Eisenhower for President - 2008

I missed my chance to vote for Dwight David Eisenhower in 1954 and 1958, and I am not going to make that mistake this year. The saying goes, "the only good politician is a dead politician," and this year I am throwing my support behind that timeless truth. Join with me in voting for Dwight "Ike" Eisenhower to be the 44th president of The United States of America.

This is no joke. I floated this idea by my roommate in January as we were discussing the abysmal choices that our collective, democratic wisdom of the last two hundred twenty-one years had offered us. Dane announced that he would vote for Mao. I recommended that voting for his cat (of course, not the Chinese dictator), though it would certainly be a protest against what he does not want in a president, would say nothing about what he does want. So I offered, "what about Ike?"

Ike is one of only five presidents never to have sought public office before seeking the presidency (the others being Zachary Taylor, Ulysses S. Grant, William H. Taft, and Herbert Hoover). In the parlance of our times, that would make him a "Washington Outsider.," though he served in various staff posts in Washington between the two world wars. In 1948, both parties sought to nominate him, but he declined until 1952, when he ran under the Republican ticket.

Prior to his presidency, Eisenhower was best known for his role as Supreme Commander of the Allied Forces, a post that involved the planning and execution of the battle of Normandy on D-Day, as well as the continued push against Germany, until the fall of Berlin. Yet he had no bloodlust, as is proven by his aggressive push to end the Korean conflict.

President Eisenhower believed that, should America face another attack on its soil, the attack would likely strike a major metropolitan area. The President's Interstate Highway system helped to ensure that, in such an event, the citizens could evacuate and the troops could arrive quickly.

Furthermore the 1950s saw the spread of communism as a threat to American security. In some cases, there was good reason to believe this. Rather than the pre-emptive strike, accepted by the Bush Doctrine, Eisenhower insisted that it is America's right to respond with force against nations that attacked America's interests.

Eisenhower was a staunch conservative, yet he saw the value of Roosevelt's New Deal polcies. He maintained those programs that were still in effect after Truman's administration and expanded Social Security to cover ten million additional Americans. Furthermore he insisted that tax levels be maintained until revenue met expenditures.

Nearly forty years after his death, it's safe to say that President Eisenhower is free from corruption. And I wonder whether a man who has died can ever really be swayed by special interest groups.

It would be a mistake to say that Eisenhower is free from critical inspection. Though he signed into law the civil rights acts of 1957 and 1960, and though he took control of the Arkansas National Guard and opposed its governor to the integrate Arkansas' schools, this is often not seen as enough. Though he worked behind the scenes to bring about the downfall of Sen. Joe McCarthy, he is criticized for not publicly decrying him. There were recessions during his term, as well.

The reason why I am voting for Ike is that I value experience that is put to use and not put on like a costume. I value change in action, and not just in word. John McCain, the hero, is not the John McCain of 2008. And what kind of change can Barak Obama show to the American people that he has accomplished in his lifetime? From John McCain, I have seen a complete lack of respect for his opponent -- a true break-down in the honor to which his congressional medal testifies -- and from Barak Obama, we have seen a man who would not scruple to throw Gen. Wesley Clark (like Eisenhower, a former Commander of NATO) under a bus to save points in an opinion poll.

In policy speeches, we hear nothing new. In demagoguery, we hear what we deserve. This is why I am voting for Dwight Eisenhower: if I am given only the choice between two evils -- two wrongs -- I am going to choose what I believe is right, even if that means I have to choose that man or woman from the ranks of the dead.

Doc

Doc: a eulogy
6/6/08
By Robert Clark

Doc is dead, and when my mother called me last Sunday to say that his funeral had been that day, I was surprised that it had not happened a lot sooner. I was surprised that I hadn’t left behind the loop from which I would have heard the sad fate of this sick, old man years prior. And yet, the source was the same as it always has been: a man from my childhood who calls whenever something momentous happens to one of my old scout leaders.

I met Doc in September of 1993. My church’s chapter had sponsored me to go to San Leandro, CA and take a first aid and CPR course. Commander Bob, the same man who would call my mother nearly fifteen years later to announce Doc’s passing – call my mother, because I will always be a boy to him, and boys don’t have numbers – he decided that I was mature enough to participate in an all-day course and earn a merit badge.

Doc’s legs were stilts on which he would rock, from one to the other, to scoot across the room. In the years to follow, he would carry a cane or a walking stick, but I don’t remember any such thing that first day. I didn’t know what Agent Orange was, and I had never heard of it, but I saw Agent Orange shimmy to the chair and squint at us through thick glasses.

He taught us how to dress wounds, sling arms and legs, and treat shock as though we were preparing for service as combat medics, but I have never treated anything but a deep cut, and that was my own. He gave us more information than was probably healthy for an eleven-year-old boy to take about the kinds of wounds the Red Cross won’t tell people about. But he was passionate about it, and in the years to follow, I would get to watch Doc spend time with hundreds of boys who loved him for his quirkiness, especially in light of his determination despite his obvious and constant pain.

Some of my scout leaders taught me important skills in leadership or important outdoorsmanship skills. I am not sure what I learned from Doc. I got a splinter once, and after removing it, he told me to watch carefully for signs of a blood infection. One very late night, suffering some mild hypothermia, I roused Doc for some help. He gave me an antacid. Around the campfire, he would tell fascinating stories that I could not bring myself to believe.

Teaching was beyond doc, and the friendly atrocities of the war had, by the time I was a teenager, put medical expertise out of his reach as well. He loved. I haven’t seen him for five or six years, but I believe that love was never beyond his reach. You couldn’t miss the wizened old man, and insofar as he loved, he was an image. This shrunken, bent, abused old man on a cane was a monolith.

I will miss him. God bless you, Doc.

Animals and Prince Caspian

"There is death in the camera"
-C.S. Lewis, "On Story"

When it comes to films adapted from novels, I have an open mind, but I reserve the right to cling to what I enjoyed about my experiences while reading the book. This book is the supreme reference from which lit geeks quote and cross check for hours after a movie. "It didn't happen that way in the book;" "The book never mentions that," etc. Truth be told, I do not think that it is fair to expect the movie to be the book. They are different art forms, and they usually have different creative talent behind them. The movie should be considered on its own merits, and the lit geeks should be content to commiserate among themselves and not among people who would otherwise enjoy the movies.

That being said, it is fair to compare the merits of a movie against the merits of a book, especially when the movie claims to be inspired by said book. For instance, I think that it was a critical mistake for Peter Jackson to end his Two Towers at the Battle of Helms' Deep as it undercuts the climax of the entire work, which we do not see until Return of the King. On the other hand, I find Jackson's Gollum, enacted by Randy Serkis, more interesting in many ways than that of Tolkien's Gollum. If we criticize Jackson for not following the plot of the book, we should only do so because it mars Jackson's story.

Watching Prince Caspian, I am not so troubled by the assault on Miraz' castle or the rather pointless and somewhat disturbing romance between Caspian and Susan. I admit to cringing when noble Repicheep tells a squirrel to "shut-up" for its lack of strategic prowess, and the necromancy of the White Witch makes me uncomfortable. If these are the kinds of characters and situations Walt Disney Studios wants to see, then so be it, but let's make sure that we understand where this is coming from.

Walt Disney Studios wants to make money, and they want to make a lot of it. The Harry Potter series continues to do well, and Disney already made a fortune off The Lord of The Rings by virtue of their daughter company, Touchtone Pictures. Disney sees a series, and they have to keep it going. What they do not have to do, as Lord of The Rings and Harry Potter teach us, is please Narnia's faithful and careful readers, particularly those who are more interested in the philosophical aspects. Nevertheless, one scene and one line in the movie makes the whole movie and the whole series a sham, and it is because of a very important philosophical aspect.

We actually do not need to read the book for this line to be a problem. It would smack us in the face if it didn't happen so quickly. Still, the book provides an interesting contrast, so I will refer to it presently. In the meantime, observe professor Cornelius' study. Note Badger's understanding of the significance of Queen Susan's horn. Even Nikabrik's more than half-hearted longing for the days of the White Witch (days of which he had no direct knowledge) speak to the fact that the source of strength for all true Narnians is their tradition. Badger is one of our strongest characters because he does not forget. Trumpkin is one of our most empathetic characters because he clings to the hope that the tradition inspires, and Repicheep is noble because he remembers that he has his voice as a gift to the mice that gnawed through Aslan's bonds so long ago. Peter is not king by hasty writ, treachery, or intrigue, but by conquest and gift for the sake of great deeds - deeds that are commemorated in Narnian tradition.

In the book, we find the kings and queens making their way back to Caspian with Trumpkin. All at once, a bear attacks Lucy and is shot dead by the dwarf. Susan hesitated shooting the bear because she did not know if it were a talking bear. Trumpkin comments, "That's the trouble of it [...] when most of the beasts have gone enemy and gone dumb [...] you never know, and you never wait to see" (emphasis mine).

A few lines later, Lucy comments, "[w]ouldn't it be dreadful if someday, in our own world, men started going wild inside, like the animals here, and still looked like men, so that you'd never know which were which?"

For a child who was spirited away to the country a year prior because of the bombing raids on London, this statement is ironic. Nevertheless, it only works as an ironic statement because most of us know that this very thing happens to man all the time, especially during times of horror such as developed during World War II. So, why did this bear have to die, as it were?

In commenting on the the creatures of Tolkien's Lord of The Rings, Lewis says, "[t]he imagined beings have their insides on the outside; they are visible souls" ("Tolkien's Lord of The Rings"). Thus it is with Lewis' characters, except where it comes to humans. There is no complexity to the talking animals: they are the characters you expect, because they are the animals you see. Only man is complex, and we can hope that the best man is a combination of the graces bestowed upon centaurs and mice, yet devoid of the werewolfishness of werewolves and the haggary of the hags.

Thus to kill a talking bear is a dreadful thing because one has not just killed an animal, but a sympathetic personality, or a man with claws and fur. But to kill a bear that has forgotten how to talk is to kill a man who has become an animal - it is to kill a Narnian who has forgotten that she is a Narnian because she has forgotten her traditions. She has "gone enemy and gone dumb." To forget Narnian traditions is to forget that one was invaded and is occupied by one's invader. The Resistance can still claim freedom in their hearts and minds, but those who forget become utter slaves. After all, if one forgets who one is, how can one claim self-possesion? The most tragic part is that it is the gift given to every Narnian that makes it possible for one to forget Narnian traditions and to become a dumb beast. It is a matter of free will.

This is not the Narnia of the movie. In the movie, after listening to Susan's anxiety, Trumpkin says, "if you're treated like a dumb animal long enough, you start to act like one." And it's over. Narnian tradition can really be the "fairy tale" or the "superstition" that Miraz talks about because, given enough time and enough political repression, all Narnians will inevitably be subdued in heart and mind. The Narnian mind is not, and never was free, but subject to the external forces that tried to influence it. There was never any choice, simply desperate resistance and an occasional lucky victory. Without freedom of the mind, one cannot trust tradition, which is passed down by memory. Therefore, we cannot blame Nikabrik for not trusting in Aslan.

Mea culpa

"I converted for the food," says my roommate as he wolfs down another bite of salmon during our annual fish luncheon, at our local parish. I know where he is coming from. I didn't become Orthodox for the amazing meals after church, but they certainly did not stand in my way. There is an added advantage if one is a skinny bachelor in that every old lady in the church wants to send me home with leftovers. It would be inhospitable for me to decline.

At our parish in Modesto (St. James'), most of the meals were standard, Californian fare. It was all very good, but it was familiar. Since moving to Portland (St. George's), we have discovered the wonders of Lebanese cuisine. The after-church lunch is not as regular, most Sundays providing an assortment of pastries, bagels, or cookies, but once in a while some meticulous old woman decides to bring something amazing. I don't have names for everything, or really for anything except kibbeh, usually a meat-based patty (it doesn't sound like much, but I'd give you my big toe for some of that right now). I usually just see something rolled-up or folded-up and I grab it. There is almost always a crust to it, so biting into it is like biting into a soft fortune cookie.

Living in Portland provides an array of cuisines from which to choose. There are, of course, your all-American joints, Italian restaurants, and French restaurants, but add to that the Lebanese, Vietnamese, Thai, vegan, Cuban, and (I am told) Eritrean, and you have enough to keep you busy. We lack a lot of good, Mexican options, but I live a block from the best Mexican stand in town, so it doesn't matter to me. While here, I have eaten everything from squid to alligator to Che Guevara (a vegan burrito), and I have loved it all.

This evening, I was standing in church, waiting for things to get started. An older gentleman, Rajid, walks up to me and starts shooting the breeze in his broken English (not bad for this, his third language after Arabic and French). He finally says to me, "we should get lunch together - you and me. What is your favorite food? We will have your very favorite food. What is it?"

"Actually, I like all kinds of food," which was a little untrue if you factor-in British food. "All kinds!"

"No, no, but what is your favorite?"

"Well, really, I love friend chicken."

I can't reproduce, in words, the heartbreak that drained the smile from his face.

"But it is so simple," he replied.

"What can I say? I come from a family of southerners."

"Maybe someday you will learn to like Lebanese food."

Books that Mean Something

Today is Lazarus Saturday, which means that it is the two-year anniversary (liturgically), since becoming Orthodox. It is also the day that my church does a deep clean. We do not have a janitorial staff. Rather, every week, certain families rotate the responsibility of doing some simple work around the church, after liturgy (mass, if you prefer). Lazarus Saturday, however, is spring-cleaning. Today, several of us got together to celebrate the liturgy, and commemorate Christ's raising of Lazarus, and then we scrubbed, swept, dusted, mopped, and sweated a bit. My job consisted of changing the light-bulbs in the chandeliers, and then dusting all the high places with a webster, which was mounted on a very long, extendable pole.

Having done this, I asked my priest if there was anything more to do. So he had me join him in the sacristy to scrub down some counter-tops. While there, I mentioned that I was reminded today, during the reading of today's gospel (John 11:1-45), of a verse that impressed me soon after I graduated from college. A good friend of mine, and one of my professors, sat me down in his office one day and told me how important it was for me to compile a list of books that I must read before I die. He helped me, of course. Yet he faltered over one book: A Prayer for Owen Meaney, by John Irving. He said that he hates recommending this book because he is afraid that it will not have the same impact on his friends that it does on him. Yet he mentioned it to me, and I put it on my list.

Make no mistake. This is an amazing book, and yet I am not sure everybody should read it. I think that it is a book to be read by people who have felt the pain, or are feeling the pain of desiring a genuine faith, but being unable to find it within one's own context. This book will not teach a person who to be a better Christian, but it reminds us of the beginning point of our faith - that moment between belief and ownership.

In the gospel reading, Jesus tells a grieving Martha, "your brother will rise again." In response, she explains that she knows all about that; that she understands that someday there will be a resurrection of the dead. I imagine a little bit of frustration in her voice as she says this, reciting a lesson, the object of which is far off and obscure. Then Jesus says those words that should be remembered during every funeral service: "I am the resurrection and the life. He who abideth in me, though he die, yet shall he live, and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die." This is the theme from Irving's book that stood out to me during that first summer in Modesto, five years ago. I didn't realize the scriptural context, then. Owen Meaney read it out of The Book of Common Prayer (a clerk at a local, Christian bookstore asked me for the name of the author, once).

I mentioned this to my priest - how I had read the verse in Owen Meaney, but didn't make the connection right away, but that I had re-discovered it when I read Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment. When I read it, this last summer, the book did not make much sense to me until Sonya, the young woman sold into prostitution by her father read to Rodya, the tortured killer, this very same gospel passage. I remarked to my priest that I have never run across a Russian novel that was not a winner.

After joking about the possibility that climate might be a factor, he said that he believed it is their Orthodox faith that allows them to produce literature with such richness (He said much more, but out of fairness to him, I will confine myself to my own thoughts). A light went on for me, because it has always bothered me when I saw Christian writers and musical talents copying the style of a "secular" artist. Our faith is the ultimate faith, so why isn't our art at the fore?

I'll leave that discussion for you to have with yourself, and I will keep the rest of the details of my conversation a secret for the time being. But now I have new reason to stew on John Keats' conclusion to his "Ode on a Grecian Urn:"

Truth is beauty; beauty, truth.
That is all ye know on earth,
And all ye need to know.

-Rob