November 30, 2016--Bereft of Better Angels

From our town in Florida, a close friend called, saying he wanted to talk off the record.

Many of the people we know in Delray are among a dying breed--moderate Republicans. He, on the other hand, is a Democrat and a rather liberal one.

"What's with the off-the-record business?"

"I've been struggling with something that I'm a little embarrassed to talk about. To confess."

"I promise, without your permission, I will not tell anyone what's on your mind."

"Not write about it if I ask you not to?"

"That too. So shoot."

"I've been struggling to understand why this recent election has caused so much anger. How friends and families are being split apart, including any number of people I know who opted not to join their families for Thanksgiving. Something they've never done, including when there have been other divisive elections or during the war in Vietnam which caused great angst and polarization."

"I too know quite a few people who are no longer talking to each other. Including with me!"

"I'm stymied, though I think I'm beginning to figure out some of it."

"I'm listening."

"First, since I know you have been trying to understand the undercurrents that have been affecting so much of our recent politics, I'm curious to hear what you think. Why so many are furious about the results and not willing to talk dispassionately about them. Or, if not moderately, at least civilly."

"I think it's largely because of all the caustic things Trump has said. More than his position on the issues, though some of them are so extreme that many can't force themselves to take them seriously. More, it's because of the horrible, unforgivable things he said about women, Muslims, handicapped people, immigrants, and just yesterday how people who burn the American flag should be jailed for a year and perhaps lose their citizenship. Also . . . "

"These are the obvious reasons," my friend cut me off, "I'm sensing something deeper must be going on to produce so much rage, to propel so many to the point that they won't talk with people with whom they disagree. To end lifelong relationships. Are there examples from history where divisiveness of this kind has been generated?"

"Nothing quite like this," I said, "Though there was the election of Lincoln. Obviously, in the aftermath, the Civil War, things were much more than just divisive. But we're talking slavery. There's nothing thankfully equivalent today. Still, I agree, the level of residual animosity this time is almost unprecedented. So, once more, what do you think is going on that you're embarrassed to even talk privately about?"

"To illustrate, I'll use myself as an example. This, the very confidential part, was triggered by the attack Monday at Ohio State University." He lowered his voice, "How I immediately thought of it as an act of terrorism and suspected before knowing that a Muslim extremist was the perpetrator. And of course that turned out to be true."

"I suspect many, maybe most had similar thoughts. I'll confess that I did and thus wasn't . . ."

"This is just the first layer of what I felt."

"Go on."

"I also thought we should send them all back to where they came from."

"Them?"

"Muslims," he whispered. "I'm ashamed to admit that I felt this way. I like to think about myself as a tolerant person who relishes America's diversity and openness. Look, I myself am the son of immigrants. My parents are from Hungary. They came here as refugees when the Soviet Union had brutal control of their country."

"I know that but I think you're giving yourself too hard a time. In moments of crisis we, all of us, are prone to feel and say things we'd later like to take back."

"Now you're getting to the worst part. I don't want to take these feelings back." He paused to let that sink in, "The crisis such as it was is thankfully over but I still feel the same way. Send them all back."

"I can only imagine how hard it is for you to tell me this."

"What about you? You're OK with our open approach to welcoming refugees, even from countries where large parts of the population may wish us harm?"

It took me a few moments to reply. "If I'm honest in weak moments I have some of the same feelings. I won't call them thoughts. And . . ."

"And that might be among the reasons many are so frustrated and angry. I'm talking now not about the so-called Trump people but liberals like me. . .  and you."

"This feels as if it's heading in an intense direction."

"Well, it is," my friend said, "Because it could be that at least some progressiveness, maybe more than we feel comfortable acknowledging, in their heart-of-hearts agree with some of Trump's most corrosive rhetoric and some of the nasty positions he's staked out, pandering to his base and, worst of all, as I examine my soul, resonating with me and some other seemingly tolerant people as well."

"I haven't thought about this enough," I confessed, "Though some of this rings true. And if it is even only partly true it is very disturbing and something we had better get a handle on. How at least in part most of us share some of these bigoted and nativist feelings. Hum."

"Hum, indeed. And this may explain some of the fierce anger people are feeling about the election. Part of the reason so many are realizing that the differences are irreconcilable is because of how Trump has ripped the scab off of what so many, including some liberals, are feeling deep within themselves--dare I say both of us as well. That they're angry, we're angry in substantial part because of what is being exposed about ourselves to ourselves."

He paused again. "What does feeling this way say about us? Maybe that we're less tolerant than we pride ourselves in being. And this makes us as angry about ourselves as we are with Trump. We are being forced to face the stark reality that we are bereft of better angels."

"Which means," I said, "that many, too many of us have a little bit of Trump hiding inside ourselves." That literally made me nauseous. "If true, though I promised not to tell anyone about this, since I think it's important to grapple with, I want to think about it some more and then maybe write about it."

"Think away, type away," he said. "And be sure to keep your head down."

Ohio State University

October 31, 2016-- Midcoast: Cultural Profiling

It was the morning after the third debate and the diner was buzzing with political talk.

Buzzing so much that my new hearing aids were overwhelmed so I resumed an old habit--pretending to hear and understand and thus doing a lot of nodding and smiling. Most of it inappropriate and of a non sequitur sort.

Before I tuned out I picked up that, as usual at the diner, opinion was split pretty much down the middle with half the folks liking how Hillary turned to her own advantage Trump's jibe, "She's a nasty woman," while the other half agreed that she is in fact nasty.

Concentrating on my French toast, I enjoyed the sounds of passionate talk I could not fully make out. I thought I need to ask my audiologist to make an adjustment he had indicated was just for this kind of situation--being able to hear someone across the table in an otherwise noisy restaurant.

I was sitting by the window and to distract myself turned to enjoy the rush of falling leaves when a mud-splashed SUV pulled up and out of it tumbled two very large couples. It was the first truly chilly morning and I was surprised to see that one of the men was not only wearing shorts--not uncommon among Mainers who when the seasons change dress for the previous one as if the best way to get through the summer heat or, more commonly, the icy winter is to assert mind over matter--not only was he wearing shorts but a t-shirt and sandals without socks. Everything, including a full-brimmed hat, totally emblazoned with camouflage. I realized that the hunting season was to begin in just a few days and it looked as if he couldn't wait.

From their outfits and deportment it appeared that all three of his companions would be happily joining him while stalking moose in the North Woods.

Oh god, I noticed as they stepped in, the only empty table was pressed close to ours which meant they would be sitting right next to us.

They were Second Amendment people for sure as well as, I was certain, Trump supporters. Even if I couldn't hear every word that I was sure was about to be broadcast by them, after the debate, where I suspected Trump did himself some good, I wasn't into listening to snarky political boasting.

So I took up the pace, indicating to Rona that I was wanting to leave as soon as we finished our breakfast.

"Humans are the only species . . ." I heard from the hunter with the bare feet, ". . . who do so." I couldn't hear much more and thus had no context in which to fit this. I thought he was also sounding like a Fundamentalist and was talking about the uniqueness of human religion. I could take a pass on that too.

"I never thought of that," one of the women said. I assumed not his wife who I suspected from him had heard it all and then some.

"It's true," he said.

Then the other man puffed up in a red flannel shirt with Larry-King size black suspenders said something I thought about the "natural world." Creationists to boot, I thought.

By then things in the diner had settled down to a murmur and my new hearing aids took over and I was able to hear pretty much everything they said.

"It is fascinating to think about," the first hunter said, "How humans are the only animals--and we are animals," he said with a wink, "how in the animal kingdom we are the only species to produce more young than we need for survival."

"If true," his companion said, "Why is that significant?"

"It means that we pose a danger to the global ecosystem. We are the only animals who overpopulate. And I don't have to tell you of all people what the implications are."

Rona, who was listening in to another conversation, one about how Trump will surely lose after the Billy Bush hot-mike tape gets more widely aired, was stirring in her seat, having finished her food and signaling to me she was about to ask for the check.

"No hurry," I said, confusing her.

"I thought you were eager to leave," she whispered, glancing quickly at the hunters.

"No rush," I said, wanting to hear more about what else was unique to humans.

"What do you think," one of the neighboring women asked, noticing I was eavesdropping.

Caught in the act, I stammered, "Oh, well . . . not that much." I slipped back into my familiar non-sequitur mode.

"About what John said about the human species?"

"Oh, I suppose that's interesting. But, you know, I never thought about that. I mean, it could be that . . ."

She smiled. "John's a naturalist. A journalist. Writes a column that's picked up in lots of papers around the country. Show him your card, John."

I thought he must write for Hunters World or even Guns & Ammo.

He fished one out of his bulging wallet and handed it over. Below his name was "Environmental Storyteller."

"That's a new one to me," I said, beginning to feel upset with myself for what I had imagined him to be.

I looked again at his card and read so Rona could hear. By then she had tuned into our conversation--"Continual wanderer of the planet, observing in perpetual wonder."

As I read this the other man, "T.W," slid his card to me. It identified him as president of Silver Creek Media, through which he told me with a twinkle he published--pointing to how his work was described on the card--"words and stuff."

And with that, as quickly as they had arrived, the four of them stood up simultaneously and headed to their car.

So there Rona and I remained, thinking about how I had mischaracterized them. I said, confessing, "You know of course about racial profiling. How police and others periodically are accused of stopping African Americans because of their race or young Middle Eastern men who without evidence are thought to be potential terrorists."

"You didn't do that," Rona said, "They look more American--whatever that means--than you. So it wasn't racial."

"True," I said, "But I think I did something similarly upsetting--I culturally profiled them, as with racial profiling, on the basis of their appearance."

"You did in fact do that," Rona said.

"Which means I have more work to do on my consciousness."

"That's one of the things I love about being here," Rona said, "How often we get surprised like this. It's really a challenging place to live."

"Wouldn't want it any other way."

January 6, 2015--Snowbriding: Domestic Goddess

"You won't find anything there."

I was looking at the blackboard where breakfast specials were listed. "Why's that?" I asked the fellow sitting at a communal table with half a dozen pals who were clearly regulars at the Lamplighter, reputedly the best place for breakfast in Florence, South Carolina.

"If you look closely, you'll see they're only available Monday through Saturday. I know you haven't had your coffee yet, but today's Sunday." He said this more to his friends than to me and they slapped their considerable thighs in pleasure.

I muttered, "I know that." And then directly to him, trying to be friendly, "So what do you recommend? From what I read about this place I understand they make great biscuits."

"Read about it?' he said, mocking me. "I don't know anyone who'd do that or anyone here who could read what got written." His friends rocked back and forth as he toyed with me. "But to answer you--southern hospitality, you know--anything with country ham. And don't forget the grits. It'll cost you a little more--with the specials they give you a break on the price--but you won't get hurt too bad." He winked at me and grinned.

I rejoined Rona at our booth and told her the country ham was recommended. Looking at the menu she noticed that they served it and an egg on a biscuit. "I think I'll have that. And," she whispered, "It's only $1.90."

"We're not in New York anymore. And look, two eggs, country ham, grits, two biscuits, and coffee or tea, not on the special board, is $5.95."

"Including the coffee?"

I looked at the menu again, "That's right."

Both orders came in a flash and were delicious, Rona, who is an authority on grits declared the Lamplighter's the best she ever had.

Feeling pressure to get on the road--we had quite a distance to cover if we were to get to Ocala, Florida before dark--we asked for the ticket (how they refer to the bill or check in the South) and when it arrived Rona scrutinized it as if there was a problem. "It looks correct, but," she leaned toward me and whispered, "it's less than ten dollars. In fact less than nine. How do they make a living charging so little?"

The place was crowded. "Maybe," I offered, "they make it up in the volume. In nay case I think we pay at the cash register over by the communal table."

We gave it a wide berth and kept my eyes averted, but we weren't able to slip by unnoticed. "You folks live here?" the original fellow asked, obviously knowing from my accent that we were from up North.

"Nice of you to put it that way," Rona said. "That makes us feel welcomed about being here. But, no, we stopped here overnight on our way to Florida and heard this was the best breakfast place in town."

"And?"

"And you were right," I said, "about the country ham and--"

"And grits," Rona said, "About the best I ever had."

The boys at the table exchanged glances and head nods. "Where you from then?"

"From New York," I said.

"The city part of New York?"

"That part."

"Isn't Al Sharpton from there?" he asked, sounding ominous.

I muttered something, feeling eager to pay and get out of town.

"Didn't hear that," he said, twisting his finger in his ear. "Don't hear so good these days. You know, that little fella they put on TV all the time? Sharpton?"

"I think he is," Rona said. I glared at her. "You have a problem with that?"

Before he could answer, thankfully one of his buddies said, "I know someone from up there. He's in the honey business. Sells his honey at, whatcha call it, the green market."

"There's a big one right near where we live," Rona said, "At Union Square."

"That's the place," he said.

"Did you say Union Square?" the first fellow asked, again with a mocking tone. "For the soldiers who came down here during the War of Northern Aggression?"

"The very one," I said, feeling somehow bold. Why not, I thought. What could happen? It was 2015, not 1965, and we weren't in Selma.

"We're your people from?" he asked, sounding less threatening.

"From New York."

"I mean originally."

"Oh, my mother's from Poland and my father's family--"

"From a cabin in a forrest in Poland," Rona added. "But when they got to Ellis Island they changed the family name to Mooney. So she passed for being Irish. Which helped her when she began teaching. The school system at the time was all Irish." I had no idea where all this was coming from. Maybe the caffeine. But though things seemed calmed down still I wanted to pay and leave.

"The Irish, they're the ones built America," he said, again nodding toward his companions. "Then the slaves came and they did nothing."

"Slaves?" I gasped. "Did nothing? I think you got that all backwards and wrong. I mean the Irish--"

"I'm just playin' with you, that's all," he said with the beginnings of a smile.

Taking no chances, I said, "Gotta hit the road. Nice talking to you guys. Really. And thanks again for--"

"Everyone from New York has a beard and wears something black."

"Well I--"

"And has a beautiful women with him," the fellow in a Vietnam Vet cap sitting in a wheelchair at the end of table said with a nod of appreciation.

"Thank you kindly," Rona said, with an emerging South Carolina accent. "We've been married 30 years."

"Thirty-one," I corrected her.

"Thirty, thirty-one," he said, sounding all flirty, Why she don't even look thirty-one."

"That's right nice of you," Rona said.

"A domestic goddess," he gushed, "A regular domestic goddess. You sure are lucky, boy." He meant me.

"S'pose I am," I said. "S'pose I am."

We paid and drove west to get back onto I-95.

"I like that," Rona said after a while. I knew what she was referring to.

May 7, 2014--NY, NY: A Mirror to Nature

He came at us from out of the shadows behind Cooper Union where we had just been at a public discussion between Colm Toibin, Francine Prose, and Salman Rushdie. About literature and freedom and art and truth and rebellion. And worry about the shrinking audience for serious literature. "Only old farts like me will remain," Salman said with an ironic smile.

So we weren't prepared for what felt like an imminent assault, or at least pressure to give him street money, while still with our minds on Toibin and Yates, Lady Gregory and Easter 1916 in Dublin.

From the shadows he seemed darker and more muscular than at first. And taller, towering above my six-foot-three. Even as racist as it may have been to stereotype him, I shivered with fear.

I moved the three of us along, hoping to merge with the crowd ahead bunched up waiting for the light to change. Safety in a crowd, I thought.

Before we could get to safety, he reached toward us. We recoiled, trying to avoid eye contact. But I stepped ahead, toward him, feeling I would try to take whatever brunt might come. We were getting, thankfully, closer to the corner where it was lighter and where there was a cluster of young people.

"Do you know how to kill . . ."

Trembling, I was unable to hear the rest.

"What did he say?" our friend whispered.

"Something about killing," Rona said.

"This is getting very scary," I said. Our friend cringed.

"Do you know how," he repeated, "to kill . . . a mockingbird."

By his pausing I felt relieved--he was playing with, not threatening us. Perhaps knowing where we had just been.

So I took a chance and, trying a smile, said, "I think I do."

He laughed and speed ahead.

"What was that about," our friend said, equally relieved.

"It's a New York story," Rona said. "Maybe he's a street artist."

"I hate those," our friend said, "I like my art in theaters and museums, not on the street."

When we reached the corner, with the light still red, he was waiting for us.

"As Shakespeare wondered," he asked, "when you hold a mirror to nature, what do you see?"

"What?" our friend said now full-voiced. More her old cantankerous self.

"What Shakespeare said about the Mirror of Nature."

"From Romeo and Juliet?"

"Think more," he said. "It's something you need to know the answer to." And with that he darted to the other side of Lafayette Street, avoiding the stream of cars and taxis.

"I think it's from Hamlet," I said, after a moment to think about what had just happened. "I can't remember the context, but we should look it up."

Which, later that night, I did.

In fact, it is from Hamlet. From Hamlet's instructions to the players. He advises--

. . . suit the action to the word, the
word to the action; with this special overstep not
the modesty of nature; for anything so overdone is
from the purpose of playing, whose end, both at the
first and now, was and is, to hold, as 'twere, the
mirror up to nature; to show virtue her own feature,
scorn her own image, and the very age and body of
the time his form and pressure. Now this overdone,
or come tardy off, though it make unskilful
laugh, cannot make the judicious grieve  . . .

Overstep not, indeed, I thought.

July 1, 2013--Ladies of Forest Trace: Do Unto Henry Cross

When visiting with my mother on Friday to celebrate her 105th birthday, I did one of those silly things one is inclined to do on such occasions.

Rather than asking her which invention or technological development that occurred during her lifetime was, in her view, most consequential--electric lighting, radio, TV, airplanes, the Internet--instead, I asked what single lesson she learned that she felt was most important in guiding her.

Without missing a beat, she said, "Do unto others as you would have them do to you."

"I totally agree," I said, once again amazed by her mental acuity and what she chose to offer as her guiding principle.

"I think, without your preaching it to me, that by your example, I learned that Golden Rule and hope I also have been at least partially inspired by it."

She smiled at me as if to say, as I hoped she would say, that she feels I for the most part have been a good person.

To test that, I asked if I could tell her a story about something I had never before revealed to her that has been troubling me for more than 60 years.

She continued to smile at me.

"A few years after I was born, you returned to teaching and needed someone to care for me during the day. You hired Bessie Cross to do that. You remember her, don't you?"

She nodded and said, "Of course I do. She was wonderful. And do you remember she had a son, Henry, who was about two years older than you?"

"Yes. Of course I do. In fact, my story is about him. Henry Cross. And it is relevant to mention that he was black.

"One summer," I continued, "because Bessie Cross had to return to South Carolina to take care of her mother, who still lived on a plantation where she and Bessie as a young girl had picked cotton, Henry came to live with us.

"And since at that time I was an only child and our apartment had only two bedrooms, he slept on the daybed in my room. At night, lying side-by-side, we shared stories while waiting to fall asleep. He became like a brother to me. I liked to hear about his family, especially his Aunt Sis and Uncle Homer who tended the coal-fired boiler and steam heat system in the basement of an apartment house not far from where we lived. They lived in that basement too, and I loved to visit them with Henry. Aunt Sis would make us chocolate milk and pecan cookies that I can to this day still taste. They were that good."

"I remember your bringing some home for me one day. I had them with a cup of tea."

"After his mother returned from South Carolina, for years Henry continued to stay with us on weekends and the two of us would join our friends in street games. Since he and I were good athletes we were among the first to be chosen when it came time to choose up sides.

"When we were done playing the whole gang of us would go to one of our mother's houses for milk and cookies. This went on for some years. But then a terrible thing happened."

"What was that darling?"

"What I never told you about." I took a deep breath. "One Saturday, after a stickball game, we were invited to Stanley Shapiro's house for milk and cookies."

"I remember his mother. She was such a nice woman. I wonder if she is still alive."

"That was about 60 years ago. Well, all of us, including Henry, walked over to her porch where she had set up a card table with pitchers of cold milk and stacks of oatmeal and chocolate chip cookies.  As we were passing these around, Mrs. Shapiro came over to me and to say she had something to tell me.

"'In the house,' she said.

"Puzzled, I followed her inside where her 14 year-old daughter, Rosalie, was hovering. Mrs. Shapiro leaned close to me and said, 'It is of course all right for you to stay. You are always welcome in my house; but your friend, he has to leave.' Protectively, she glanced over at her unhappy-looking daughter."

"That sounds terrible," my mother said.

"That's only half of it," I said. "I went outside again and saw Henry waiting his turn to get a glass of milk. I took him aside and told him what Mrs. Shapiro had said.

"Henry did not look back at me nor did he say a word in response. Rather, he turned and raced down the steps and then down East 56th Street toward Church Avenue."

I heard my mother sigh.

"I never saw him again," I said, tearing up. The memory of that sweltering summer day rushed over me as if it were yesterday.

When I gained control of my emotions, I confessed that I did not follow after him because I chose to stay behind with my neighborhood friends. I had trouble continuing the story.

"Here's what I've wanted to ask you about," I managed to say to me 105-year-old mother. "If I had asked you later that day what I should have done after what Mrs. Shapiro told me to do, what would you have said?"

Again without hesitating, this time in her most loving voice, my mother said, "You should have gone with Henry."