My mother asked me what existential angst was, really was, today; for someone who spends a fair amount of time pondering (or wallowing in) it, my answer was strikingly unsatisfactory. Here are my thoughts on the matter and existentialism in general, more or less in terribly rambly style. Such is the nature of my philosophy, cobbled-together and disconnected and utterly unintelligible.
* * *
My French teacher's explaining Sartre to our class had to be one of the most intellectually exciting experiences I've had throughout all of high school--it's up there with learning pathos, ethos and logos, and with a few debates between me (playing, for the sake of the argument, a Utopian Socialist) and some kid in US History (playing, for the sake of the argument, a Social Darwinist libertarian--that is what happens when you get two Devil's Advocates together). In any case, Sartre via Monsieur Mac struck me about as strongly as anything that wasn't in a book or music or my parents has ever struck me.
How M. Mac explained it (he had to switch reluctantly to English halfway through, due to our blank looks) was, first and foremost, that we are all completely and entirely alone, and secondly that we can never get away from other people. I like paradoxes, so I hung on as he continued.
We are alone, he said, because ultimately we exist as and only contain ourselves. I only know my own thoughts and feelings and perspectives on the world; I am only sure that I am real (if one will even accept that premise, which I will, cogito ergo sum.) We are all, apparently, driven by this intense feeling of loneliness, or more accurately aloneness. But no matter how desperately, achingly we desire true companionship, the combining of two souls into one oft mentioned in marriage vows, we can not. There is always a chasm.
The image I thought of--perhaps it only works for me--is your hand and my hand, palm to palm. We can touch them together and press for all we're worth, get them as close as it is humanly possible to get, and yet my hand will never know what it feels like to be your hand; they will never be feeling exactly the same sensation, they will never be one.
I believe, for most people, the ultimate one-becoming is the expression of romantic and sexual love, and in this I find a beautiful kind of sadness. Ultimately, it is like the two hands: close, but not close enough, together, still alone. That we are all lonely creatures wandering about, trying to fill this void, is an intensely powerful image to me. I do not know if I misunderstand the philosophy, but there it is.
I imagine this is where a goodly portion of said angst comes in, that loneliness.
The second thing, as I mentioned, was that we can never get away from other people. Sartre wrote in Huis Clos, "L'enfer, c'est les autres" or, roughly translated, "Hell is other people." My french teacher explained it like so--in French, even, so I'm working now to translate it and make sense of it in English:
Freedom, real freedom, is entirely within your grasp. (Ms. Gillet, my English teacher, used to say something like this--"No one can make you do anything," she said.) Freedom is simply the freedom from letting others' judgments of you affect you. Not giving a damn what anybody thinks, in other words, pas la société, not society, not anyone. In existentialism, there is no God nor absolute morality: so you have your own morals, I suppose, and then there are others'. Acting regardless of the others', that is freedom--and, one would imagine, since freedom is such a positive word, happiness.
Of course, no one can; none of us can escape the judgments of society and others, and none of us can help caring, at least a little bit. Even Sherlock Holmes, who cares not for laws nor policemen nor being anywhere close to "normal" by anyone's standards--even such an independent person as he can never resist a bit of a flourish when revealing his solutions to cases. Never can resist astonishing people a little.
Hell, then, is other people, because as long as we let others define us with their judgments--and we must needs let them, we are only human--we are not free, we cannot define ourselves.
This lack of freedom, dependence on others: stop two on the existential angst express.
I will miss this French class mightily.
* * *
Personally, existential angst for me is a lot about death. Don't worry, I'm far from depressed, but one can hardly help but ponder it when it occupies so much of literature and the news and even plain old day-to-day idioms. I'm dying of hunger. It won't kill you. Or one that's gaining ground, among my friends, as a general expression of concern and good wishes: e.g. "Achoo!" "Don't die!" As if we could help it!
I know how I deal with things that are too much for me: I rationalize. This is why I was fairly articulate during that kidney stone--my alternatives were (a) notch up the vocabulary to intensely verbose and detached, or (b) not cope at all. This is much the same.
Rationally, I prefer the premise of a finite life to an infinite afterlife: I prefer it logically and viscerally, the latter seems nonsensical and abhorrent to me. I have come to terms with that, somehow, on some level; understanding that in order for this all to matter as I want it to, that I must inevitably shuffle off this mortal coil, and that indeed I must anyway. It has made me that much more aware and even happier: there's always a certain relief in not being able to do anything about it, no matter what "it" is.
Despite all this, I do--and I confess, I did this even when I was younger--lie awake at night and imagine what it is like to be dead. It is, naturally, impossible. One can imagine the world going on, but one cannot take one's perspective out of that imagining, which is of course exactly what one would need to do. And back to the loneliness, again. I have but myself and with that my perception of the world. What have I, when I have not myself? Naught.
Too much Shakespeare, apologies: but oh, see pretty much anything Hamlet says for more existential angst. He's a bloody bundle of it.
But anyway, this mental exercise inspires in me a great feeling of terror and uncertainty. Not insignificance, exactly--that is reserved for when I try and conceptualize the size of the universe, or the world, or just my city, or all the people in a crowded room.
That too, I suppose, is existential angst, and that is what I understand of it. There you are, mum, and in the likely event that I don't know anything at all, here is what Google had to say:
* * *
Search term: "existential angst is"...
...reading a book about the meaning of life and then doing gym homework.
...one of the three corners of the Existential Triangle along with the People as Scenery theory and the Anthropic Fallacy.
...beige.
...frequently written off as a rite of passage to young adulthood.
...totally a reason to call in sick.
...is not uncommon, if not quite "normal."
...nothing new; we are now much better at acting it out.
...not exactly gripping dramatic television.
...hardly worth the effort.
...subjective reaction to an incomplete perception of reality.
...a real pain in the ass, you know?
...not treatable with short-term remedies.
...a start, it lays bare what we are up against.
...pacified with soothing iTunes lullabies.
...universal.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Sunday, January 21, 2007
Naught but the children of an idle brain...
I was napping and thinking of the following--no wonder I can't sleep:
- I don't buy karma. I wish I could; it's a really nice idea, that kind of cosmic what-goes-around-comes-around which sort of implies that the whole universe works how it should and that people are rewarded or punished according to their actions. But no, I can't believe it, and here is why:
- Bad things happen to good people.
- Good things happen to bad people.
- Random things happen to people without any seeming relation to their relative goodness or badness, unless of course they are being rewarded or punished with respect to their past lives, in which case I like the idea even less.
- It implies that if we leave the whole thing alone that it will just work out all right. A comforting, optimistic idea, but it is pragmatic pessimism with regard to the fairness of the universe that prompts the creation of earthly justice systems.
- It seems like an easy idea to see confirmed by only looking at positive results. Someone says something mean, they trip and fall, we smirk and think "Karma's a bitch," and believe that the cosmos really is balancing things out. We disregard, of course, the twelve other times we've seen someone say something mean, and nothing happened.
- It makes me feel guilty when bad things happen to me, which, I gather, isn't particularly useful. If good things happen to good people, then you must be a good person if good things happen to you, and vice versa--sounds just a little like Calvinism, and though I admire the Protestant work ethic, the idea that miserable people deserve it somehow rankles me.
- Is it possible to be a complete cynic and yet believe very strongly in giving everybody the benefit of the doubt, as much as possible?
- Chapstick is addictive, and not in a good way--in a way that creates in you a chapstick dependency which can only end in you putting the horrid stuff on every 42 minutes or despair.
- A law in my state has been proposed that would outlaw the spanking of children under three years old. There is a flurry of fear about the "nanny state" and government intervention in parenting. I am nearly a libertarian--about social issues, not economic--and all about not legislating morality. But this law seems at least slightly reasonable to me. I don't know. My thoughts:
- I don't really think parents should hit children at all. I never was spanked, or hit, or even grounded, to my recollection, and I think I really turned out all right, with no discipline issues that I can recall.
- I have met, in my schooling, several kids who I would have wanted/found it necessary to hit.
- I have also met several who, in discussion of the issue of parental discipline, recalled stories of being spanked with tennis rackets and chased around the house by drunk uncles who couldn't, my friend earnestly related to me, tell the buckle end from the belt end.
- It is interesting that several people who would gladly "legislate morality" regarding, say, the proposed law in North Dakota which would make it illegal for unmarried couples to live together, are very opposed to this law. I suppose God didn't say "Spare the rod, spoil the child, unless they're under three years old, then it's just ridiculous."
- It's a completely unenforceable law, and just because we have child abuse laws doesn't prevent it.
- I can't remember anything from before I was three (except my sister's birth). Not a thing.
- I have no children and thus probably shouldn't be allowed to have an opinion on the issue anyway. If I had a three-year-old who was constantly sticking his hand into electrical sockets, my ideas might be entirely different.
- In all the polls I have looked at, an overwhelming 90% or more of people strongly believe that parents should be allowed to spank 3-year-olds, as long as they are not abusive. I must say, I am surprised at the overwhelming majority; it distresses me a little that the only thing 90% of people can agree on is hitting children...
- Stuff like this convinces me even more that I should never, ever, ever have children, because there are apparently so many more complications than the normal fears of screwing up a little person's life forever.
- "Studying for government" can mean: (a) watching old people argue on CSPAN, (b) catching up on the political blogs, or (c) looking for old clips of The Daily Show. MOO HA HA HA. Studying for calculus is consistently less fun. Studying for English is impossible. Studying for physics is unnecessary because we're still working with NEWTON and it's what, January? Studying for French is sorely needed. Studying for band is ridiculous...and yet still sorely needed.
- Correction: I am an idiot, it is Horatio who is alive at the end, not Laertes. I KNEW THAT. (<---lie.)
Thursday, January 18, 2007
Words, words, words
I was nominated in, competed, and won (apparently) my division in the qualifying round for the Bank of America scholarship--something of a big deal at my school, or so I am told. It seems a rather big fuss: all that happened was they corralled the twelve of us into a room, got us to write a 1-minute speech in 45 minutes, and then had us give it, and then participate in discussion. Short, sweet, altogether tense.
I got to keep my paper, so here's what I said. The topic was on 9/11, homeland security, wiretapping and surveillance, the right to privacy, the fourth amendment--the prompt was "should the government be able to impinge upon the fourth-amendment rights and the right to privacy in the name of homeland security?" My speech is hardly stellar; it is overly verbose to show fluency of vocabulary and pronunciation, but whatchagonnado?
* * *
September 11th changed everything. Even now, there is still a gaping crater in the American psyche, much like the one in lower Manhattan. The United States lost its sense of security on 9/11, lost the illusion of impenetrability afforded by two oceans, a formidable military, affluence, and success. Instead, we were left with terror.
After that date, our leaders bade us return to our daily lives. And we tried--oh, how we tried! We shopped, we worked, we stilled our trembling nerves and seized our suitcases to board airplanes again. But despite this, something was missing: our feeling of safety.
That missing sense of safety is why we passed the Patriot Act, why surveillance cameras and roving wiretaps have become part of America's vernacular. We seek to protect ourselves from the nebulous foe, to make our country safe once more.
Unfortunately, that safety is an illusion. We were not safe then, nor are we now, and no matter how many liberties we sacrifice--privacy, free press, habeas corpus--we shall never again regain that blissful ignorance. And even if we could, we should not be willing to sell our nation's founding principles in exchange. Benjamin Franklin himself once said, "Those who would sacrifice a little liberty in exchange for a little security deserve, and will get, neither."
I got to keep my paper, so here's what I said. The topic was on 9/11, homeland security, wiretapping and surveillance, the right to privacy, the fourth amendment--the prompt was "should the government be able to impinge upon the fourth-amendment rights and the right to privacy in the name of homeland security?" My speech is hardly stellar; it is overly verbose to show fluency of vocabulary and pronunciation, but whatchagonnado?
* * *
September 11th changed everything. Even now, there is still a gaping crater in the American psyche, much like the one in lower Manhattan. The United States lost its sense of security on 9/11, lost the illusion of impenetrability afforded by two oceans, a formidable military, affluence, and success. Instead, we were left with terror.
After that date, our leaders bade us return to our daily lives. And we tried--oh, how we tried! We shopped, we worked, we stilled our trembling nerves and seized our suitcases to board airplanes again. But despite this, something was missing: our feeling of safety.
That missing sense of safety is why we passed the Patriot Act, why surveillance cameras and roving wiretaps have become part of America's vernacular. We seek to protect ourselves from the nebulous foe, to make our country safe once more.
Unfortunately, that safety is an illusion. We were not safe then, nor are we now, and no matter how many liberties we sacrifice--privacy, free press, habeas corpus--we shall never again regain that blissful ignorance. And even if we could, we should not be willing to sell our nation's founding principles in exchange. Benjamin Franklin himself once said, "Those who would sacrifice a little liberty in exchange for a little security deserve, and will get, neither."
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
Something is rotten in Denmark
We are reading Hamlet in English class; I am Laertes. (Yes, Laertes, the one who doesn't get to die, that's him.) The reading is going along fumblingly well, as well as any high school Shakespeare reading can be expected to go, I expect. Hamlet is reading, th'occasional droppèd syllable making me wince, but my own tripsy tongue can't be bothered to keep letters straight, so it's a bit hypocritical of me.
My teacher pauses us with a hand; she is sitting down, back a week early from hysterectomy recovery, looking fairly tired but all right. My mind wanders. I think of hysteria, the archaic kind, that catch-all of female symptoms; the uterus wandering through the body, causing nervousness, illness, general distress. Hysterectomy, ancient Greek for modern surgery. I wonder somewhat tactlessly if she will now be less prone to hysteria over my constant, incorrigible use of contractions.
She is asking a question; I stop daydreaming. What is Hamlet saying here, class? Apparently, Horatio is saying nothing at all, for we are more silent than a stage as the curtain falls.
No one? No one.
I doodle on my notebook and think to myself, Hamlet is saying that one flaw in an otherwise virtuous person can be their downfall. I pause on the "their." To use the genderless plural, or not to use the genderless plural? I am torn. Grammar nut feminists have many such internal struggles. I stick with their. Thus prepared, in case I am called upon, I glance around the room.
Ashley is murmuring an answer towards her desk; I poke her and jerk my head. Go on, then. The silence is pregnant and awkward; someone must take the plunge and quick if we want to finish Act 1 (and I do). She gives a half-shake of her head. Why don't you? I give a shrug and lift my right hand slightly. I answered the last one. I will bite off my tongue before I answer two in a row, I have solemnly sworn to myself a thousand, thousand times. It's best not to attract that know-it-all label more than one has to.
I glance around the room. This is ridiculous; they know the answer to this one, I see it in them. A dozen faces, just like mine, answer firmly in place if, despite the decent odds, they are called upon, nervously hunched in their desks. No one is making eye contact; I know that trick. That trick has gotten me through four years of French class participation points with flying colors. If you know how to use eye contact, you can practically call on yourself.
Right now the aura of not me not me oh please not me is thick in the room like too-heavy perfume. We are AP kids, "the best and the brightest;" we know how the system works and we play it. Quiet, polite, answer if called upon. We all are wary of becoming that kid, the kid whose hand the teacher doesn't see anymore, who sticks an eager arm up and the teacher sighs slightly, anyone else?
That is not to say that we are all secretly avoiding answering because, conversely, we want to answer. We are caught in an odd conflict of our culture and our society's, our school's. We want to be correct, we don't want to be the teacher's pet. It is a strange culture we have built for ourselves--not even the entire school's culture, just us thirty, just us "smart kids," just us here--a culture of quiet understatement and self-deprecation, a culture of envy and mediocrity. We have adopted a third nature, a loud comical shunning of skill and productivity, a voiced envy; it is grafted gently over our second nature, a soulless, hollow, amoral desire for that which is supposed to be our goal, for that victory we pretend not to want; this is bolted solidly over our first. We cannot help but sit here, timid, unwilling to take the risks and fall and fail.
The time drags on. "Do I have to call on someone?" My teacher asks; she sounds weary. Every question is like this, this battle to squeeze blood from a stone.
I think of last year's English class, everybody talking at once, four different conversations; our teacher explaining orphanages in Haiti while I argued fiercely over the merits of genderless pronouns and the kids in the back found ways to apply ethos, pathos, and logos to everything.
Oh, hell; I give up. I always lose this game. "Hamlet is saying that one flaw in an otherwise virtuous person can be their downfall."
My teacher, who I don't think likes me, perhaps likes me a little more, now. "Wonderful, exactly! Hamlet is saying--oh, say it again, you said it better than I would."
"Hamlet," I repeat verbatim, "is saying that one flaw in an otherwise virtuous person can be their downfall."
I hide back behind the person in front of me, glancing around at my classmates' little half-nods of half-gratitude.
I always lose this game.
My teacher pauses us with a hand; she is sitting down, back a week early from hysterectomy recovery, looking fairly tired but all right. My mind wanders. I think of hysteria, the archaic kind, that catch-all of female symptoms; the uterus wandering through the body, causing nervousness, illness, general distress. Hysterectomy, ancient Greek for modern surgery. I wonder somewhat tactlessly if she will now be less prone to hysteria over my constant, incorrigible use of contractions.
She is asking a question; I stop daydreaming. What is Hamlet saying here, class? Apparently, Horatio is saying nothing at all, for we are more silent than a stage as the curtain falls.
No one? No one.
I doodle on my notebook and think to myself, Hamlet is saying that one flaw in an otherwise virtuous person can be their downfall. I pause on the "their." To use the genderless plural, or not to use the genderless plural? I am torn. Grammar nut feminists have many such internal struggles. I stick with their. Thus prepared, in case I am called upon, I glance around the room.
Ashley is murmuring an answer towards her desk; I poke her and jerk my head. Go on, then. The silence is pregnant and awkward; someone must take the plunge and quick if we want to finish Act 1 (and I do). She gives a half-shake of her head. Why don't you? I give a shrug and lift my right hand slightly. I answered the last one. I will bite off my tongue before I answer two in a row, I have solemnly sworn to myself a thousand, thousand times. It's best not to attract that know-it-all label more than one has to.
I glance around the room. This is ridiculous; they know the answer to this one, I see it in them. A dozen faces, just like mine, answer firmly in place if, despite the decent odds, they are called upon, nervously hunched in their desks. No one is making eye contact; I know that trick. That trick has gotten me through four years of French class participation points with flying colors. If you know how to use eye contact, you can practically call on yourself.
Right now the aura of not me not me oh please not me is thick in the room like too-heavy perfume. We are AP kids, "the best and the brightest;" we know how the system works and we play it. Quiet, polite, answer if called upon. We all are wary of becoming that kid, the kid whose hand the teacher doesn't see anymore, who sticks an eager arm up and the teacher sighs slightly, anyone else?
That is not to say that we are all secretly avoiding answering because, conversely, we want to answer. We are caught in an odd conflict of our culture and our society's, our school's. We want to be correct, we don't want to be the teacher's pet. It is a strange culture we have built for ourselves--not even the entire school's culture, just us thirty, just us "smart kids," just us here--a culture of quiet understatement and self-deprecation, a culture of envy and mediocrity. We have adopted a third nature, a loud comical shunning of skill and productivity, a voiced envy; it is grafted gently over our second nature, a soulless, hollow, amoral desire for that which is supposed to be our goal, for that victory we pretend not to want; this is bolted solidly over our first. We cannot help but sit here, timid, unwilling to take the risks and fall and fail.
The time drags on. "Do I have to call on someone?" My teacher asks; she sounds weary. Every question is like this, this battle to squeeze blood from a stone.
I think of last year's English class, everybody talking at once, four different conversations; our teacher explaining orphanages in Haiti while I argued fiercely over the merits of genderless pronouns and the kids in the back found ways to apply ethos, pathos, and logos to everything.
Oh, hell; I give up. I always lose this game. "Hamlet is saying that one flaw in an otherwise virtuous person can be their downfall."
My teacher, who I don't think likes me, perhaps likes me a little more, now. "Wonderful, exactly! Hamlet is saying--oh, say it again, you said it better than I would."
"Hamlet," I repeat verbatim, "is saying that one flaw in an otherwise virtuous person can be their downfall."
I hide back behind the person in front of me, glancing around at my classmates' little half-nods of half-gratitude.
I always lose this game.
Tuesday, January 02, 2007
Too Close to Home
Today, a schoolmate of mine, a tuba player, an alumnus, came back and visited our band. He has finished his 13 weeks of boot camp, the following combat training and music training; he is soon to be a fully-fledged member of the Marine Corps band: a prestigious honor, truly, but we always knew he'd make it--he is very talented.
He talked to us in class all day about his experiences in boot camp and so on. The combat training, he hated. The jazz band, he loved. The food wasn't so bad--he actually gained 10 pounds (he was always painfully tall and thin). He is different now; quieter, less cocky, more eloquent. He still tells a good story: he has the kind of wry humor that makes awful tales funny.
Toward the tail end of the question-answer session that was the whole class (and never, ever have I seen our band so dead quiet and rapt; it is quite shocking to see one of your own comrades suddenly very much an adult and a soldier--full uniform, no less), someone asked:
"Could you get sent to Iraq?"
I flashed back in my mind to the year previous, when the same thought had flitted across my mind.
* * *
Staff Sgt. Diaz was giving his yearly video-presentation-and-speech on the Marine Corps Band. The video was the same every year, as were the questions. What do you get paid? What do you eat? How long is boot camp? Is it really hard? Once you sign up, can you get out?
I normally stayed rather silent during this entire recruitment spiel--as much as I am opposed to recruitment in schools (trust me, if you went to high school every day, you wouldn't trust these kids to make lasting life decisions either), I also respect those who choose that route. I know Staff Sgt. Diaz. I think he's a decent sort. I am very happy he is here and not in combat somewhere. This time, though, I couldn't help myself. I knew people who were trying out for this Marine Corps Band thing. I had to ask.
I raised a tentative hand and he called on me--I don't think he even knew my name at the time. "How...how likely is it that a member of the Marine Corps Band will see front-line warfare? That is to say, could you be deployed to Iraq?"
I believe that was how I worded it--when I get nervous, I use awful phrases like "that is to say." There was a sort of collective intake of breath around the room.
"Well, no," he said. "You're not exactly a regular Marine. You can be deployed places, but you play in the band--that's your job. You go through basic training and all...but no."
This was something of a relief to me, since at the time I knew three band members considering joining. It was something.
* * *
Only one of those three went through with it, and he now was standing in front of us answering the same anxious question.
"I take a playing exam," he said, after some reflection, "in a few weeks. If I score 3.0 or higher--I'm at a 2.65 now--if I score a 3.0 or higher, then I get preference." [I hope sincerely I recall the name of these things correctly; I know the gist but not the specifics.] "If I get preference, then I get to choose where I'm stationed--I'd like [some place or another near San Diego]--they don't get deployed to Iraq."
"...so you could?"
Our Marine (How presumptuous to say "our Marine!" But he is our Marine. There is nothing in high school like a band, nothing that remembers you after you go, nothing so like a family in the constant shifting that is each passing year, nothing save our shabby little band with its occasional gem.) inclined his head. "Possibly," he said, and if he was half as apprehensive as I was for him, he was ten times more stoic. "They have bands in Iraq--but if you're there, you play, of course, and you also do security." He paused. It didn't make sense to him, he said quietly, it was not his job: he was not a fighter, he was in the band.
"So," he said, "I'm hoping to get preference. 3.0 or better. I think I can do it."
Ms. Rogers voice was somewhat moved from the back. "That's right; good, good. You can."
* * *
The Veterans for Peace (the sort of anti-recruiters of high school campuses) told me that recruiters can lie, lie, lie through their teeth and no promise they make is worth a penny, so I am not astonished. I do not think Staff Sgt. Diaz has it in him to be too misleading, though. I should not have said "front-line warfare," I suppose; I should have phrased it, "anywhere near somewhere they might get shot." His answer was probably better than I give it credit for, I heard the no and was relieved and relief easily can wash out reservations. That is probably the idea.
* * *
Today the BBC reported that President Bush will soon give a speech unveiling his latest plans for Iraq. He seems to be inclined to take the "surge" position, a.k.a. "go big," a.k.a. "a plan to send more US troops to Iraq to focus on ways of bringing greater security, rather than training Iraqi forces." I trust the BBC's statement that the President will speak about increasing troop numbers. I also believe their statement as to the moral of President Bush's address: "Its central theme will be sacrifice."
3,000 dead and counting; 3.os. It is said that bad things come in threes. I'm not superstitious. Still, I just want to cry. Someone went to high school with all 3,000 of those kids. They went away looking as gawky and nervous and brave as our Justin. They finished boot camp as lean and grown-up and brave. They will never again come home for Christmas and stop by to say hello to their high school bands.
* * *
Dear Mr. President,
I am not a general. I am not a tactician. I am not a diplomat. I am not a politician. I am not a soldier. I am not the mother, or the sister, or the daughter, or the cousin, or the best friend of any service member in Iraq, or elsewhere. I cannot vote this year, nor can I drink a toast to our country's future. My familiarity with history is poor, with war poorer, and with military tactics worst of all.
That said, all ethos completely gone, (for, Mr. President, I must respectfully note that there is no ethos you cannot destroy; no general you cannot force down; no war veteran you and your political machine cannot dismantle,) I beseech you. You have expressed your turmoil over this decision. You have retired to ponder it. You have seen Iraq, you have seen our soldiers, you have seen the Iraq Study Group report, you have seen the American people pull away. You have seen the polls at 40, 35, 31% support for the war. You have seen the polls at 15, 12, 11% support for a troop increase. You have seen the polls for you, sir, at 42, 37, 32%.
You say the polls do not matter to you, Mr. President, and I am sure that this strikes many as an admirable dedication to your own principles and morality, despite the shifting sands of public opinion so easily swayed by a sweating brow or a fumbled phrase. There is a point, though, sir, at which one must recall the inspiration behind our Founding Fathers, which I shall here repeat not to patronize but merely because my few years offer up no more eloquent way to state it: "a government of the people, by the people, and for the people." You, sir, are our leader, our President, our Commander in Chief, but you are ours; like fathers say to their stubborn sons--we brought you here, we may take you out.
I am but one tiny drop in the 89% of this country that would rather you not send more troops to Iraq, sir, until we see one tiny flicker of hope that this will not fail as everything has failed. Would rather you not send more troops to Iraq ever. Would rather you ensure that Justin can practice his tuba and play in your successor's inauguration rather than be patrolling the streets of Baghdad.
Mr. President, you have spoken and will speak of sacrifice. You will remind the American people of the necessity of sacrifice. With all due respect, sir, I believe that the American people know sacrifice. To this war we have already sacrificed 3,000 young people; our trust in you has sacrificed countless more Iraqis--it is literally impossible to count.
89% of us will not sacrifice any more. Perhaps others have lost loved ones or fear to, perhaps they merely feel for those who do, perhaps they have rationally assessed the costs, perhaps, like me, they have put a face to that distant soldier, that human sacrifice on the altar of Iraq and found the possibilities too horrible to contemplate. 89%, Mr. President. Do not shove this poll aside.
You are the decider, sir. You, and you alone, must ultimately decide, and bear the full weight of history's judgment thereafter. But recall, the greatest asset, the greatest aid, the greatest power, the only power a President is given is the will and trust of the American people. We will not be taken lightly for long.
Should we be wrong about this, Mr. President, and you listen to us, history will treat you kindly as a leader plagued by a misguided population, press, and advisers; by incorrect generals; by terrible odds; who could not have helped but listen to the world's overwhelming but incorrect cry.
Should we be right, sir, you had best change your policy swiftly, for I know not what the history books would say of a President who so blatantly disregarded the will of the people, the advice of his generals, and reality. You will recall Lyndon B. Johnson, hounded out of office with jeers of "Hey, hey, LBJ; how many kids did you kill today?" You may be relieved somewhat that "Bush" is not particularly rhymeable.
But please, sir, reconsider this plan. Reconsider it for the scrawny, tuba-playing Marines who would like nothing more than the honor of playing in a concert hall for you; who don't think they are capable of picking up a gun and shooting some one, not yet.
Respectfully,
Sylvia Puglisi
He talked to us in class all day about his experiences in boot camp and so on. The combat training, he hated. The jazz band, he loved. The food wasn't so bad--he actually gained 10 pounds (he was always painfully tall and thin). He is different now; quieter, less cocky, more eloquent. He still tells a good story: he has the kind of wry humor that makes awful tales funny.
Toward the tail end of the question-answer session that was the whole class (and never, ever have I seen our band so dead quiet and rapt; it is quite shocking to see one of your own comrades suddenly very much an adult and a soldier--full uniform, no less), someone asked:
"Could you get sent to Iraq?"
I flashed back in my mind to the year previous, when the same thought had flitted across my mind.
* * *
Staff Sgt. Diaz was giving his yearly video-presentation-and-speech on the Marine Corps Band. The video was the same every year, as were the questions. What do you get paid? What do you eat? How long is boot camp? Is it really hard? Once you sign up, can you get out?
I normally stayed rather silent during this entire recruitment spiel--as much as I am opposed to recruitment in schools (trust me, if you went to high school every day, you wouldn't trust these kids to make lasting life decisions either), I also respect those who choose that route. I know Staff Sgt. Diaz. I think he's a decent sort. I am very happy he is here and not in combat somewhere. This time, though, I couldn't help myself. I knew people who were trying out for this Marine Corps Band thing. I had to ask.
I raised a tentative hand and he called on me--I don't think he even knew my name at the time. "How...how likely is it that a member of the Marine Corps Band will see front-line warfare? That is to say, could you be deployed to Iraq?"
I believe that was how I worded it--when I get nervous, I use awful phrases like "that is to say." There was a sort of collective intake of breath around the room.
"Well, no," he said. "You're not exactly a regular Marine. You can be deployed places, but you play in the band--that's your job. You go through basic training and all...but no."
This was something of a relief to me, since at the time I knew three band members considering joining. It was something.
* * *
Only one of those three went through with it, and he now was standing in front of us answering the same anxious question.
"I take a playing exam," he said, after some reflection, "in a few weeks. If I score 3.0 or higher--I'm at a 2.65 now--if I score a 3.0 or higher, then I get preference." [I hope sincerely I recall the name of these things correctly; I know the gist but not the specifics.] "If I get preference, then I get to choose where I'm stationed--I'd like [some place or another near San Diego]--they don't get deployed to Iraq."
"...so you could?"
Our Marine (How presumptuous to say "our Marine!" But he is our Marine. There is nothing in high school like a band, nothing that remembers you after you go, nothing so like a family in the constant shifting that is each passing year, nothing save our shabby little band with its occasional gem.) inclined his head. "Possibly," he said, and if he was half as apprehensive as I was for him, he was ten times more stoic. "They have bands in Iraq--but if you're there, you play, of course, and you also do security." He paused. It didn't make sense to him, he said quietly, it was not his job: he was not a fighter, he was in the band.
"So," he said, "I'm hoping to get preference. 3.0 or better. I think I can do it."
Ms. Rogers voice was somewhat moved from the back. "That's right; good, good. You can."
* * *
The Veterans for Peace (the sort of anti-recruiters of high school campuses) told me that recruiters can lie, lie, lie through their teeth and no promise they make is worth a penny, so I am not astonished. I do not think Staff Sgt. Diaz has it in him to be too misleading, though. I should not have said "front-line warfare," I suppose; I should have phrased it, "anywhere near somewhere they might get shot." His answer was probably better than I give it credit for, I heard the no and was relieved and relief easily can wash out reservations. That is probably the idea.
* * *
Today the BBC reported that President Bush will soon give a speech unveiling his latest plans for Iraq. He seems to be inclined to take the "surge" position, a.k.a. "go big," a.k.a. "a plan to send more US troops to Iraq to focus on ways of bringing greater security, rather than training Iraqi forces." I trust the BBC's statement that the President will speak about increasing troop numbers. I also believe their statement as to the moral of President Bush's address: "Its central theme will be sacrifice."
3,000 dead and counting; 3.os. It is said that bad things come in threes. I'm not superstitious. Still, I just want to cry. Someone went to high school with all 3,000 of those kids. They went away looking as gawky and nervous and brave as our Justin. They finished boot camp as lean and grown-up and brave. They will never again come home for Christmas and stop by to say hello to their high school bands.
* * *
Dear Mr. President,
I am not a general. I am not a tactician. I am not a diplomat. I am not a politician. I am not a soldier. I am not the mother, or the sister, or the daughter, or the cousin, or the best friend of any service member in Iraq, or elsewhere. I cannot vote this year, nor can I drink a toast to our country's future. My familiarity with history is poor, with war poorer, and with military tactics worst of all.
That said, all ethos completely gone, (for, Mr. President, I must respectfully note that there is no ethos you cannot destroy; no general you cannot force down; no war veteran you and your political machine cannot dismantle,) I beseech you. You have expressed your turmoil over this decision. You have retired to ponder it. You have seen Iraq, you have seen our soldiers, you have seen the Iraq Study Group report, you have seen the American people pull away. You have seen the polls at 40, 35, 31% support for the war. You have seen the polls at 15, 12, 11% support for a troop increase. You have seen the polls for you, sir, at 42, 37, 32%.
You say the polls do not matter to you, Mr. President, and I am sure that this strikes many as an admirable dedication to your own principles and morality, despite the shifting sands of public opinion so easily swayed by a sweating brow or a fumbled phrase. There is a point, though, sir, at which one must recall the inspiration behind our Founding Fathers, which I shall here repeat not to patronize but merely because my few years offer up no more eloquent way to state it: "a government of the people, by the people, and for the people." You, sir, are our leader, our President, our Commander in Chief, but you are ours; like fathers say to their stubborn sons--we brought you here, we may take you out.
I am but one tiny drop in the 89% of this country that would rather you not send more troops to Iraq, sir, until we see one tiny flicker of hope that this will not fail as everything has failed. Would rather you not send more troops to Iraq ever. Would rather you ensure that Justin can practice his tuba and play in your successor's inauguration rather than be patrolling the streets of Baghdad.
Mr. President, you have spoken and will speak of sacrifice. You will remind the American people of the necessity of sacrifice. With all due respect, sir, I believe that the American people know sacrifice. To this war we have already sacrificed 3,000 young people; our trust in you has sacrificed countless more Iraqis--it is literally impossible to count.
89% of us will not sacrifice any more. Perhaps others have lost loved ones or fear to, perhaps they merely feel for those who do, perhaps they have rationally assessed the costs, perhaps, like me, they have put a face to that distant soldier, that human sacrifice on the altar of Iraq and found the possibilities too horrible to contemplate. 89%, Mr. President. Do not shove this poll aside.
You are the decider, sir. You, and you alone, must ultimately decide, and bear the full weight of history's judgment thereafter. But recall, the greatest asset, the greatest aid, the greatest power, the only power a President is given is the will and trust of the American people. We will not be taken lightly for long.
Should we be wrong about this, Mr. President, and you listen to us, history will treat you kindly as a leader plagued by a misguided population, press, and advisers; by incorrect generals; by terrible odds; who could not have helped but listen to the world's overwhelming but incorrect cry.
Should we be right, sir, you had best change your policy swiftly, for I know not what the history books would say of a President who so blatantly disregarded the will of the people, the advice of his generals, and reality. You will recall Lyndon B. Johnson, hounded out of office with jeers of "Hey, hey, LBJ; how many kids did you kill today?" You may be relieved somewhat that "Bush" is not particularly rhymeable.
But please, sir, reconsider this plan. Reconsider it for the scrawny, tuba-playing Marines who would like nothing more than the honor of playing in a concert hall for you; who don't think they are capable of picking up a gun and shooting some one, not yet.
Respectfully,
Sylvia Puglisi
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