Darth

 “Woe, who say “good” to evil and “evil” to good . . .”   (Isaiah, 5:20) 

I am a registered independent voter.  Often in the past I voted a split ticket.  I admit, there were even a few elections where I did not vote.  Come hell or high water or Covid, I will vote in this election.

Often, in past elections, I voted ambivalently, for whomever I felt to be the lesser of two evils.  Not this election.  This election is a choice between evil and not-evil, the force of darkness versus the force of light, Darth Vader versus Mr. Rogers.  Darth, surrounded by his all-white heavily-armed storm troopers.  Mr. Rogers, sometimes boring, sometimes hard to listen to, but empathetic, trustworthy, wanting us to get along and to be neighborly.

I struggle to understand the millions of fans who adore this Darth, and who will never be persuaded otherwise.  Why do some people admire his strutting, his posturing, and his bombast?  Why are so many willing to believe, forget, overlook, or rationalize his flagrant lies?  I can’t wrap my head around those who excuse and forgive his blatant incompetence.  I don’t understand those who seek four more years of his divisive and hate-filled speech, his racism and his support for right-wing white nationalism.

This Darth is undeniably diagnosable. At least three diagnoses from the mental health bible, DSM-5, are accurately descriptive:

·         Paranoid personality disorder is a pattern of distrust and suspiciousness such that others’ motives are interpreted as malevolent.

·         Narcissistic personality disorder is a pattern of grandiosity, need for admiration, and lack of empathy.

·         Antisocial personality disorder is a pattern of disregard for, and violation of, the rights of others.

And, by the way, this current Darth is no stable genius.  He’s not even very bright.  He’s propped up by the Hannity’s, the Ingraham’s and the Carlson’s, FOX commentators who are intelligent and articulate.  But they are ideologues, each one promoting a conservative right-wing agenda. Darth gives them some muscle. In return, they give Darth some credibility. Darth is their convenient and accommodating means to an end.  Each of them is too smart not to detect Darth’s lunacy.  But to an ideologue, any means justifies the end, even if it means supporting lies, deceit, and corruption.

I cringe at the thought that this Darth might win the election.  If he does, I will remember a line from a different story, a different movie, when the world appeared overwhelmed by darkness. “There is some good in this world, Mr. Frodo, and it’s worth fighting for.”

Never before has my generation feared violence in the aftermath of an election.  Never before has my generation felt so much at stake in one election. Never in my lifetime has democracy seemed so threatened and so fragile. Now, we anxiously wait to see how Darth and his henchmen will try to suppress the vote and subvert the election. 

I brace myself for whatever may occur after November 3rd.  May the force be with us and may the future bring us some beautiful days in the neighborhood.

Do-Overs

As a kid, I used to play baseball and touch-football in the park across from my house.  There was no adult supervision.  There were no referees.  Often there were close plays and disputed calls.  I don’t remember the disputes ever leading to fights.  It never got that serious.  We kept it fun and friendly.  We agreed to do-overs.

I used to golf.  If the course was not too busy and I made a bad shot, I took a mulligan, a do-over. My friends did the same. None of us were competitive golfers.  The do-overs gave us a chance to practice a few extra shots.  It gave us a chance to play the ball from the fairway instead of from the deep rough or two fairways over.  Do-overs made the game less frustrating.

I used to bowl.  Among my friends we had an understanding that, with a gutter ball, we got a do-over.  We could make a mistake and pretend it didn’t happen.  There was a little harmless self-deception going on as we calculated our final scores. Today, with electronic scoring, bowling is not so forgiving. Do-overs are no longer allowed.

When I was in public school, do-overs on tests were not allowed.  A do-over meant having to do the entire grade over. That kind of do-over was serious business, nothing to be desired (so I was told by those in-the-know).  When my children were in public school, they were occasionally allowed do-overs on assignments and exams.  As a parent I questioned that policy.

I used to play chess and other board games with my friends, no do-overs allowed.  However, when I played Connect-4 or other games with kids in the office, I not only allowed do-overs, I encouraged them.  The game was not a competition.  My job was teacher, coach, and therapist.  I wanted to teach kids to slow down, to look carefully at their options, and to learn from their mistakes.

I play poker.  There are no do-overs.

In life, there are limited opportunities for do-overs.  Career do-overs and marriage do-overs are sometimes possible but not easy and not always the best choice.  Just because you can, doesn’t mean you should take a do-over.  A do-over doesn’t guarantee better outcome.  Usually, the lesson learned from a major life do-over is, “wherever I go, there I am.”

As for raising children, there are no do-overs.

With age, there are less chances for do-overs. Instead, there are more what-ifs. Psychologist Erik Erikson said that around age 65 we begin to assess our life, looking back with either a sense of satisfaction or with regret, feeling that life has been worthwhile and well-lived or viewing much of life as squandered and meaningless.  I have a few regrets, mostly trivial.  For the most part, I look back on my life with pride and satisfaction. I don’t need or want a do-over.

Love Letters

It was 6^th grade. My friend Paul and I were looking through old boxes in the basement. We found a stack of love letters my father had written to my mother during World War II.  We were fascinated by the ‘mushy’ parts, laughing quietly as we read them, until my mother discovered what we were up to and put an end to it.

Not so long ago I reread those letters. I transcribed them and arranged them in sequence. I wanted to get a glimpse of my father as a young man. I wanted to construct a narrative of my father’s war experience.  I wanted to understand my parents’ courtship, the months and circumstances immediately preceding their long and often unhappy marriage.

In 1943, my father received his commission as a 2^nd lieutenant and was sent to bombardier school at Lowry Air Force Base in Denver, Colorado.  That’s where he met my mother.  Ninety days later he was transferred from Denver to Euphrata, Washington for B-17 flight training.  That’s where the letters begin.

In December, my father was sent overseas to England with the 8^th Air Force, 91^st division.  Between January and April 1944, he flew 25 missions over France and Germany.  Among his medals, he received the Distinguished Flying Cross and the Purple Heart.

Researching official military records, I found reports from each of my father’s 25 missions, including dates, details of the intended target, the number of airplanes lost, the number of airmen killed, and the number of airmen missing in action.  In his letters, my father did not (and perhaps could not) mention any of the details of these missions.  The most he said was, “It was rough, but don’t worry.” Sometimes, when the missions were particularly difficult, he didn’t write at all.

My father was a Jewish airman fighting against the Nazis.  Strikingly absent from his letters was any mention of Hitler, or Germany, or religion, or country.  The letters expressed no philosophical, political, or patriotic thought. He began each letter “Helen Darling,” and wrote about returning home to the girl he loved.  A few times he added a romantic verse of Robert Burns’ poetry.  Occasionally there was a request for some hard-to-obtain food item. Otherwise he wrote with immaculate penmanship in a tone of resolve and reassurance.

In one of my father’s letters he wrote that there were stories from the war he would one day tell his children.  He never told us those stories.  

Before being sent into combat, my father had known my mother for only a few months.  Was he really writing to my mother or to a fantasy, the girl he needed my mother to be?  Perhaps being in love was my father’s necessary distraction from the horrors of war.  Confronted with a terrifying present, there must have been some comfort imagining a romantic future.

After completing his missions my father was transferred back to the states.  One month later he and my mother were married.