The Romantic's Ghetto

The Romantic's Ghetto
Some say their roots are in the land
In the strength and dignity of furrowed country rows
Mine are in the blaze of neonGiving light and breath to the tenements lining ghetto streets.

Some say their faith was honed on cathedral glass
And sharpened by regal priestly robes
Mine was cut on jagged ghetto glass
And purified by the clatter of subway steel.

Some say they have an eye for distant landscapes
Or the refined beauty of a mountain stream.
Mine is tuned to a ragged ghetto face
Or the cloistered ghetto masses forgotten by the rush of time.

Where's the dignity of life to be found?
In the land? In a stream?
For some it is for sure.....Where is it then for me?
It's the romance of the Ghetto that will always fill my soul.
© 1995 Phil Dillon

Remembrance

I missed the anointing this past Thursday. Like a lot of Kansans I was watching Seinfeld reruns. Given a choice between crass comedy and crass politics, Elaine, Jerry, George, and Kramer seemed to be better viewing than the display in Boston.

Yesterday I finally decided that, in order to be a good citizen, I needed to find out what Senator Kerry had to say. So, I read the transcript of his acceptance speech on the DNC web page. There were two things that struck a cord with me. The first was his remembrance of the state of our Union after the September 11 attacks. The second was his brief outline of a Kerry administration’s “use of force” doctrine.

I’ll cover remembrance in this essay and the “use of force” doctrine in a subsequent essay.

There was a ring of truth in what he had to say about unity:

“Remember the hours after September 11th, when we came together as one to answer the attack against our homeland. We drew strength when our firefighters ran up the stairs and risked their lives, so that others might live. When rescuers rushed into smoke and fire at the Pentagon. When the men and women of Flight 93 sacrificed themselves to save our nation's Capitol. When flags were hanging from front porches all across America, and strangers became friends. It was the worst day we have ever seen, but it brought out the best in all of us.”

There was a brief moment of national unity. But it was all too brief. The weeds of discontent that we thought had died in a blaze of national unity on September 11 had only been dormant

I can’t say when it all started. The discord was sown subtly, slowly, and, for the most part, unintentionally. Once sown, the weeds dug in and the discontent spread. There were shades and variations. In some parts of the country it resembled chickweed. In others it took the form of pigweed.

Then it was caught up in the currents of our time.

In their subtlest and most insidious form these weeds of discord destroyed our collective memory of what had happened that day. We forgot the victims and began to search for reasons for the brutality of the attack. Introspection replaced resolve. What had we done?

Here in Emporia the local newspaper, in its editorial work, began to ask questions about causes. Was it our wealth? The answer seemed clear. Our consumer society was now paying the price for its arrogance. We had also become a nation consumed by anger, they concluded. We needed to collectively repent and move on. Political voices chimed in. One politician addressed a high school class and concluded that, while we believed that Osama bin Laden was a terrorist, others believed he was a freedom fighter, fighting against American imperialism.

My problem was that I couldn’t move on. Nor could I accept the notion that I and millions of my countrymen were responsible for the terror inflicted that day. I responded in the only way I felt I could. I tried to make my voice heard. I wrote and pleaded for remembrance. I wrote the following to Patrick Kelley, one of the Emporia Gazette’s editorial page editors:

“It’s just like you, Mr. Kelley, to get it almost all wrong (your editorial dated 9/9).

Well, Mr. Kelley, I can see right through you. I think Bob Dylan expressed my feelings best when said, “I see through your eyes and I see through your brain like I see through the water that runs down my drain.”First, you offer us trivial solutions – stop consuming and don’t be angry any more.

Mr. Kelley, my guess is that you’ve consumed a lot more than I have since last September. So, spare me you’re your self-righteous “insight.” As for anger, I think I’ll maintain mine, thank you. In fact, I happen to think it’s justified. I happen to think it’s a righteous anger.Second you decry any response that you see as “jingoistic.” That is, don’t be too patriotic, don’t be too devoted to “national interests,” and don’t be too belligerent.Mr. Kelley, my patriotism isn’t blind. In fact, my eyes are wide open. In case you haven’t noticed, I’ll paraphrase it from Sweeney Todd for you – “there are demons lurkin’ about.” And, those demons are in Baghdad or a cave in Tora Bora, Afghanistan, not Washington, D.C.

As for being too nationalistic, I can tell you what I was doing on September 11th and the days after that last year. I was shedding tears with Americans of all stripes – Native Americans, Jews, Catholics, Protestants, Muslims, Buddhists, Atheists. I cried with gays and straights. I cried with Republicans, Democrats, Independents.

One of the enduring memories for me of those days will be a train ride my wife and I took to the Grand Canyon. It was September 14th. As the train rolled along, my wife and I sang the anthem “This Land is Your Land” and other uniquely American standards through our tears with Americans from New Jersey and Michigan and Nevada, folks we’d never met before and will probably never see again. I remember how close I felt to them then. I see, even now, how close they still are to me.

I’ll always remember the look of horror that registered on the President’s face when the news of the attack was relayed to him. Do you remember what he was doing that day, Mr. Kelley? He was reading to schoolchildren in Florida, African-American children, Hispanic children, Caucasian children, children who reflected our “national” diversity and goodness.

I’ll always remember a conversation that I had near the end of September with a very close Muslim friend from New Jersey. He confided in me that he feared a backlash against Muslims in America. I remember crying then, too, as we shared our late nineties experiences together in what we called our little marketplace of ideas, he as a devout Muslim and me as an Evangelical Christian. I told him that he and his family would be safe anywhere in America, but that if he felt the need for safety that he could come to stay with us in Emporia, Kansas. I told him that, while our theology diverged, our humanity converged and I told him that the overwhelming majority of Americans respected his right to believe as a Muslim and would defend that right to the death (I even now remain convinced that being a Muslim in America is safer than being a Muslim in Baghdad now or was in Taliban ruled Afghanistan). I told him that our national response would be sure and just. I still believe that today. I think our administration believes that too. I believe they’ll follow that course nobly.

I’ll always remember meeting Billy, a Navajo Indian guide at Monument Valley, Utah about a week after the 11th. As he drove in and out of the potholes in the valley, he told of his experience as a U.S. Marine. I remember how his face beamed when he told us of how proud he was of learning to become a Navajo medicine man. I remember as if it were a few minutes ago when he stopped and gently sang a Navajo blessing on us. I can hear his gentle voice as I now write. And, I remember our shared outrage at what had been done to our fellow citizens a few days earlier. I remember our shared conviction that the evil of the 11th could not be allowed to stand or repeated.

That may be too nationalistic for you, Mr. Kelley, but it’s not for me.

As for belligerence, I think I have that right too. Belligerence was thrust on us, not by us. I don’t know what you were doing on that morning, but I know what I was doing. My wife and I were having breakfast at a small B&B in New Mexico. At that same time, some of my fellow Americans were boarding transcontinental flights in Boston, bound for west coast meetings or a Disneyland vacation. Others were going to work at the World Trade Center. American mothers and fathers and children were probably on the Towers’ observation decks together, gazing at a great American city on a beautiful late summer day. In the eyes of Osama bin Laden those might have been, in some twisted way, belligerent acts. What’s my point? It’s this. Osama bin Laden and his minions (I include among them Saddam) probably lamented that more of us weren’t murdered that day. You see, Mr. Kelley, it wasn’t all an isolated incident to be forgotten by just getting over our anger. It was an act of war! It was an act of war against those who died and their families! It was an act of war against me! It was an act of war against my wife! It was an act of war against my children! It was an act of war against you! It was an act of war against liberty! It was an act of war against decency! It was an act of war against anything that good people in this country consider noble and just!

If all of this makes me “jingoistic,” Mr. Kelley, I accept the epithet with great pride. I’ll gladly wear that mantle. You see, I refuse to have my commitment to God and country debased. I know in my heart that I’m justified. I know because I understand the difference between good and evil. Further, I’ve probably reflected on the momentous issues laying before us as a nation far more deeply than you could ever imagine. I don’t take my responsibility as an American citizen or as a citizen of the world lightly. I’ve wrestled with the words of scripture. I’ve wrestled with the words of Aquinas and Augustine. And, I’ve come to the following conclusion. If a choice between an “evil peace” and a “just war” is thrust upon me, I will choose the latter. My firm conviction is that the President and our leaders are wrestling with issues of war and peace in much the same way.

Now, as I sit here, I think of all that’s happened in the past year and wonder how you could possibly think so little of your fellow citizens to not know that we’re well able to distinguish between righteous and unbridled anger. I wonder why you feel the need to chide us about materialism and anger, as if we were the cause of what happened. Is it contempt? Does it come from the shallowness of your own being? I honestly don’t know.

While I pray fervently that we can come to a just conclusion without war, I will not shrink from whatever responsibility is thrust upon me if it does.A year ago all I could do was cry in anguish. Today, I’m prepared to sacrifice. I also believe that millions of my countrymen are as prepared to sacrifice as I am.

A year ago, I believed the words of the prophet – “Let justice roll like might rivers.” I still believe those words today. I further believe that our national cause is just and we have responsibility before the Supreme Judge of history to ensure a just outcome to the evil that was inflicted upon us.

As you can see, Mr. Kelley, I feel very strongly about this. I haven’t just been blindly consuming this past year, nor have millions of my fellow citizens. I haven’t trivialized this monumental affront as something that just getting over our anger will solve. Neither have millions of my fellow citizens.

If all of this seems bothersome to you, Mr. Kelley, I offer a solution. It will satisfy your need as a journalist to report on evil and mine to confront it. It’ll satisfy your need to sell copy and mine to see that justice prevails. Send my letter to Osama and Saddam. Offer them an invitation on my behalf. Tell them I’ll meet them on Commercial Street or at exit 130 or maybe even somewhere out on the Flint Hills. Tell them any time of day or night will be fine. Tell them to come prepared to defend themselves (that’s more than Osama gave to thousands of my countrymen last year or Saddam gives to his countrymen today). Tell them I’ll be there armed with righteous anger and might. Tell them I’ll be there before them and the world. And, tell them, I’ll greet them with the immortal words of Rooster Cogburn, “Fill your hands, you sonsabitches.” If that’s too undignified for your tastes, you can use David’s words to Goliath and the Philistines that he would give their “carcasses to the birds of the air and the beasts of the earth.”

I got no response.

The third anniversary of the attack is approaching, a little more than a month away now. One tyrant has been plucked from a spider hole. The other is still in hiding. The weeds of discontent have almost completely choked the unity out of our national life. A lot has changed.

Me? I haven’t.

In his autobiography, All Rivers Run to the Sea, Elie Wiesel describes a man named Moshe. His fellow villagers sometimes call him Moshe the Drunkard. They sometimes call him Moshe the madman. But when the Germans came Moshe was one of the few who sounded the warning. Wiesel’s last memory of him was as Moshe the beadle – that is the court messenger. He describes his stark message – “But Moshe the beadle is different, for he lived our destiny before any of us. Messenger of the dead, he shouted his testimony from the rooftops and delivered it in silence, but either way no one would listen. People turned their backs so as not to see his eyes, as though fearing to glimpse a truth that held his past and our future in its steely grip. People tried, in vain, to make him doubt his own reason and his own memory, to accept that he had survived for nothing – indeed, to regret having survived.”

In his acceptance speech Mr. Kerry asked us to remember.

I haven't forgottenNor will I.

The Tailor Made Salvation Suit

Went down to the salvation store one day
You know, the place with the pretty windows
And the pretty people who looked pretty much alike

Sat down with the pretty people and listened to the clerk,
A pretty man with straight teeth
And..............................a crooked smile

Smiled through that crooked smile and said
"Come'ere, son, got something just for you
It's the tailor-made salvation suit
We give each new recruit

Hat size?
Seven and an eighth you say
How about six and three quarters?

Doesn't fit?
Work at it, son. Work at it
Look at all these folks around you”

Smiled through that crooked smile and said
"Come'ere, son, got something just for you
It's the tailor-made salvation suit
We give each new recruit

Shirt?
Fifteen and a half-thirty three, you say
I think we just may have one fourteen-thirty two left in stock

Are you sure it doesn't fit?
Don't breathe so hard, son. Please don't breathe so hard
Now put some money in the plate”

Smiled through that crooked smile and said
"Come'ere, son, got something just for you
It's the tailor made salvation suit
We give each new recruit

Britches, son, gotta’ get you some britches
You look like thirty-thirties to me
You say you're thirty ones?

Whaddya’ mean, 'These britches don't fit,' Bub?
Don't get testy with me, sonny boy
These britches fit every man, woman and child in this place”

Smiled through that crooked smile and said
"Come'ere, son, got something just for you
It's the tailor-made salvation suit
We give each new recruit

Son, I'll tell you one thing for sure
Socks will be easy
You know.....one size fits all

Young man, you're becoming difficult to deal with
Look at all these nice folks around you
Do you hear any of THEM complaining about the size of THEIR socks?”

Smiled through that crooked smile and said
"Come'ere, son, got something just for you
It's the tailor-made salvation suit
We give each new recruit

Let's get on to shoes, son, you're holding up the line
You say, size nine
That's fine

Oops, the nines went out the door with a group of malcontents
They just went walking down the street
Anyway, son. We're all sevens here now. We're all sevens”

Smiled through that crooked smile and said
"Come'ere son, got something just for you
It's the tailor-made salvation suit
We give each new recruit

What's that you say, son
How long does it take to fit into something that doesn't fit?
It takes time, son. You'll get your money's worth

Does anyone here ever do anything?
We're fitted just right for sitting
That's doing something, don't you think?”

Smiled through that crooked smile and said
"Come'ere, son, got something just for you
It's the tailor-made salvation suit
We give each new recruit

How long's it take to learn to say something that isn't right?
Watch yourself sonny, you're gettin' close to home
Back off, you hear.....back off!

We talk and talk and talk
About what?
You ever heard of theology, sonny? You ever heard of theology?”

Smiled through that crooked smile and said
"Come'ere, son, got something just for you
It's the tailor-made salvation suit
We give each new recruit

You know something, sonny-boy
Maybe you can't afford what we sell here
Didja’ ever think of that?

Somebody along the way has filled you full of cliches, son
Like..... "talk is cheap"
You'd better go now, son...."Time is money"

Well I turned away from that crooked smile
And walked on out the door
Went to find the malcontents
I knew that they had more


© 2002 Phil Dillon

Leavin' Memphis

Early in 1999 my wife and I were living in Memphis. In many ways we had lots of the things that folks in the south dream of - the ante-bellum home, the good paying jobs, Corky’s Barbeque, the Picadilly Cafeteria, the New Daisy Theater, and so on. But I was at the place where the only thing I was dreaming about was retirement and Memphis was not in that dream. In fact, when friends asked me what I wanted to see when I retired I almost always responded, “I want to see Memphis in my rear view mirror.”

What was it about Memphis that had driven me to this point? I’ve searched for words and the best I can come up with is “corporateness.” Our daily ritual was one of dealing with one sort of corporation or another. Our work placed us in our company’s corporate headquarters, which was corporate and beaurocractic to the “nines.” Sundays were no escape from the weekly corporate grind. We found early in our tenure that church in Memphis was corporate church. There were Baptist “campuses.” There were Methodist “campuses.” There were Assemblies of God and Charismatic “campuses.” We tried one or two and gave up. Even some of the greater Memphis communities were corporate. Take a drive east from downtown Memphis on Poplar Avenue through Germantown or Collierville some time and you’ll see what I mean.

We were being smothered by “corporateness” at every turn and knew we had to escape. We thought at first our escape route might lead to Florida. We checked Florida home prices on the internet and they seemed very reasonable, but it didn’t take long for us to realize that Florida already had enough retirees. And, the thought of having to wear seersucker was more than I could bear. We gave a day or two of thought to New Mexico. Too “new age,” we concluded. New England (my birthplace)? Too cold. New York or New Jersey? Too crowded.

And, so it went until that glorious January morning. At breakfast my wife said that she had dreamed of looking at homes in Emporia, Kansas. I tried not to appear ignorant, but curiosity got the better of me. “So, Coach, exactly where is Emporia? I’ve never heard of it.” Her answer revealed her innate innocence sprinkled with just a hint of guilt. “It’s in Kansas.”
“I know it’s in Kansas, but where in Kansas is it? Kansas is a big, big place.”
“Well, it’s about a hundred miles south of Kansas City and a hundred miles north of Wichita, but it’s only fifty miles from Topeka.”
“You mean it’s out in the middle of nowhere, right”
“Well, no. It’s close to the Flint Hills.”
“What are the Flint Hills?
“You’ll see and you’ll really like them”
She was cutting through my defenses. My resistance was growing weak. The thought of another twenty or thirty years in Memphis wasn’t what I could call a secure fortress. I only had one more question: “If we retire there will I have to wear seersucker?”

I gave in and decided it would be alright to take a trip to Emporia to “spy out the land.” We drove up to Emporia a few weeks later. A day or so after that we bought an old Prairie Victorian that we’ve since found has needed at least five years of T L C. A few months later and we found ourselves packing up to go. I’ll never forget the night I left Memphis. My wife was already in Emporia, so as I crossed the Hernando-Desoto Bridge I called her. “Get out in the street and beat the drums,” I rejoiced. “I see Memphis in my rear view mirror.”

We’ve lived here for over five years now. We’ve left the sophistication and culture of the city, although we do have an arts council here in town. The annual Saint Patrick’s Day parade amounts to about three or four pickup trucks adorned with Kelley green crepe paper, so it’s not the grand event a person could see in a big city. There’s not much in the way of military might protecting us from the outside world. Oh, there is the Taliban vintage tank in front of the National Guard armory that overlooks exit 130 on the highway, if that means anything. Our Prairie Victorian is a far cry from the ante-bellum we owned in Memphis. And, Bobby D’s Merchant Street Barbeque can’t compare with Corky’s in Memphis. But the important thing for us is that we’ve left the “corporateness” behind. Emporia and the Flint Hills are about as far from corporate as Memphis is from Kansas.

And that’s what we love about life here.

Dinner at Noam Chomsky's

It’s dinnertime at Noam Chomsky’s
Home of…..enlightened conversation
Home of…..the best and the brightest
Home of…..good food

It’s dinnertime at Noam Chomsky’s
Elite Street, where the pretty people gather, where the ragged pass by
Close to Skid Row…..but not too close
The pretty faces gaze, sympathetically, out the window…..untouched

The pretty people drift in, slowly, purposefully
Insatiable appetites
Straight teeth…..polished teeth…..sharp teeth
Crooked smiles

They sit, gracefully
Feet adorned with Gold toes and Ballys
Versace hiding, yet revealing, their nakedness
Lapels by Bill Blass

At a corner table they muse, thoughtfully
“Oh, the nuances of rogue states.” They nod at each other approvingly
“By the way, is Zinfandel appropriate with filet of fundamentalist?
Do you suppose Heinekin would be alright with boiled orphan a la Swift?”

A secluded corner table
Lies and metaphors mix, a media tossed salad
Flesh rips intermittently
Under the weight of the pretty peoples’ molars

At a cozy corner tale
Wine and conversation flow and flesh is devoured
Linen napkins dab human debris
From the corners of crooked smiles

It’s Noam Chomsky’s place
Where the ‘catch of the day’ is pricey and sinewy
Where the sound and fury are endless
Where compassion’s thrown out with the garbage at the end of the day


© 2002 Phil Dillon

Reflections at Mile Marker 109, Kansas Turnpike

Until I retired last November I drove through the Flint Hills to work in either Wichita or Topeka almost daily. In the four years or so I made the drive of fifty or a hundred miles each way it never wore on me. There was, from day one, a bond between me and the sea of tallgrass I passed through. On one trip about two years ago I stopped and wrote down what I’d been sensing for so long. It was a beautiful spring dawn. At mile marker 109 I stopped. Wichita, to my south seemed an eternity away. I’m not sure if I really captured the fullness of those few minutes along the turnpike, but I guess it was more important that I expressed what I felt than how I expressed it. So, the words came out:

It’s the cusp of dawn. I’m chasing Orion’s Belt and bull-haulers down the Kansas Turnpike. At mile marker 109, about a furlong or two south of the cattle pens, I stop.

The occasional rush of southbound traffic breaks the dawn silence. Like a general poised in his appointed place, I review the early morning parade. Saints and scoundrels, gospel singers and politicians, truckers, ranchers, engineers, doctors, lawyers, accountants, mothers, fathers, children, all pass by. Problems and opportunities wind their way down the highway with them.

I touch the highway sign. Mile marker 109. I feel the bits of rust creeping up on the metal. It’s man-made, temporal, placed on the edge of the eternal. It speaks. “This is where you are.” It speaks of commerce and progress passing by. It speaks of cattle and concept drawings on their journeys past a solitary milepost planted on the edge of eternity.

I turn, take a step, and cast my gaze across the prairie. Like the storied astronaut of my youth, that one small step transports me from one world to another. Thoughts pass by. Some pass quietly, humming like the Toyotas and Fords on the highway. Others I hear in the distance. Their low, grinding hums become roars as they draw near, like the Peterbilts and Kenworths hauling their precious cargoes from Chicago to Dallas or the Twin Cities to San Antonio.

While the darkness has not yet surrendered to the day, there are hints of color along the rim of the eastern sky. I sense that they carry the faint whisper of an announcement of the millennium to come. The ageless ritual proceeds, moment by moment. Light overcomes the darkness. The unbroken sky and the endless sea of grass now join together in a hymn of praise. The morning breeze caresses the tallgrass. The blades of grass, in turn, wave gently to and fro, worshippers caught up in the glory of this moment.

Thoughts glide effortlessly through the air, then stop to gently kiss the earth. The earth gratefully receives the kiss from above and pleads, “Maranatha…..Maranatha.”

A hawk circles above, wings outstretched, reaching for an unseen spire. As he circles, the dawn sun touches him, revealing his priestly robes and eyes of fire.

I sense that I’ve entered a great cathedral. I’m overwhelmed by my own smallness. I fear. The hawk descends slowly, gracefully and speaks. “You are indeed small. But, fear not. You’re known…..You’re known. This is where you are. Mile marker 109. This is the place where the line between now and forever is drawn. Here you own nothing, but are given the grace to be a part of everything. The language of the world you left is ownership. The language here is stewardship. This is the place where moth and rust do not corrupt.”

His appointed ministry complete, he now lays hold of the morning currents and moves effortlessly off to the east.

I feel the warmth of a tear as it drifts slowly down my cheek. My epiphany’s complete. I turn back and take another small step, returning to the world I left moments before. I take my place in line with my fellow travelers, the builders and dreamers, the movers and shakers, the commerce and the concepts. Our daily procession has taken us past this place…..mile marker 109.

I'll Never Go Back to Egypt

I just read, with great interest, a column by Eric Alterman posted on the Center for American Progress website.

In the column, Mr. Aterman cites an essay by Thomas Frank, a transplanted Kansan who has gone on to bigger and better things.

I'm a transplanted Bostonian, living in Emporia, Kansas. I've lived here for a bit over five years now and have a pretty good sense of what life and politics are like around here.

Mr.Frank has gotten quite a bit of press here in Emporia since he published his essay titled Lie Down for America in the April edition of Harper's.

His early life in Mission Hills and a two hour visit to Emporia were apparently enough in his mind to look at Kansas as a whole and say things like "Out here the gravity of discontent pulls in only one direction, to the right, to the right, further to the right. Strip today's Kansans of their job security and they head out and become registered Republicans. Push them off the land and the next thing you know they're protesting in front of abortion clinics. Squander their life savings and there's a good chance they'll join the John Birch Society."

Mr. Alterman applauds Mr. Frank’s work, noting that the Republican Party is employing a two-fold strategy – get the “rubes” up in arms about values and then pick their pockets while they’re needlessly paying attention to those values.

After reading Mr. Alterman’s piece and excerpts from Mr. Frank's I've detected three common themes. First, Kansas, like Caesar who had too much Gaul, has too many conservative Republicans. Second, Kansas is a community of kulaks and serfs who have been manipulated, contrary to their interests, by the rich and powerful. And, third, Alterman, Frank, and the Democratic Party are here to save us from the Republicans and ourselves.

For more than a few of us “rubes” it’s a bit confusing. We knew we needed saving, but we were under the impression we already had a Savior. If Alterman and Frank are right our soteriology is flawed at best and heretical at worst.

How could one possibly argue against such noble theses, especially when they’re stated so eloquently? All we Kansans need to do is put our collective fates in their hands of compassion and they'll take care of us. They’ll defend us! Why would we reject such a generous offer?

My five years here in Kansas and my first twenty growing up in the shadow of Harvard University and the Massachusetts Institute of Technology have given me a few reasons.

The most compelling of those is experience.

My brother, sister, and I spent our first few years growing up in Boston's "south end," which in our time was Boston's version of Hell's Kitchen. We had all the classic disadvantages many on the political left love to exploit, an alcoholic father who did menial work (he was an ice-man), an un-educated mother (she actually did go as far as the third grade), and an overcrowded tenement on Withington Street we called home.

Our one "advantage" in life was our loyal support for the Massachusetts Democratic "machine." We learned early on that any Dillon worth his or her salt was a Democrat through and through. After all, it was the Democrats who were really concerned with our welfare. The Democrats were the "party of the people."

I don't know how long it took for my brother and sister to come to the point of disillusionment, but the time came for me during the fifties. My brother had graduated to a trade school, my sister to live with relatives in Maynard. I graduated to Washington Elms and Newtowne Court, government housing projects sandwiched between Harvard and Kendall Squares, just a five cent ride on the MTA to either Harvard University or MIT.

My epiphany came slowly, incrementally, over time.

I recall often having my mother send me up to City Hall to pick up our ADC or Welfare check. It was a walk I came to dread as much as any condemned man must surely dread the gallows or the execution chamber. I suppose I should have been grateful. After all, the Massachusetts Democratic "machine" had my best interests at heart. But I freely confess that it grew increasingly hard for me to feel thankful for the “party’s” generosity. I accepted the money as much grace as I could muster, but I also learned that each time I made the walk and held my hand out a sale was being recorded. I was selling my dignity to the Democrats for fifty or sixty dollars a transaction.

Looking back at it now I see what a trap it all was. I was the poster child for the nobility and generosity of the "party." I was, in the minds of the machine, the hopeless waif, the son of an alcoholic who drank himself to death and a dolt of a mother. I would never be able to succeed without the support of the welfare system.

So, for years I had to accept, against my best interests, the role of "lawn jockey" for the machine. I rarely saw my benefactors, except when I made that dreaded walk to City Hall or when election time rolled around. Then Tip O’Neill’s precinct captains would be sure to drop by and enroll me and my mother in the latest version of the "get out the vote for the Democrats" game. While I should have questioned their intentions, I didn't. After selling my dignity for a few bucks a month, selling my labor for a few empty political promises didn't seem too hard at all.

I don't know how I made it, but, against all odds, I actually completed high school, graduating in the upper half of Cambridge High and Latin's class of 1960. I was hoping for college or a good job. I found neither. The good jobs were taken by people with better pedigrees. But how could I complain? They came from loyal Democratic families just like I had. And, while I felt that I was college material, I had to accept the idea that my address and background disqualified me from attending the good universities, the Cornells, the Columbias, the Yales, the Stanfords, the Harvards, the MIT's.

Not despairing, I joined the Air Force in 1961. While college or a good job would have been nice, serving the country and the ideals of John Kennedy didn't strike me as the end of the line. I served ably and well for eight eventful, tumultuous years. There was the Cuban Missile Crisis, the Cold War, the assassination of JFK, LBJ's "guns and butter" economy. I did tours in Texas, California, Washington D.C., Newfoundland, Vietnam, Panama, Ohio and other posts around the world.

Vietnam was the point of uncoupling for me, the point at which my epiphany became complete. It came about half way through my tour, during a Christmas lull in the fighting. Like many GI's I received an anonymous "care" package from the states. Mine was from some unknown sorority pledge attending Bryn Mawr College. I opened it expectantly, hoping to find some token of appreciation. What I found instead was a can of Ken-L Ration dog food with a gift card that read, "Eat hearty, you rotten animal." A fellow American, a product of American liberal education had done what the Viet Cong had been unable to do with a gun. I was badly wounded.

Life had come full circle for me. I'd graduated from Boston's South End to Cambridge's government housing projects to the Vietnam War. I'd moved down the social ladder from hopeless waif to party lawn jockey to rotten animal. And it was all because the Massachusetts Democratic machine had my best interests at heart.

Wounded men, if the wound isn't mortal, will cling to anyone who will help. For me the help came in the form of Anita Bryant. I attended a USO Christmas show at Tan Son Nhut Air Base a few days before Christmas. There was Bob Hope who was wonderful. And I think Miss World might have been there. But more than anything for me there was Anita Bryant singing "Silent Night" and closing by telling us that a lot of Americans cared about us, were praying for us, and hoping we would all come home safely.

I left and prayed that night for the first time since I was a child. In the years between those two prayers the thought of praying never really occurred to me. My thinking had been, "Why invoke the aid of The Almighty when the Democratic Party is looking out for your best interests?"

So, I prayed and I believe the prayer was heard and answered.

I embraced evangelical Christianity and the divorce with the Democratic Party was complete. My life could now move forward.

I left the Air Force a few years later. I went to Judson College, a small Baptist school about thirty miles west of Chicago and got an undergraduate degree in communications, with "High Distinction." I then attended seminary in Kansas City and got a Masters' degree in theology. I did most of it thanks to the GI Bill and academic scholarships.

I suppose there are some who might argue that the GI Bill was given to me generously by the Democratic Party. I maintain that I earned every penny.

From that point to this I've lived what I believe is a modestly successful life. I had a good career with FedEx and have recently retired. I'm happily married. I'm a man of modest means.

I take a daily walk through the streets of Emporia and can't say that I see what Alterman and Frank see. It's not that I don't see problems. They're here alright. There are dogs that bite occasionally around here. There are some folks around these parts who occasionally write bad checks. There are a few slum-lords. And, there's institutional inertia, to be sure. But when I compare it all to the government housing projects I grew up in, with their crime, hopelessness, decay, and perpetual dependency it doesn't seem so bad.

I suppose I'm like a lot of Emporians who mindlessly focuses on values and steadfastly refuses to genuflect every time I read something produced by the Illuminati. But, in the last year or so I've read Mr. Alterman’s work, some of Mr. Frank's, George Soros's, Karl Marx's, Charles Darwin's, Paul Erlich's and others. I've also had the opportunity to read the work of Walter Berns, Tolkien, C.S. Lewis, Solzhenitsyn, Augustine, Aquinas, Richard Perle, and others during the same time. I've also re-read my way through Holy Writ.

I've done that and have made the same comparisons I made between the streets of Emporia with the streets of Boston's "south end" and Cambridge's government housing projects. My conclusion remains the same. The sins they accuse the Republicans of committing are the sins they're actually guilty of. While they accuse the Republicans of manipulating us, I maintain that they treat people "less fortunate than them" as if they were chattel to be displayed as signs of their superior wisdom and compassion.

Centuries ago, at a time of great travail, the Children of Israel almost went back into the "bitter bondage of Egypt." They heard the wheels of their oppressors' chariots and the whips of their charioteers cracking in the distance and nearly grew faint of heart. As I sit here in twenty first century Kansas, reading the work of men like Alterman and Frank, I can also hear the scream of the wheels and the crack of the whips in the distance. I sit here now filled with memories of bitter bondage, memories of Washington Elms and Newtowne Court, memories of “guns and butter,” memories of a Christmas “gift.” The past collides with the present and interrupts the serenity of my life here in the Kansas Flint Hills. These pharaohs of the electronic age confess they don’t understand why I so steadfastly refuse the liberation they offer. They plead with me to return. “Don’t go too far.” “Make sure you leave your children with us.” “If you can’t leave the children, then leave us your cattle and goods.” But experience has taught me that returning would mean, once more, having to make “bricks without straw.” In these moments I, like the Children of Israel, sometimes grow faint of heart. In these moments of weakness I may even momentarily mistake the sound of the whips cracking for the siren’s song. But I’ve learned here in the Kansas Flint Hills that these moments of weakness will pass. And I’ve learned there’s one mistake I’ll never make again. I'll never go back to Egypt!