Carol Bergman

 

We'll always have Paris.

-Rick to Ilsa in Casablanca

 

Screenplay credits: Julius J. Epstein, Philip G. Epstein, Howard Koch.

 

Based on Everybody Comes to Rick's by Joan Allison and Murray Burnett

 

 

My friend Liat, who lives in England, texted me from the Eurostar to say she was on her way to Paris to celebrate her birthday. Her husband surprised her. What a gift! Memories of my trips to Paris surged, and I wanted to be there, and stay there. It was because of the election and the decade I spent overseas away from America. I asked myself: What are you doing here?  Why did you come back? 

 

I was alone with this rhetorical question. My husband feels more American than European—he's a third generation American, whereas I am a first generation American raised in a European household. But feeling American, whatever that means, it was not the only reason we returned. We had a young child and we wanted her to have grandparents. I never had grandparents. So we returned to America, relinquishing our jobs and flat, many of our accumulated possessions, our friends, and our colleagues. But we were pleased that our daughter would have dual citizenship and grandparents. She is now married to a man with dual citizenship and she crosses borders with ease. "I'm relieved we live in New York State," I said  to her during our first post-election conversation, hoping this would provide some comfort to both of us. But then I channeled John Lennon and thought: Imagine if there were no countries and no religions and no terrorists and no soldiers and no bombs and no drones.

 

"We're worried about the tariffs," Jessica, another UK friend, wrote when I asked her about the British reaction to the election. "And also our new Prime Minister, Keir Starmer, once compared Trump to Hitler."  Surprisingly, therefore, Starmer was one of the first leaders to congratulate Trump on his win: "I know that the UK-US special relationship will continue to prosper on both sides of the Atlantic for years to come," he said.

 

Blah blah, blah blah blah.

 

Well, we'll always have Paris, I thought to myself, or the image of Paris, or the metaphor of Paris, the city of light and the birthplace of the enlightenment. If the enlightenment returns to America, will she be a 18th century lady stripping her petticoats in public, or will she be a woman in a burgundy pant suit taking the oath of office? And does this choice spanning the centuries make any sense?

 

Sometimes my memories of Paris are tethered to my dreams. I am in a café wearing a black trench coat writing in my journal as the tourists stream by. I speak French fluently, of course, and know my way around the city without a map. I sit on a bench in the Luxembourg gardens and read. As an expat, I vote absentee, but hardly pay attention to American politics in between Presidential elections.  I have nothing to kill, argue, or die for, and I live my life in peace.

 

 

Education is our only political safety. Outside of this ark all is deluge.

 

-Horace Mann (1796-1859)

 

 

   

This is what I wrote early in the day yesterday:

 

Election Day, 2024, and I am sketching out a post-election blog post at 12:48 p.m. In other words, it's still early; we won't have a result for a few days the pundits tell us. I voted by mail-in ballot and feel relaxed today, though I am not sure why.  Or, perhaps I do know why.  Beyond what we have done to encourage those in our orbit to vote, the postcards we've written, the canvassing we've done, we are powerless to influence the outcome. For a few hours—or days—during this hiatus, suspended in a hammock of time, we can listen to music, enjoy the crisp autumn weather, enjoy our friends and family, and let go.  We all need the rest.

 

Early this morning, I went for a workout and then to my local supermarket where I had yet another interesting encounter while standing on line. The woman behind me was eager to talk about the election. This is how she began:  "I am so freaked out, my daughter is so freaked out, they are trying to take away our vote."

 

Where to begin? How to say all I needed to say as the line inched forward. How to maintain my cool and empathy for this hysterical uneducated—or  undereducated—woman ? In that moment of confusion, I made a silent decision to carry a copy of the Constitution with me from now on. I could have pulled it up on my phone, but that would have been too distracting. I remained silent, but also attentive.

 

"I know I need to relax, right?" she said.

"Best to calm down," I began, "for your daughter's sake, if not for your own."

"I believe in the women's right to choose."

"Excellent. That is good for your daughter, and for all women," I said.

"But they are trying to steal our votes?"

 

The "they" in her sentence gave me pause. I took a breath and asked, "Who is they? Women have been able to vote since 1920. Are you familiar with the 19th Amendment?"

 

She was not. Indeed, she had conflated Roe v Wade and a woman's right to choose with a woman's right to vote.

 

Once outside in the lot, unloading the apples and cider for my drop-by election party tonight, I thought to myself: This is a blessing. Now we know how undereducated even our "liberal" population is. We have to get to work.

 

And this is what I wrote this morning:

 

November 6, 2024, waking to the result that Trump has smoked the Democrats, that the Republicans have taken the Senate, and may take the House. Disbelief, shock, sadness.  Were we—the Democrats among us—misled or in denial? The sweep is difficult to compute. Our daughter calls for an early morning FT post mortem. Her dad is an historian, and she has incisive historical perspective: "It began with the backlash against Obama," she says. I manage to eke out one sentence: "I am glad we live in New York State."

 

Facebook has gone silent except for one friend who has set up a shrine and is sitting shiva for the United States. It does feel like a wake, but I can't relate to this response. A Black male friend writes: "Sadly all the dog whistles are turning into sirens." This does not explain the Black vote or the bonding between Black and White males. That has to be examined in the months to come.

 

Then there is the commiseration from friends overseas as though the result has nothing to do with them. Problem is, what happens here will affect the world, that's obvious: Ukraine, Israel, NATO, Gaza. All will be impacted as of January 20, 2025.

 

How is my day different? My life different? Is this now a fascist country? Important questions posed my my daughter.

 

"Off for a swim," I say as we end our FT call and go on with our lives, one day at a time.

 

In the pool, three ideas for stories surface as I count my laps, a meditation. This is solace. I imagine a conversation with myself: As I writer, it's my mandate to witness and document—if  I am able—as  I did with Covid in my Virus Without Borders blog posts. I will do something similar in the weeks and months ahead, taking detours into other subjects as they occur to me. And as an educator, I will devote myself to my students and to other educators struggling in the classroom. I will resist book bans, pressure from School Boards, and encourage the pursuit of knowledge, the completion of important projects, and through knowledge and achievement hope for a more educated and compassionate electorate. This is a radical project suffused with hope. It requires courage, activism and resistance to despair. I hope some of my readers will join me in similar endeavors.

 

The mission of women is to be beautiful and to bring children into the world.

 

-Joseph Goebbels, Hitler's Reich Minister of Propaganda, 1933-1945

 

 

I woke up this morning thinking about the Bret Baier interview with Kamala Harris. Not the obvious ploy of his aggressive interruptions, but the semiotics of the camera shots from behind Baier's muscular shoulders looking down on the Vice President and dominating her. Not only did he use his voice to try to diminish her, he used his stature, literally and figuratively. As I have worked in newsrooms and studios, I am sure, absolutely certain, that the camera person was instructed to shoot from behind Baier at regular intervals. The semiotics of the managed scene was reminiscent of Trump stalking Hillary during their debate.

 

Any woman who has struggled to make herself heard, to achieve status, earn a wage equal to her male peers or—on the more domestic level—get her male partner to pull his weight raising children and running a household will understand what happened, what viewers saw and understood: propaganda.

 

My early morning realization would not quit. I went online to read excerpts from Mein Kampf. There have been rumors that Trump read Hitler's 1924 manifesto and kept a copy by his bedside. I am sure he has it memorized by now. The parallels between the two men are stark. Hitler began writing while he was in prison following his conviction for high treason to overthrow the German Republic in what is known as the "Beer Hall Putsch." Trump has not yet been imprisoned, but he and his cohorts attempted a violent coup. They already have the Supreme Court in their pockets, and many federal judges.

 

In recent weeks we've heard the word "misogyny," to describe the reaction of some men—white and Black—to the possibility of a woman becoming their Commander in Chief. And we heard President Obama blasting Black men for such a reaction. He even invoked Michelle during the encounter, and laughed as he did so, as did his audience. But it is not a laughing matter for men to denigrate women and threaten them with incarceration in the domestic sphere. What JD Vance is saying about women and what Joseph Goebbels said are nearly identical; one a lawyer, the other with a PhD in philology. All the education in the world did not dampen their hatreds.  

 

 "Make the lie big, make it simple, keep saying it, and eventually they will believe it," Goebbels once said. Sound familiar?

 

On the eve of this election let us keep in mind that it doesn't take much for a democracy to fail, and for a frightened population to fall under the spell of despotic, manipulative killers. It's our mandate as free Americans to fight the fascists in our midst at the ballot box, to make this election a landslide, and to ask everyone we know to stand with us.

 

 

Ours is a world of nuclear giants and ethical infants. We know more about war than we know about peace, more about killing than we know about living. We have grasped the mystery of the atom and rejected the Sermon on the Mount."

                                                                        ― General Omar N. Bradley

 

 

The Norwegian Nobel Committee has awarded  the 2024 Nobel Peace Prize to the Japanese organization Nihon Hidankyo, a grassroots movement of atomic bomb survivors from Hiroshima and Nagasaki. No one can know for certain the Committee's deliberations behind closed doors, but it seems obvious that the Doomsday Clock has inched further to midnight this year. The "taboo" against using nuclear weapons is "under pressure," the Committee wrote in their announcement, an understatement. And though conventional weapons can wreak destruction beyond all imagining—Vietnam, Israel, Gaza, Sudan, Ukraine and now Beirut—it is the specter of a nuclear explosion, and various disarmament treaties that for the last 80 years have acted as a deterrent to the annihilation of all humankind.

 

Survivors of Nagasaki and Hiroshima have become living witnesses to the nightmare scenario of nuclear holocaust. Having met a few of them, I was particularly gratified to read about the Nobel announcement as many are aging out of recognition for their efforts to work for a sustaining peace in our troubled world.

 

I first met then 83-year-old Sueichi Kido from Nagasaki in May of 2015. He was one of twenty survivors of the atomic blasts who traveled to New York for the opening of an exhibit in the UN lobby, and discussions about the world's nuclear arsenal. A small man with a cherubic face, badly burned, Mr. Kido, a retired history professor, has devoted his retirement years to telling his story. Miraculously, he is still alive, and still working for peace. "There aren't many of us left. We are getting old, we are sick," he says. Five-years-old at the time of the blast and living within the 2 km epicenter, his mother carried him away from the wind and flames in search of shelter. Flesh was melting off their bodies, they were thirsty. There was no water, no shelter, no medical facility. The city had been incinerated. Needless to say, there was no question of a normal childhood for Mr. Kido after this holocaust. He didn't stop trembling until he was ten-years-old, or laugh, or play. PTSD doesn't describe the implosion in his body and his soul.

   
The survivors of the bombings are called hibakusha, a Japanese word that literally translates to "explosion-affected people." Hibakusha and their children have been stigmatized in Japan and it is only recently that the government has recognized their medical complaints as a consequence of the blasts. My husband's uncle, Norman Cousins, the editor of The Saturday Review used the platform of the magazine for a post-blast adoption program. Subscribers sponsored orphans and later brought twelve disfigured  "Hiroshima Maidens" to the United States for reconstructive surgery.

 

You can read about the project here:

 

 https://hibakushastories.org/wp-content/uploads/2013/10/Hiroshima-Maidens.pdf

 

There is a plaque set in a stone dedicated to Norman Cousins at the Peace Park in Hiroshima,  and members of our family still attend ceremonies there every year.  President Truman and his advisers censored the press after the blasts and suppressed the stories of the military witnesses and survivors. Even General MacArthur doubted the wisdom of dropping the bombs, and feared it. He argued that the saturation bombing of Tokyo—200, 000 killed—just  prior to the nuclear blasts, would end the war just as quickly. 

 

"We knew the world would not be the same," J. Robert Oppenheimer said after the first test blast on July 16, 1945. "A few people laughed, a few people cried. Most people were silent. I remembered the line from the Hindu scripture, the Bhagavad-Gita... "Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds."

 

This post is dedicated to President Barack Obama, the first American president to pay his respects at the Peace Park in Hiroshima. 

 

 

 

 

 

My sense is that if I spend more time talking to you then I spend complaining about you, then something wonderful often happens and the enlightenment is mutual.    

         

Ta Ne-hisi Coates, The Message

 

 

The man in the straw hat sat next to us at the Mexican restaurant and stared at us as he ordered. He threw glances, smiled, guffawed. It was obvious he was keen on conversation and hoped we were willing. I wasn't pleased as I'd looked forward to a quiet evening with my husband parsing Jack Smith's new filing to the DC court. Before long the man in the straw hat commented on the fish design on my husband's shirt. I'd bought it for him years ago in Sag Harbor; my husband loves to fish. Now the man in the straw hat said, "Do you like to fish?" And, of course, that began a bonding conversation between the two men about fishing. Before long, the man in the straw hat revealed he was a pastor, an evangelical pastor, that he ran a rehab somewhere, that he'd been an addict, that he'd met his wife in grade school and really really loved her, that his five kids and five grandkids lived with them during Covid and that none of them were vaccinated and look at them all: they are all thriving now.

 

I kicked my husband under the table. It was obvious he hadn't heard the bit about the vaccines or he might have stopped talking to the guy. We all know that there is a strong correlation between anti-vaxxers and the traitor running for president who can't keep his mouth shut, whose mouth is spewing hateful, horrible lies all day long, who exacerbated the pandemic, amplified its toll, because of the anti-maskers and anti-vaxxers who still adore him.

 

I tried to start a conversation with the pastor's ever-so-retiring wife. I asked her name, but that's as far as I got. Then I called for the waiter and asked for the check. I couldn't wait to get out of there, away from the toxic pastor. Once we were in the car, I began to reflect on life in public places before Covid and before Trump. In those long ago days, my curiosity never quit, I'd talk to anyone. Now I sometimes feel that an invasive species has rooted itself into my once tranquil neighborhood. As much as I'd like to listen without judgment, which is my inclination as well as my occupation, I am finding it difficult, if not impossible, as our election looms.

 

Will we ever return to mutuality and civility as Ta Ne-hisi suggests we should and must?  It seems like a utopian ideal, one to continue to strive for nonetheless

 

A nationalist will say that "it can't happen here," which is the first step toward disaster. A patriot says that it could happen here, but that we will stop it.

 

― Timothy Snyder, On Tyranny

 

 

Freedom is not just an absence of evil. Freedom is a presence of good. It is the value of values, the condition in which we choose and combine the good things, bringing them into the world, leaving our own unique trace. It is positive.

 

-Timothy Snyder, On Freedom

 

I took Timothy Snyder's advice and put my body in an unfamiliar place with unfamiliar people, the Justice Court in the small village where I live in Upstate New York.  Full disclosure, I went with a friend who was feeling trepidatious after receiving a speeding ticket, and asked for support. She had never been to court before and had asked if I'd find out more about this particular court. Then she asked if I'd call my Sheriff "friend" to put in a good word, or if I knew the judge. I had interviewed the Sheriff for the local paper, but he is not my friend; there's a firewall between my professional and personal life. But my friend was scared, and not thinking clearly. I told her the request was inappropriate, and she understood.

 

We decided we'd both wear suits and tame our wild hairstyles, out of respect for the court and the formality of its proceedings. Our politics dictate this posture: humility, no one above the law. Thus do we all stand when the judge enters the courtroom; he is the emblem of our 240-year-old imperfect judicial system.

 

There are almost 1,200 Justice Courts in New York State, and thousands more in small towns across the country. They deal with small-town matters: evictions, family troubles, small claims, traffic violations, and are considered the courts "closest to the people," according to a New York State brochure I just read.  But for all its modesty, the rituals of a Justice Court are impressive, even awe-inspiring. On the day my friend was scheduled to appear, there was a long line to pass through a rigorous security check. The usual impulse to chat to a neighbor had dissipated, the hallway utterly silent. Once inside the courtroom, we were directed to hard wooden pews, and settled in to what turned out to be a long night. The movement of the police officers in their bulky bullet-proof vests and pistols, the lawyers in their black and gray suits, and the clerks conducting the well-choreographed proceedings were mesmerizing in their apparent harmony and efficiency. The judge seemed far away, snuggled behind his elevated, portentous desk, speaking privately—no microphone—and  sotto voce to everyone.

 

Then it was my friend's turn to approach the bench. Time had run out and her case was postponed until the following week, which was deflating and also stressful. There was nothing to do but go out for a hearty meal and try to relax.

 

I couldn't stop thinking about that courtroom all week, how quiet it was, how well organized. Everyone knew their role and their place, everyone was polite, and everyone appearing in front of the judge was—not surprisingly—attentive . I wondered if Trump felt anything similar in the courtrooms he has been in of late: fear, for example, or wonder. Is he totally oblivious to the rigors and purpose of our judicial system? In the best of times, in the worst of times, this is a system that works, that can be made to work if we continue to attend to its flaws and correct them.  

 

Most local justices are elected officials. If we don't approve of what they do, we are free to take our objections to the ballot box. As for the political corruption of SCOTUS, that's a more complicated challenge, one of many we'll be facing in the days, months and years beyond November 5th.

 

This post is dedicated to all the young American citizens, and new American citizens, who will be voting for the first time in November.

 

 

It is a tale told by an idiot,

 full of sound and fury,

signifying nothing.

 

-from Macbeth by William Shakespeare

 

 

 

Another encounter with a stranger in a parking lot last week raised my spirits and reminded me that none of us need be strangers if we open ourselves to conversation and connection. The sound and fury all around us—social media, cable news, unending talk shows—is deafening, and we must shut it down to hear our own voices, those of others in our orbit and, even more importantly, out of our orbit. How do we feel? What are we thinking? What are our particular challenges right now? And what about all the innocent earthlings caught in the orbit of those who are disgraced?

 

The woman in the parking lot—her name was Estelle—had a dark blue Honda, younger than mine by ten years or so, but the paint is chipping, she complained. It was a cool autumn day and I was willing to linger for conversation.  My mantra at the end of a close-knit, trusting talk these days is always, "Are you registered to vote?" But within minutes,  Estelle and I established that we were both registered to vote, could not wait to vote, were both Democrats, and had migrated from the city  to upstate New York, she from Harlem and I from Washington Heights. And we have even more in common: We both have a grown daughter, and we both are educators. I was relieved. I could relax into the conversation and, by the end, had handed her my card. "Let's meet for a coffee some time," I said, whereupon she blessed me. The cadence of her New York accent soothed me, the blessing more so. My readers will know that I never refuse a blessing, or deflect it. "Thank you," I said. "I could use a blessing today."

 

 

"People may disappoint us," she said, "but He never does."

 

I told her that I have no faith in a "higher power," but I would cherish her blessing nonetheless. I would put it in my jar of blessings and pull it out whenever I am disappointed by the hatred I sometimes receive on email in response to something I've written, for example.

 

Then I headed home, the radio tuned to one of several syndicated evangelical stations I can pick up in Ulster County. I land on them by accident because the music—country, folk, or pop—lures me. The music is followed by a bible reading or a sermon, suffused with sturm und drang, fear, sin and exhortation; it keeps me glued. One sermon this week was about abortion, how doctors are executing babies, one of the newest vicious tropes. It was upsetting to hear it spew out of the mouth of a young woman lay preacher who hopefully has never needed an abortion. She ended the screed with a call to the ballot box.  

 

How many of my neighbors are listening to these stations, I wonder? I have no idea. I only know that most of America is lost to me here in the mountains, among like-minded acquaintances, colleagues and friends. Beyond my day-to-day forays into my neighborhood, my digitalized, atomized world is secluded and circumscribed. I struggle not to turn away from troubling ideas, events and people into the comfort of my own certainties. That zone of safety is an illusion.

 

 

 

Ah, the women are nearly always right, all the same, he says. Do you know what the women have a gift for?

 

What?

 

Eventualities. A good woman can look far down the line and smell what's coming before a man even gets a sniff of it.

 

-Claire Keegan,  Foster

 

 

The Greek diner was empty when we pulled into the driveway near dinner time. We were down near Newburgh for an eye check appointment and after a long wait needed a culinary respite and some fun in preparation for The Big Debate. Most Greek diners date back to the 1950s when there was a wave of Greek immigration. Some are faux copies, but the Ikaros looked authentic. Its stainless steel art deco trim sparkled in the late day autumn sunshine, but the concrete steps leading to the entrance were broken, and we had to step over them, which might have been a warning, if we had been in the mood to heed such warnings. Despite their higher prices these days, we looked forward to the menu, which we knew would be voluminous, and include a spanakopita, my favorite.

 

There was only one other couple in a booth and a couple of waitresses, dressed in black with aprons tied around their waists. Charming, I thought. But the silence in the nearly empty room reverberated. If the diner wasn't doing well, what would the food be like? The waitress plunked down two glasses of water, her hand all over the top of the glasses. Not so charming. I dipped my paper napkin into the water and cleaned them. Don't make a fuss, I said to myself. We are here to relax. But my well-honed city "attitude" was already in gear. I would have sent those glasses back pronto in the city. 

 

Then came the menus and the waitress hovering behind me as we perused the gazillion choices, ordered, and thanked her. More waiting in a day of waiting. I figured the spanakopita was frozen and my husband's eggs benedict flown in from parts unknown. Something's wrong, I said to myself. We should have left before we stepped over the broken steps. Sometimes my intuition won't quit, or is it my writer's imagination? 

 

The food arrived, it was eatable, and we enjoyed our conversation. Then it was time for the check. I had decided to treat my husband and pulled out my credit card. Our waitress had disappeared, rush-hour traffic was building, and we wanted to get going. I took my credit card and headed for the restroom. There was our waitress, sitting on a stool at the counter, scrolling on her phone, it seemed. I handed her my card. She barely looked up at me, but I took a good long look at her for future reference: in her 40s maybe, hair salt and pepper, and disheveled, no makeup and close-together eyes. She was still on her phone when I surfaced from the restroom. What was she typing into her phone as she held onto my credit card,  and why wasn't our check ready? All those strange lingering- at- our- table moments, and now this. I was already writing the noir screenplay.

 

The obligatory scene at the table came next: The check with credit card plunked down, and the waitress at my shoulder. I was paralyzed with haut disdain, and  could not say anything as she watched me decide on a tip and sign the receipt. But that wasn't the end of it. The end of it was my conviction that she had stolen my credit card information. She was a thief and I would report her to the local constabulary.

 

I checked my credit card statement as soon as I returned home and for two days after. So far so good. It seems as though my imagination went wild, or I had momentarily lost trust in humankind. Why had it disappeared so suddenly? Was it the prospect of another assault from the guy who should be in an orange jump suit? None of the above, dear reader. I had mistaken, or misread, the waitress's boredom and eccentricity. Mea culpa.

 

 

 

This is my story. A story of how my determination to become a top professional table tennis competitor helped me overcome the stigma of being physically disabled and survive the obstacles of homelessness and petty crime.

 

 

-Tahl Leibovitz

The Book of Tahl; From Homelessness to Paralympic Gold

 

 

 

I was already a tennis player when I arrived at UC Berkeley, but my boyfriend, Jim, had never seen a tennis racket before, not a decent one anyway. We were in love so, naturally, I decided to teach him how to play. Never having had the opportunity, he had no idea he'd be good at racket sport, very good. I had always been a competitive athlete "for a girl," and I wasn't going to subsume my competitive spirit to a guy, even to a guy I was in love with. It was very frustrating because Jim was a hot shot the minute his racket touched the ball, and I never got a game off him once he learned how to play.

 

Fast forward to our decade-long sojourn in London where Jim became a squash player, and then in New York where he took up racquet ball. And then one day he got hit on the left ear with the dense, hard racquet ball and developed vertigo. He'd been in the navy on a ship for a couple of years so the swaying sensation was familiar, but every athlete loathes injury if it means lay-off , and Jim was miserable. Off he went one day for a swaying walk up 86th street between Second and Third Avenue where he found a pool hall. At the very back were several table tennis tables and a tall guy giving lessons. That was it, he was hooked. Here was a racquet sport he could play forever, and all over the world.

 

Years passed and Jim met Tahl Lebovitz, who became one of his coaches. Tahl had a back story that resonated with Jim. They both had similar hardships in childhood because of abusive parents: Tahl had been homeless, Jim spent some of his growing up years in foster care. But it wasn't only their rough childhoods that drew them into a trusting collaboration; they both have physical disabilities—Tahl has bone tumors and Jim had polio that left one side of his body smaller than the other, not as serious as Tahl's disability, but serious enough. Both are disciplined avid table tennis players though Jim will never be able to get a game off Tahl, which must be divine justice. Tahl also competes against able-bodied players and is a member of the US Paralympic Team; he's just home from Paris as I write and his memoir, completed before his departure, is now published and available online:  The Book of Tahl

 

There's always a story behind a story, and this is Jim's and Tahl's and his wife Dawn's, who loves to sing at church, and mine, too, as I have watched the relationship between these two remarkable men deepen over the months of working together on Tahl's book. Tahl's story, and the honor of publishing his memoir, has lifted our spirits, as I am sure it will lift yours.

 

 

All you have to do, I tell myself, is keep your mouth shut and look stupid. It shouldn't be that hard.       

       

- Margaret Atwood, The Handmaid's Tale

 

We're not going back.

 

-Vice President Kamala Harris

 

 

 

After I float out of the bardo and re-incarnate somewhere in Upstate NY deep in the majestic mountains, I'd like to return undercover as a man with a badge, a horse, wives and daughters to serve me, as needed, and entitlement up the kazoo. Let's flip The Handmaid's Tale, a fascist dystopia, which I am watching now for the first time—it's brilliant—and create a Handsome Man's Tale. Like June Osborne, Margaret Atwood's protagonist in the original novel, and again in the Hulu adaptation, I'm trying to keep my feminist shit together in the midst of virulent misogyny.

 

The charged, sexist language spewing out of the Trump campaign did not surface in a void; it is embedded in our culture, in our history, and in our literature. Trump is particularly adept at improvising tropes: a woman is nasty, or she is a bedbug, or not his type. In Richard Ford's masterful (note the male referent) 1986 novel, The Sportswriter, the protagonist Frank Bascombe, is lovable and clueless. He has no idea why he's not married any more even as he fantasizes a woman's "surrender." He feels so lonely late in the day after work that he drives up to the train station and watches the "Jewish lawyers" who work in DC debark.  Apart from their suits and briefcases, how did Ford's protagonist know they were lawyers, much less Jewish lawyers? "Jewish lawyers," is an antisemitic trope. Might as well throw in one of those, too, into this otherwise wonderful novel. And, yes, of course, Richard Ford's novels are still on my shelves, but only because I perform a sleight of hand and brain: This is the character's voice, not the author's. Or, Ford is a man of his time. He was born in Mississippi, after all. And so on.

 

Years after reading the Bascombe novels, I spotted Richard Ford in a restaurant and decided I'd ask him about the antisemitic trope. I tried to hold myself back from approaching him knowing I might not be able to speak up. I told myself that the famous author was enjoying his meal and his privacy. Nice try; I was enraged. I walked up to his table, and told him how much I enjoyed his books, which is also true. And that freeze, that holding back, was more than politeness; it was abnegation. The moment passed, he mumbled, "thank you," and I walked away, abject, a consequence of abnegation. Then I went home and wrote to his agent: "Is Mr. Ford aware of the antisemitic trope 'Jewish lawyer'?" No reply.

 

Sometimes it's easier—and safer—to stay silent, but surrender hurts, too; we have to resist.

 

Which is what I am doing today by writing this blog post.