Free to All

Copley Square in Boston is home to two churches—Old South and Trinity. The former belongs to the United Church of Christ, and is built in the Gothic revival style; the latter is Episcopalian and Romanesque. The Boston Public Library is there too, with its magnificent gilded reading rooms and impressive art collection and the words "Free to All" above the doors. Perpendicular to the library sits the Fairmont Hotel, a beaux arts masterpiece, and beyond that rises the ultramodern John Hancock Tower, its mirrored skin often lending the impression that it was simply cut from the surrounding sky. The area around the square is filled with shops and restaurants; the Boston Common isn't too far away. Commerce, religion, and the arts are all gathered in the space of a few square blocks. It's a uniquely American space, named for John Singleton Copley, one of the great portraitists of the early Republic.

Yesterday, that space was subject to a shattering act of violence when two bombs exploded at the finish line of the Boston Marathon, which is situated at the edge of Copley Square. It's tempting—because of the setting; because of the deluge of grisly pictures and videos that poured through the holes in time left by the blasts, enough images to gorge on until you were numb and exhausted; because of the feeling, warranted or not, that the choice to target an event as celebratory as the marathon suggested a hatred for the abundance and complacency that Americans are privileged to enjoy—to regard the attack as a uniquely American act of violence, or at least one calibrated to shatter a uniquely American scene.

I've certainly felt this temptation. Copley Square is one of my favorite spots in the nation, a public space that seems to embody the kind of society the Founders had in mind when they wrote about the flourishing of the arts in America and liberty and justice for all and securing the blessings of liberty for posterity. It's been the site of many happy reunions with old friends and quiet, reflective moments wandering the library's rich rooms, rooms as available to me as the next person. And so this attack felt personal—certainly more personal than 9/11, which occurred when I was much younger and hadn't yet visited New York. (I had, however, visited Boston for the first time during the summer before those attacks, and it was Boston—Copley Square in particular, where my family had stayed—that was my geographical referent for that day, as I learned that many of the hijacked flights had flown out of Logan.) I felt, as I felt during Newtown or Aurora, that somehow this event was symptomatic of a particularly American disease, some result of the odd tensions in our history between community and democracy, between the better angels of our nature and our frequently boneheaded cowboy mythology.

But the truth is that if there was anything uniquely American about this incident, it lay above all in the implicit reminder of how seldom in our history we've had to deal with such horrors (though perhaps, sadly, that's changing in this young millennium). This sort of thing happens on a near-daily basis in many countries—sometimes, it should be said, as the result of American power—a truth that does nothing to lessen our sorrow or ease our confusion, but which does remind us that violence is a global problem, and a human one, one that confounds and saddens all who witness it.

What is also uniquely American, however, is that this country was the first to be founded on the premise that human beings could live peacefully with one another without undue coercion, that the blessings of beautiful libraries and pleasant parks could be open to all citizens, regardless of class or race or origin and free of metal detectors and bomb-sniffing dogs. It's an aspiration, of course, one that was severely tested in September of 2001, and one that was severely tested again yesterday. How will we regard the pursuit of that ideal now? Will all of our public events and spaces—many of them already heavily fortified—now redouble their layers of security? Will armed soldiers become as common a sight in Copley Square and Grant Park as they are at Heathrow Airport and the Eiffel Tower? It's too early to say, but a further retreat into our post-9/11 fortress mentality feels inevitable. Perhaps that's proper; I'm not sure.

But it's worth remembering those words etched above the entrance to the Boston Public Library, and it's worth remembering Ben Franklin's warning about the tension between liberty and security, and it's worth imagining just how uniquely American Copley Square would be if, from now on, a paratrooper stood watch at every corner.

Words, Words, Words

My class began reading Joseph Heller's great novel Catch-22 last week, a novel deeply suspicious of bureaucracies, in particular the military. Part of what makes Heller's satire so incisive is his sensitivity to the ways that large organizations mangle language to secure power, obscuring often horrifying actions behind thick curtains of euphemism. The tumid General Peckem is described, for instance, as a man who "always wrote 'enhanced' when he meant 'increased'"—a description written in 1961 that echoes loudly in the post-9/11 world of "enhanced interrogation techniques." Heller, who flew dozens of bombing missions during World War II, knew that euphemisms aren't merely pompous and unwieldy, but often dangerous, robbing individuals of their ability to call power to account.

This passage came to mind this morning while I read The New York Times, whose job, of course, is to keep the public informed with clear and direct language. The paper filled this role admirably in an excellent article about the origins of the C.I.A.'s drone program. I was struck in particular by its willingness to describe Pakistani denial of American involvement in one of the agency's first drone attacks as "a lie," a pointedness that's rare in a newspaper that strives for fairness and objectivity. It's a small moment, but one bracing in its willingness to present the unvarnished truth.

A few pages later, on the other hand, a piece on the growing tensions in the Korean peninsula, referred to the possibility of "military hostilities." Reading that phrase, I paused, my mind taking a moment to follow the roller-coaster loop of language: War, I thought. Why didn't the author just write "war"? Even in an organ devoted to transparency and disclosure, you can often find the softening creep of euphemism, a result, again, of the desire to appear fair and objective—no need to suggest that war is at hand when all that may happen is a few missiles lobbed back at forth. But isn't that enough, if lives are at stake? Fairness is a standard all newspapers should hold themselves to, no matter how imperfectly it can actually be achieved. But in a world of quantitative easing and improvised explosive devices and sequesters and pivots, we need newspapers to put as fine a point on things as they can without veering into partisanship—for example, to describe war as war—a necessity that Joseph Heller knew intimately.

Foreign Exchange

"What do you know about Russia?"

That's a question which, if it were asked of me in a certain context—by a classmate, a student, a colleague, or a job interviewer—would set me off on an assured disquisition. Russia? What do you want to know? Where to start? I can tell you a bit about Ivan the Terrible, Peter the Great, Catherine the Great, the division of Poland, the Napoleonic Wars, Tolstoy, Turgenev, Dostoyevsky, the Nihilists, land reform, the serfs, the Cossacks, the Bolshevik Revolution, Lenin, Trotsky, Stalin, the Great Patriotic War, Life and Fate, the NKVD, the KGB, Yalta, Potsdam, the Iron Curtain, Nikita Khruschev, Gary Powers, Kim Philby, Sputnik, Berlin, Cuban missiles, Yuri Gagarin, Leonid Brezhnev, Mikhail Gorbachev, Boris Yeltsin, perestroika, the fall of the USSR, the rise of Putin, the return of militant nationalism, the struggle between east and west, and so on.

As it happens, someone did ask me that question this week, but my response was a nervous cough/laugh combination.

Here's what happened: some Russian exchange students are visiting the school where I teach for a few days, and, since I have a relatively open schedule, our Russian teacher asked if I could pick them up from their field trip to the Missouri History Museum, a quick-ten minute drive. Sure, I said.

This required me to drive one of the school's enormous white vans, vans which, my car-enthusiast roommate Adam helpfully observed an hour or so before I left, "have an awful record of flipping over. I'm actually surprised we still have them." Fortunately, I managed to navigate this PT boat down Kingshighway without incident, and the Russians piled into the car, bidding me a friendly hello before sitting in expectant silence. "How was the museum?" I asked.

"You have such a rich history," said one of the students, who added that in Russia, the narrative of American history is basically this: Columbus discovered America, and then the colonists killed all the Indians. The end. The museum, this young lady said, suggested that the truth was more complicated. Score another propaganda point for the good ol' Mo. History Museum.

We set out, and the students began speaking softly to one another in Russian. The young man next to me sat in rigid silence, as if he were trying to shatter the windshield with his mind. Though we had only about a mile to travel, I was uncomfortable with the quiet (abetted by the volume-dampening depth of the grain silo I was driving). Turning on NPR didn't seem to be an option; I wanted them to think America was fun, and that its young people were hip! But they seemed interested in talking mostly to one another. What were they saying in Russian? "This driver, he looks like a scarecrow." "I thought people ate well in America." "Didn't those glasses go out of style in 1965?"

Being a bachelor of arts, however, and not wanting to let this chance for cultural exchange to go to waste, I made another attempt at engagement. How did they like the cafeteria food? "Great," they said. How did they like America so far? "It's very clean, even though there aren't many trash boxes," said one. "Trash cans," I said, nobly helping his English along.

Silence again. Then the young lady who had spoken first asked me what I knew about Russia. All of the students grew quiet, eager for my answer. And I laughed my nervous laugh/cough, partly because I was trying not to slice off anyone's mirrors with the GMC Panzer I was operating, partly because all of that knowledge I listed above—gained in college and high school classrooms, in The New York Times and The Economist, in novels translated by Westerners—suddenly didn't feel like knowledge. It felt more like presumption. I'd dumped a lot of facts into my head, and then checked the "Russia" box on my list of "things I know about." But I'd never even been to Russia, and here I was in a van full of teenagers who call Russia home. I realized I know almost nothing about Russia: what it looks like (onion-domed landmarks aside), what it sounds like, what it smells like, how they number their highways, if they have highways, what Russian cuisine is: in short, how it feels to live there.

Still, they wanted an answer, so I said, "Well....I know Vladimir Putin is your president." They laughed, and I don't think it was at my bad pronunciation. "And I really enjoy Russian authors." They were excited about this. They could hardly believe anyone had heard of Turgenev over here. Was I proud of America? the young lady asked. "Yes," I said. "There's a lot that frustrates and saddens me, but I am proud of America. Are you proud of Russia?"

"No, not so much. Especially not after coming here," she said.

We were arriving back at school at this point, and what do you say to something like that? Chant "U-S-A!"? Say, "Hey, don't worry about it, McDonald's is overrated"? Or perhaps, "I'm sure you'll catch us soon!"

Instead, I said that I'd love to visit Russia someday, which was suddenly true. They all thanked me and got out. I took about fifteen minutes to park the dreadnaught, and then I walked inside, having learned a little bit about the things I don't know.

Friends, Romans, Jr. Billikens...

Back in November, my high school asked me to speak to the senior class before they went off on their month-long service project. I hadn't thought to post it until now, but speeches are writing, after all, and I felt pretty good about what I had to say, a good chance to reflect on an experience that's now five years past.

Sound Familiar?

"While the cops made chalk marks on the floor of the pantry, the brave members of the National Rifle Association were already explaining that people commit crimes, guns don't (as if Willie Mays could hit a homerun without a bat)."
-From Pete Hamill's account of the assassination of Robert Kennedy, The Village Voice, June 13, 1968. 

Much Ado About February

If you live anywhere above the 35^th parallel in the United States, then you’re staring down the prospect of February, with its skies of wet wool, its twin lonely landmarks of bloated Super Bowl and cloying Valentine’s Day, its schizophrenic mixing of spring’s first febrile sweats with winter’s last retreating gusts. In Old English, February was called both Solmonath (mud month) and Kale-monath (cabbage month), names that get at the heart of the matter. 

What to do amidst such undifferentiated gloom, the young year staggering on unsure legs and wagging a novice tongue? Fleeing to some warmer, heavily indebted Eurozone nation is always an option. As is inoculation, perhaps by playing your old copy of Loveless on repeat or committing some of Ezra Pound’s Cantos to memory. Competitive facial hair growth may be an attractive route for male readers. My suggestion, one far less costly in money, sanity, and self-respect, would be to watch Kenneth Branagh’s tonic adaptation of Much Ado About Nothing, which turns twenty this year, though its freshness and vitality hardly suggest such an anniversary is upon us.

Much Ado is a play about courtship, and the misunderstandings inherent to it. Masks, mistaken identities, outright deception, overhearings, concealed feelings, a faked death: these devices are all central to the play’s depiction of its would-be lovers as they wend towards one another. Branagh is certainly faithful to the text’s coyness, but as an aesthetic experience, his film isn’t interested in sly glances and ambiguous phrases; it prefers outright seduction. Filmed at a sun-drenched Italian villa replete with burbling fountains and winding hedges, Branagh’s Much Ado luxuriates in its surroundings, ornamenting them with a masquerade ball, a sweet-voiced troubadour, and lots of tan (and freely bared) flesh. The film begins in a festival mood, as Don Pedro (Denzel Washington) and his men approach the town of Messina, returning from battle unscathed and victorious. The time for war being past, the time for love is at hand, and the film’s action begins by alternating a triumphant, slow-motion shot of Don Pedro and his men galloping towards the city with images of the townspeople bathing in exuberant preparation. (It should be noted that Denzel looks as comfortable on horseback here as he did in the Chevy Monte Carlo from Training Day. His cool is as durable as Cary Grant’s elegance.) As a viewer, you sit forward a bit, your mouth curling into a smile, remembering the anticipatory crackle that used to follow you through the school halls on the day before a dance.

What follows is well known: the blushing attraction between Claudio (Robert Sean Leonard) and Hero (Kate Beckinsale, in a debut performance that makes one lament the vampire-hunting nonsense into which her career has lapsed); the combative wordplay between Benedick and Beatrice (played with knowing humor by Branagh and Emma Thompson, who were married at the time), and the goofy scheme to bring them together; and the nefarious plot to thwart it all concocted by Don Pedro’s bastard brother, Don John, portrayed with unintentionally comic woodenness by Keanu Reeves. Even Michael Keaton shows up (ok, the film doesn’t feel entirely fresh), in a bizarre turn as Dogberry, the keystone cop who saves the day.

             

The strength of Branagh’s interpretation lies in its out-and-out embrace of comedy’s most basic proposition: that man, as Benedick says at play’s end, is a giddy thing. The earnestness with which the film expounds on that statement might make some viewers cringe in the age of irony. The scene, for instance, in which Benedick and Beatrice separately but simultaneously admit that they love one another, culminates in Benedick splashing around a fountain while Beatrice hops on a swing, all of it soaked in a rousing orchestral flourish. And while the film isn’t all bare shoulders and grapes by the bunch—Don John’s plot nearly wreaks havoc for a time (though Reeves’s incompetence undermines any real fear we may feel for the lovers), and Washington imbues Don Pedro with the right touch of melancholy—it obviously prefers the sunny side of life. Branagh’s Much Ado requires you to surrender your knowingness and your cynicism, your mind’s hunkered February posture, your desire to throw the entire Valentine’s display at CVS into the garbage. But what is art’s most basic pleasure if not surrender?  If you can lose yourself in Much Ado’s lush setting and languorous pace, you may just find yourself as merry as the day—or the cabbage month—is long.

An Announcement!

Dr. Peter Conn, who graciously advised my undergraduate thesis on Saul Bellow at Penn, has published a social and cultural history of adoption through Palgrave. Professor Conn is the author of Pearl S. Buck: A Cultural Biography, which was a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle award in biography and a "New York Times Notable Book," and The American 1930s: A Literary History, which The New Yorker said "reveals fascinating vicissitudes of art and history." Professor Conn's insights are always expressed with grace and eloquence, leaving the reader with a fuller sense of American life; I can't recommend his writing enough.