Carol Bergman

I want everybody to be smart. As smart as they can be. A world of ignorant people is too dangerous to live in.

 

― Paul to Billie in Garson Kanin's,  Born Yesterday

 

 

I've started a couple of winter projects this year. The first is what I call "slow re-reading" of novels I've kept on my shelves through more than twenty moves over the years, across the continent and across the Atlantic.

I wasn't born yesterday; I was born the day before yesterday. My book collection spans several decades and some of the pages are brown and brittle. Once re-read, I toss them into the recycle bin or donate them. But I won't do that until I have pulled some quotes and taken notes about the author's bio, narrative devices, and the armature of the book—the foundation that holds the book's "meaning" together.

 

I rarely buy new books these days. I belong to three libraries and borrow e books, though occasionally I buy an e book. In other words, once the novel is reread and I toss it or donate it, it's physical disappearance is final, like a death I suppose. Perhaps I am grappling with mortality or, at the very least, divestment of material possessions. That said, I think I get smarter every time I reread a book knowing that I won't keep it; it embeds in my heart, my psyche, and my brain. I hope this is not an illusion. At the very least, slow re-reading is a good discipline for a writer. And it's meditative, it forces me to linger, to take my time and disregard the fast moving social media world seducing me. Who needs that world?  Who really needs it? Why have we been persuaded that we need it? Distraction is not the same as education. Some of our citizens are so distracted by social media scrolls and trolls that they are not thinking clearly. They are befuddled. They do not know what a disruptive calculating fascist is, or how he—or  it—behaves. 

 

So the election has surfaced after all, much as I try to suppress it for a few hours a day.

 

My second winter project is to immerse in old movies, many of them free, albeit with occasional ads. My husband, is a screenwriter and movies are his thing. Indeed, he is an encyclopedia of movie history. I, on the other hand, am on a movie history learning curve, which is good for my brain and my spirit.

 

 

First up the other night: Born Yesterday. It was made in 1951 during the McCarthy HUAC hearings which do not feel that long ago given the insanity in Congress right now and the prospect of worse. Indeed the setting of the story is Washington DC. Strange, how the capitol always looks sublime in a photo, a film, or the faux backdrop on MSNBC as the pundits pundit about our faltering democracy.

 

Holliday plays Billie Dawn in the film, a reprise of her stage performance. Billie is  a "dumb blonde" hooked up with a mobster who is in DC to corrupt a politician. Holliday, the person, was not at all dumb. She  started her career in a group called the Revuers, a Saturday Night Live-style political sketch show based in Greenwich Village. And because she hung out with left leaning activists, she was  "called to testify" before the Senate Internal Security Subcommittee in 1952 chaired by Senator Pat McCarran who was trying to push anti-immigrant legislation through Congress and enjoyed targeting anyone of "Middle European" descent, Jews in particular. Plus ça change.

 

"Called to testify" isn't quite accurate; she had to defend herself against accusations of "communism."  Her lawyer told her to pretend she was Billie Dawn and  "play dumb," which she did, refusing to name names. But she still was black-listed and her career suffered, and so did she. She died at 43 from breast cancer. Her performance in Born Yesterday is her memorial and her legacy, an indictment of ignorance, and a celebration of a woman's acquisition of knowledge and emancipation.

 

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.