.” The fact is, it is happiness that loves company, while sorrow seeks solitude. We close the door to weep, and draw the blinds. We go to the theatre and crowded restaurants to laugh.

Misfortune isolates. Pensiveness is unsociable.

These lines are written on shipboard; we have been six days at sea and all the passengers have become acquainted; for an ocean liner a few days out resembles a country village; everybody knows everybody and everybody’s business.  Convention rules the decks and gossip guards the cozy corners as thoroughly as in a New England town.

Only one man keeps apart.  His wife is in a coffin in the hold. A month ago they went to Italy for a long lark; she died in Naples. This man speaks to no one. He keeps to his room. He may be seen of nights looking over the rail into the boiling dark of the sea, alone.

When an animal is wounded, he flees the pack and in some cave or under some bush, solitary, he licks the bleeding paw or torn shoulder. So when the human heart breaks, its cry is for solitude; it shuns light; fellowship is pain; lonesomeness becomes a luxury.

Joy is the centripetal; sorrow the centrifugal force of the world. Joy makes cities; disappointment makes emigration.

Honoring Those Left Behind

A group of us has been working on building a special monument in Jefferson City. We’re working with a national foundation led by a World War II Medal of Honor winner (The Herschel Woody Williams Medal of Honor Foundation) to put up a memorial honoring Gold Star families. I have had a small role; others have done the real work. But it is an privilege to be part of their effort. I am not a veteran although, as I reminded the group at my first meeting with them, “I have fought many valiant skirmishes at Marine Corps League trivia contests.”

One thing that kind of surprised us is how few people know what a Gold Star Family is.  In some ways that is not surprising. Unfortunate, but not surprising.

We don’t see them often these days. During our World Wars and the Korean and Vietnam conflicts, they were more visible.  Families with members in the military during times of conflict could display a flag in the window of their home with a blue star for each family member in the service.  If a family member died or was killed during honorable service to their country during those times, the family would cover a blue star with a gold one, leaving the blue outline around the gold star.  Anyone going past a home with a flag in the window knew that somebody from that home was doing something special for the nation—or had died doing it.

In these times of limited conflicts with no massive calls to service, these symbols are seldom seen and a broad general public seldom touched by the human costs of defending our freedoms is not familiar with these flags.

But for each soldier killed in those prior wars or who dies in today’s long-ongoing conflcts, there are many broken hearts at home. Our memorial will honor those left behind to carry on in the spirit of their lost loved one.

You might have seen some of the numerous Blue Star Memorial Highway markers that have been erected since 1945 by state or local garden clubs that honor the military generally. This one is at the National Cemetery in Jefferson City.

There also is a small Gold Star Memorial sign at the west end of the Capitol, a tribute to “all Gold Star families.”

Our new monument to Gold Star Families will be built on city property adjacent to the Veterans Memorial at the Capitol, near the entrance to the Bicentennial Bridge being built to Adrian’s Island.

This is a computer simulation of our proposed monument against a different background than you’ll see when we dedicate it, hopefully in August.  The Capitol will be behind it then.

We want Gold Star Families throughout the state to know about the effort to put this memorial at the State Capitol. Although there has been a lot of publicity about the effort, most of it has been local.

If you are part of a group—veterans, civic, fraternal, church, or other—we would appreciate it if you would spread the word, and perhaps in doing so, learn of the special people in your neighborhood or among you friends who deserve to know there soon will be a monument at the Missouri Capitol honoring their sacrifice and their continued work in carrying on the spirit of those they lost.

(Photo credits: JC Parks, Missouri Capitol Commission, Gold Star Memorial Monument Committee)