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)

A Western Paul Revere

While looking for something else a few days ago I came across a story in a 1912 edition of the Keokuk Daily Gate City that explained how Union forces won the northernmost battle of the Civil War west of the Mississippi River. The story involves a mad ride through the countryside to warn of impending attack and a small town’s action against a stronger enemy. Unlike the story that turned Paul Revere’s truncated ride into an epic apocryphal poem, this story is a first-hand account of a wild adventure that changed history west of the Mississippi River.

Athens, Missouri (It’s pronounced AY-thens there) was a town of about fifty about the time of the Civil War, backed up against the Des Moines River that forms the notch in our border in the far northeast corner of the state.  It’s pretty much a ghost town now, with a state historic site nearby commemorating the Battle of Athens. Athens doesn’t even show up on the maps anymore (the one above is from Google). Go up to the northeast corner of the notch, just east of Highway 81 about seven miles (as the crow flies) southeast of Farmington, Iowa, where the DesMoines River forms the state boundary and imagine a dot there and you’ll pretty much know where Athens was.

About 2,000 Confederates under Colonel Martin Green tried to capture Athens from the Home Guard Troops under Col. David Moore who occupied the town. Normally he would have had 500 men but he was down to about 330 because some of his troops had been allowed to go to their homes in the area. Green surrounded the town on three sides and attacked on August 5, 1861.

But Moore’s men turned out to be better armed, with rifled muskets and bayonets while Green’s force was poorly equipped and was mostly untrained recruits. When the Confederate attack wavered in the face of better-than-expected defenses, Moore led a bayonet counter-attack that forced the Rebels to flee, never again to threaten an invasion Iowa.

A key part of the story is how the Union forces came to be better armed. And that is where the seldom-related (for many years, apparently) story of General Cyrus Bussey, then a cavalry Lieutenant-Colonel of the Iowa Home Guard begins.  He told it to Phillip Dolan of the New York World and it was reprinted in the Keokuk newspaper on January 1, 1912.

Listen my friends and you shall hear of the daring ride of Cyrus Bussey, and how it changed Civil War history in northeast Missouri and in Iowa.

“Because I was a Democratic member of the Iowa State Senate and supported the measure to appropriate $800,000 to raise troops in Iowa for the preservation of the Union, Governor Kirkwood named me his aide-de-camp on his staff, with the rank of Lieutenant-Colonel of Cavalry. That was May, 1861. I was twenty-eight years old with no military education or training.

“I lived in Bloomfield, twelve miles from the Missouri border. My messenger reported to me that the Confederal Gen. Martin Green was organizing a brigade on the border to invade Iowa. I applied to Governor Kirkwood for arms but he had none.  The Battle of Bull Run had given the southerners big encouragement and there was great enlistment in northern Missouri for the Confederate army.

“I went to General Fremont in St. Louis and asked for arms. He had none.  I said, ‘Give me 100,000 rounds of ammunition.

“What will you do with ammunition without guns?”

“I replied ‘I don’t know but I’ll feel better if I have ammunition.’

“He gave me 50,000 rounds and right away it was loaded on a steamboat and sent up the Mississippi River to Keokuk, Iowa.

“The next night about midnight my messenger came to my house in Bloomfield and reported that Gen. Green was shoeing his horses and would start the invasion of Iowa within thirty-six hours with 1,500 cavalry.

“I went at once to a livery stable and asked for a horse and buggy. At 4 o’clock in the morning they brought to my house a rig —a two-wheeled sulky—and in the shafts was a mustang and three men were holding him, for he was really a wild horse just taken from the herd. It was the only horse they could give me.

“I got up in the seat, took the reins, the men let go and the mustang plunged off.  Away I went behind that wild horse toward Keokuk, forty miles to the eastward. For fourteen miles he tore over the road, over the hills, up and down and through streams with never a let up; a hundred escapes from imminent wreck we had.

“We approached the home of Mr. Bloom, a friend of mine. Here the road led down to a ravine and Mr. Bloom’s cattle filled the road, lying down. Straight down the road, galloped the horse, straight at the herd of cattle. One wheel struck a cow, the shock took the horse clean off his feet, threw him into the air and down he landed on his back in a ditch with the sulky on top of him. I was flung twenty feet.

“But good fortune was with me. The sulky was not broken, and better still, the horse was still full of life and his legs uninjured. Swiftly, Mr. Bloom and his hired man helped me to hitch up again, and away we went, the horse wilder than ever. At the Pittsburgh ford he plunged through the Des Moines River, half a mile wide, and a mile and a half further, came to the town of Keosauqua. Here I tried to stop him but he would not stop. I guided him around the square in the center of the town. Round and round he raced three times, and then a crowd of the town’s people stopped him and I got out. I left him there for good. I took the train for Keokuk and reached that place.

“I notified the authorities of Keokuk to barricade their streets against the coming of Martin Green. One of the railroad officials came to me with a bill of lading showing 1,000 guns in transit, shipped by the war department to Col. Grenville M. Dodge at Council Bluffs, for the regiment he was raising there and these guns had just arrived in Keokuk and were about to go out on the west bound train. I felt that Providence was with me. I seized the guns and the train.

“I found the ammunition which General Fremont had sent, and by more wonderful good fortune, the cartridges were exactly right for the caliber of the guns.

“Immediately I gave 100 of the guns to Gen. Belknap, afterwards secretary of war, and 100 to H. J. Sample. I got on the train with 800 guns. At Athens, Mo., Col. David Moore was in camp with 300 loyal Missourians armed with a few shotguns. I gave him 200 rifles. A few miles further up, I left 100 guns with Capt. O. H. P. Scott.  At Keosauqua I left 200 guns. The other 300 guns I took to Ottumwa, hired a wagon, and hauled them to Bloomfield, my home, where three companies were promptly raised, and I immediately started back to Keokuk.

“On the way, I received a message from Col. Moore telling me Green’s forces were advancing on him and a battle was momentarily expected. A special train brought a detachment to his aid.

“Moore had barricaded the streets of Athens. Green attacked him but the resistance was so strong that Green retired. For two days my Home Guard continued to arrive at Athens. Then Col. Moore, in command, followed the rebels into Missouri. They never came back to Iowa.

“Having seized the guns without warrant—ordinarily a great offense—I started to get my action legalized. Gen. Fremont said to me, ‘You have rendered a very important service. You have shown fitness for command. Next day he appointed me Colonel and authorized me to raise a regiment of cavalry. In ten days I had 1,100 men in camp, mustered in as the Third Iowa Cavalry.

“But I have never ceased to wonder what would have happened if that wild mustang had not landed on his back in the soft ditch and thus saved his legs to carry me on.”

And that’s how Moore’s men at Athens became better armed than the  much larger force of Confederates and how a little battle in a now-gone northeast Missouri town stopped a Confederate invasion of Iowa.

The battle was the beginning of a distinguished military and civilian life for Bussey. He was Grant’s chief of cavalry at Vicksburg and commanded Sherman’s advance guard at Jackson Mississippi.  He became a wartime Major-General in 1865. For a short time after the war he was a commission merchant in St. Louis and New Orleans before becoming a lawyer. During the Harrison administration (1889-1893) he was Assistant Secretary of the Interior.  At the time of the interview he was described as “a spare, medium-size man, showing few marks of his long life of great activity, he is mentally keen and keeps the dry humor of an Iowa pioneer.”

He died in 1915 at the age of 81.  He and his wife are buried in Arlington National Cemetery under an imposing monument.

The Paul Revere of the west, he was—except that, unlike Revere, he was propelled by a wild mustang and he completed his mission.  And he changed the history of the Civil War west of the Mississippi.

(The picture is from History of Iowa from the Earliest Times to the Beginning of the Twentieth Century (1903)

We will make our own futures

(Carl Sandburg, Lincoln biographer and Prairie Poet, wrote his epic prose poem The People, Yes 85 years ago. It’s one of America’s great statements about who we are. Read it sometime. Early in the work, Sandburg reflects:

The people so often sleepy, weary, enigmatic,
is a vast huddle with many units saying:
“I earn my living.
I make enough to get by
and it takes all my time.
If I had more time
I could do more for myself
and maybe for others.
I could read and study
and talk things over
and find out about things.
It takes time.
I wish I had the time.”

A quarter-century before Sandburg’s poem was published, Dr. Frank Crane suggested that wishing for more time to “do more for myself and maybe for others” was futile. Get on with the doing, he seems to say.  If you want to lift the language of 1912 to the language of 2021, you might want to substitute “humankind” for “man,” as Dr. Crane asserts—)

MAN CARVES HIS OWN DESTINY

Doing clears the mind. Physical activity has a peculiar luminous effect on the judgment. The soundest views of life come not from the pulpit or the professional chair but from the workshop.

To saw a plank or to nail down a shingle, to lay a stone square or to paint a house evenly, to run a locomotive, or to raise a good crop of corn, somehow reacts upon the intelligence, reaching the very inward essential cell of wisdom; provided always the worker is brave, not afraid of his own conclusions, and does not hand his thinking over to some guesser with a large bluff.

Doing makes religion. All religions that is of any account is what we thrash out with our own hands, suffer out with our own hearts, and find out with our own visions.

Doing creates faith. Doubt comes from Sundays and other idle hours. The only people who believe the Ten Commandments are those who do them. Those who believe the world is better are they that are trying to make it grow better.

Doing brings joy. The sweetest of joys is the joy of accomplishment. Make love and you will feel love. Quit making love and you will doubt love. Be kind, steadily and persistently, and you will believe in kindness. Be unclean and you will soon sneer at anybody’s claim to virtue.

So a man has his own destiny, his own creed, his own internal peace, his own nobility in his hands—literally in his hands. For all the worthwhile wisdom and goodness you have in your head and heart was cooked up from your hands.

Talktalktalktalktalk

You might think that somebody who has endured the number of filibusters your faithful observer has endured would join those who think they should be banned or in some way limited.

You’d be wrong.

Those who favor limits of some kind appear to miss a point.  A limited filibuster is not a filibuster.

Filibusters are not intended to be entertaining although there were some of those that your observer endured that had their moments—the night then-state senator Sam Graves started reading the names of the high school graduates from his district and started over every time he was interrupted.

Or when Senator Marie Chappelle-Nadal decided to make a filibuster an audience-participation event and invited people listening to the Senate’s internet feed to send her text messages suggesting topics, or asking questions she could answer.

Then there was Senator Matt Bartle’s one-man version of Jimmy Stewart’s imitation of one in “Mr. Smith goes to Washington.”  He lasted something like 17 hours, taking advantage of quorum calls to dash off to the bathroom while the Senate was idle and waiting for enough Senators to get off their office couches and sleepily go into the chamber just long enough to be counted “present.”

I can recall several of them that lasted so long I had to leave the Senate press table to go to the Missourinet newsroom to do the morning newscasts.  At least a couple of times I listened to the internet feed while I was putting the newscasts together.  I think there might even have been a couple of times when I returned to the Capitol and the senators were still burning legislative time off the clock.

They’re most effective in the final weeks when time is running short and the debate calendars are running long with bills that are ready for final votes. The House limits the amount of time someone can hold the floor so the Missouri House doesn’t have much chance of having all that fun.  But the Senate has no such limits.

And it never should.  Nor should Congress.

The filibuster can be a futile time of railing against the inevitable—as can happen when one party has a two-thirds majority and therefore doesn’t need to compromise on anything and can just wait until the minority, or part of the minority, chews up precious hours of debate time and finally runs out of energy.

They’re most effective when the numbers are closer.  Many filibusters are resolved when opposing sides finally decide to find some compromises that previously had been rejected and start talking about lessening the most objectionable parts of the legislation.  But when one party is so dominant that it doesn’t need to compromise on anything, compromise is hard to see

When that happens, the participants in a filibuster hope some members of the other party will start seeing the time their bills needed to gain passage is disappearing, and they start pressuring their majority colleagues to stop this thing so there will be a chance for passage of other bills before the final adjournment.

As unpleasant as most of them are, as many times as this veteran observer of them realized hours of his life were disappearing in the ocean of blather and boredom (the same hours would disappear more pleasantly at home and in bed), they are an important part of government, a protection against steamrolling the minority or a faction of the majority.  When you have no other weapons; when you are heavily outnumbered even by members of your own party; when you want to kill an abhorrent idea or even one that could be better if the overbearing sponsor doesn’t want anybody tampering with his precious idea—-talk becomes the only weapon.

Filibusters are awful things.  But today’s pest is tomorrow’s ally. The tables might turn and those who are forced to listen today might be the talkers tomorrow and it’s important to recognize that possible reciprocity.  Respecting in others the tool you might need to use someday yourself is important.

They work better when the competing parties respect each other enough to be willing to work out their differences.  But when the two sides are so antagonistic that talk is impossible, extensive talk becomes even more essential.

Filibusters are part of our democratic-republic form of government.  They might not be nice but they’re essential.

Sometimes they result in talking a bill to death.  Other times they talk a bill into a better life.

Tools, after all, often have dual purposes.  And the filibuster is an important tool in our political system.

A Study of Fear

The uncertainties of political and economic life are leaving some of us fearful. A litany of the fears we might have would be a long one. Long before President Franklin Roosevelt warned us about fearing fear, Dr. Frank Crane defined it in terms of positive fear and negative far when he wrote about—-)

TWO KINDS OF FEAR

There are two kinds of fear: centripetal and centrifugal. One draws me to you; the other pushes me from you.

The noblest quality of love is accompanied by fear.

No man loves his wife duly unless he fears to do would bring upon him her contempt or aversion.

No woman loves her husband as she should unless there are pits and fear all around her love, things she is afraid to do.

You have noticed how, when a young fellow falls in love, he is full of tremblings and dreads. He is as frightened as a child in the dark. “Will she scorn me for this? And what will she think of me for doing that?”

A proper self-respect is not possible without self-fear. George Washington,  in the cherry tree episode, was afraid to tell a lie; afraid not of punishment, but of himself.

This is Tennyson’s meaning in the lines:

Dowered with the hate of hate; the scorn of scorn,

The love of love.

Many persons fall into grievous error by not understanding this. They think all fear is weakness, and timidity is ignoble. Hence they imagine they should be bold and fearless toward their own conscience, and have no timor of their own modesty.

It should be remembered that the very finest quality of courage, and the keen edge of true love, is pure fear. The bravest soldier is afraid to run, the noblest lover is afraid to be unworthy.

These two kinds of fear are brought out in the Bible. On the one hand “the fear of the Lord” is spoken of as a most commendable thing, the fountain of morals, “the beginning of wisdom.”  On the other hand, we are told that “perfect love casteth out fear,” and we are not to fear God but to “boldly approach.”

Which is easily understood if we perceive the two qualities of fear. That which is commended is that sensitive, trembling fear which is always the little sister to a great and pure love.

That which is condemned is the craven fear which has no advice for us but to urge us to flee.

Centipetal is the other side of love.

Centrifugal fear is the other side of hate or repugnance.

If I love you I am afraid of you. If I hate you I fear you. But they are two different feelings.

The love-fear is that of the lover toward his beloved, the child toward his mother, the soul toward God; the hate-fear is that of the criminal toward the policeman; of class against class; of feuds and grudges, of the life that loves evil toward the Lord of life.

DOING GOOD

(We rarely edit Dr. Crane’s thoughts from more than a century ago.  But today we are taking the liberty of updating his thoughts.  This entry is from early May, 1912, almost a decade before women gained the right to vote, at time when it remained a man’s world, if you will. But Dr. Crane’s insights are valid for all and in this instance we have changed his men-only references to reflect timeless truths for those of us who live in much different times from the day this column first appeared.  Call it political correctness if you wish but as you read it, appreciate its value for all.  Dr. Crane originally called it, “The Men Who Make Good.’  That was then, this is now, which is why we call it—-_

THE ONES WHO MAKE GOOD

We are full of hidden forces.

In a crisis, we discover powers within ourselves, powers that have lain dormant, secret reserves of ability, only waiting occasion to leap forth.

You can tell just what weight a bar of iron will bear, just what weight a locomotive can pull, and just how much liquid a glass vessel will hold; but you cannot tell how much responsibility a man can carry without stumbling; nor how much grief a woman’s heart can suffer without breaking.

The human being is the X in the problem of nature. It is the unknown quantity of the universe.

The frightened boy can jump a fence he would not have attempted in his sober senses. A frail woman in the desire to save her child becomes as strong as Sandow.* A soldier battle-mad acquires the strength of ten. Get a meek, timid little man at bay and he may fight like a tiger.

The one thing nobody knows is what can be done in a pinch.

The forceful natures are those that depend on this hidden nerve force. These are the pioneers, to whom the dangers from unknown beasts and savages is a welcome fillip. They taste “that stern joy that warriors feel In foeman worthy of their steel.” **

These are the overcomers…

They do not know what they can do. They only know that when the thing is to be done, possible or impossible, safe or deadly, there is some strength that surges up within them that meets and measures with the task.

Panic only claims them, clears their brain, and steadies their hand while others go mad.

Defeat only rouses in them a dogged strength.

Slanders, sneers, and curses cannot drive them from their work; success or praise does not make them dizzy.

They are not prudent. They are not wise. They are not skilled or trained. They simply make good wherever they are put.

There is no recipe for producing such souls. The choicest heredity cannot breed them, schools cannot prepare them, religion cannot form them.

They are the ones who rise to the occasion. They are unafraid. They are the ones that lose themselves in the thing to be done, and do it, and care not for heaven or hell, or their own life.

The supply of such has never equaled the demand. Every business enterprise wants them. Every profession cries for them.

They are not heroes. They are better…

When you meet them, they seem commonplace, often shy and awkward.

But don’t be deceived. They are the only really great ones. They are the ones who make good.

*Eugen Sandow, Prussian bodybuilder and showman (1867-1925) won numerous strongman competitions and is credited with organizing the world’s first major body-building competition, held in London in 1901.

**Walter Scott, the English poet, in his classic 1810 poem, The Lady of the Lake spoke of:                                                                 “Respect was mingled with surprise                                                                                        And the stern joy that warriors feel                                                                                           In foemen worthy of their steel.”