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高级英语上册
Lesson 1: Rock
Superstars: What Do They T
ell Us About
Ourselves
and Our Society?
Rock is the music of teenage rebellion.
---
John Rockwell, rock music critic
By a man‘s heroes ye shall know
him.
--- Robert Penn Warren,
novelist
It
was
mid-June,
1972,
the
Chicago
Amphitheater
was
packed,
sweltering,
rocking.
Onstage,
Mick
Jagger
of
the
Rolling
Stones
was
singing
―Midnight
Rambler.‖
Critic
Don
Heckman
was
there
when
the
song ended. ―Jagger,‖ he said, ―grabs a
half
-gallon jug of water and runs
along the front platform, sprinkling
its contents over the first few rows of
sweltering listeners. They surge to
follow him, eager to be touched by a
few baptismal drops‖.
It
was
late
December,
1973,
Some
14,000
screaming
fans
were
crunching
up
to
the
front
of
the
stage
at
Capital
Center,
outside
Washington, Cooper, America‘s singing
ghoul, was ending his
act.
He
ends
it
by
pretending
to
end
his
life
–
with
a
guillotine.
His
―head‖ drops into a straw basket.
―Ooh,‖ gasped a girl dressed i
n black.
―Oh, isn‘t that marvelous?‖
Fourteen
-year-old Mick Perlie was there
too,
but
his
parents
weren‘t.
―They
think
he‘s
sick,
sick,
sick,‖
Mike
said.
―They say to me, ?How can you stand
that stuff?‘‖
It
was late January, 1974. Inside the Nassau Coliseum
in Uniondale,
New
Y
ork, Bob Dylan and The Band were
tuning for a concert. Outside,
in
the
pouring
rain,
fan
Chris
Singer
was
waiting
to
get
in.
―
This
is
pilgrimage,‖ Chris said, ―I ought to be
crawling on my knees.‖
How
do
you
feel
about
all
this
adulation
and
hero
worship?
When
Mick Jagger‘s fans look
at him as a high priest or a god, are you with
them
or
against
them?
Do
you
share
Chris
Singer‘s
almost
religious
reverence for Bob
Dylan? Do you think he
–
or
Dylan
–
is misguided? Do
you
reject
Alice
Cooper
as
sick?
Or
are
you
drawn
somehow
to
this
strange clown, perhaps
because he acts out your wildest fantasies?
These aren‘t idle
questions. Some sociologists say that your answers
to them could explain a lot about what
you are thinking and about what
your
society
is
thinking
–
in
other
words,
about
where
you
and
your
society
are. ―Music expressed its times,‖ says sociologist
Irving Horowitz.
Horowitz sees the rock
music arena as a sort of debating forum, a place
where ideas clash and crash. He sees it
as a place where American society
struggles
to
define
and
redefine
its
feelings
and
beliefs.
―The
redefinition,‖ Horowitz says, ―is a
task uniquely performed by the young.
It
is
they
alone
who
combine
invention
and
exaggeration,
reason
and
motion, word and
sound, music and politics.‖
Todd Rundgren, the composer
and singer, agrees. ―Rock music,‖ he
says, ―is really a sociological
expression rather than a musical force. Even
Elvis
Presley
wasn‘t
really
a
great
musical
force.
It‘s
just
that
Elvis
managed to e
mbody the
frustrated teenage spirit of the 1950s.‖ Of course
Presley
horrified
adult
America.
Newspapers
editorialized
against
him,
and
TV networks banned him. But Elvis may have proved
what Horowitz
and
Rundgren
believe.
When
he
appeared
on
the
an
Sunday
night
variety
show
in
front
of
millions,
a
kind
of ―debate‖
took place.
Most of the older viewers frowned,
while most of the younger viewers
applauded.
Between Elvis and Alice, rock critics
say, a number of rock stars have
helped
our society define
its beliefs and
attitudes. Bob Dylan touched a
nerve
of
disaffection.
He
spoke
of
civil
rights,
nuclear
fallout,
and
loneliness.
He
spoke
of
change
and
of
the
bewilderment
of
and
older
generation.
―Something‘s
happening
here,‖
he
sang.
―Y
ou
don‘t
know
w
hat it is,
do you, ?‖
Others
entered
the
debate.
The
Beatles,
Horowitz
said,
urged
peace
and piety, with
humor and
maybe a
little help from drugs. The
Rolling
Stones, arrogant street-
fighting men, demanded revolution. The Jefferson
Airplane‘s
―We
Can
Be
Together‖
and
V
olunteers
(Got
a
Revolution)‖
were two
further statements of radical youth.
But politics wasn‘t the only subject
debated in the hard rock of the
sixties.
Feelings,
always
a
part of
any
musical
statement,
were
a
major
subject. Janis Jophin
sang of her sadness. The Beatles showed there were
a range of emotions between love and
hate. Then came The Band, mixing
the
more
traditional
ideas
of
country
and
western
music
into
the
more
radical
‖city‖
ideas
of
the
hard
rock.
This
country
element
,
Horowitz
feels, helped its
audience express an urge to ―get away from it
all,‖ to ―go
back to the old day.‖ One
of the best current examples of what Horotwitz
is talking about is John Denver. His
most notable songs
–
―Sunshine on
My
Shoulders‖,
―Rocky
Mountain
High‖,
and
―Country
Road‖
–
combine
the
musical
drive
and
power
of
folk
rock,
while
the
lyrics
celebrate the simple
joys of ―the good old days.‖
The
list
could
go
on
and
on.
Like
all
artists,
these
rock
musicians
mirror feelings
and beliefs that help us see and form our own.
What do we give them
in return? Applause and praise, of
course. In
one 1972, national opinion
poll, more than 10 percent of the high school
boys and 20 percent of the girls said
their hero was a rock superstar. We
also
give
th
em
money.
―The
fastest
way
to become
a
millionaire
these
days,‖ says
Forbes,
a
business
magazine,
―is
to
become
a
rock ?n‘
roll
star.‖
Today‘s
heroes
–
some
of
them,
anyway
–
tell
us
they
enjoy
their
rewards. ―And I
laughed to myself at the men and the
la
dies. Who never
conceived
of us billion-
dollar babies.‖ The
particular ―culture here‖ who
sings
that is Alice cooper.
The
big question remains: Why is he a culture hero?
What does he
–
or
any other current rock success
–
tell us about his fans?
About ourselves
and our society? Where
it is, where it was, where it‘s
heading?
Lesson
2: Four Choices for Y
oung People
Shortly before his
graduation, Jim Binns, president of the senior
class
at
Stanford
University,
wrote
me
about
some
of
his
misgivings.
―More
th
an any other generation,‖
he said, ―our generation views the adult world
with
great
skepticism…
there
is
also
an
increased
tendency
to
reject
completely that world.‖
Apparently he speaks for a
lot of his contemporaries. During the last
few years, I have listened to scores of
young people, in college and out,
who
were
just
as
nervous
about
the
grown-p
world.
Roughly,
their
attitude
might
be
summed
up
about
like
this:
―The
world
is
in
pretty
much
of
a
mess,
full
of
injustice,
poverty,
and
war.
The
people
responsible are, presumably, the adults
who have been running thing. If
they
can‘t do better than that, what have they got to
teach our generation?
That kind of
lesson we can do without.‖
There conclusions strike me as
reasonable, at least from their point of
view. The relevant question for the
arriving generation is not whether our
society is imperfect (we can take that
for granted), but how to deal with it.
For
all
its
harshness
and
irrationality,
it
is
the
only
world
we‘ve
got.
Choosing a strategy to cope with it,
then, is the first decision young adults
have to make, and usually the most
important decision of their lifetime.
So
far
as
I
have
been
able
to
discover,
there
are
only
four
basic
alternatives:
1.
1.
Drop Out
This
is
one
of
the
oldest
expedients,
and
it
can
be
practiced
anywhere,
at
any
age,
and
with
or
without
the
use
of
hallucinogens.
It
always has been the
strategy of choice for people who find the world
too
brutal
or
too
complex
to
be
endured.
By
definition,
this
way
of
life
is
parasitic.
In
on
way
or
another,
its
practitioners
batten
on
the
society
which
they
scorn
and
in
which
they
refuse
to
take
any
responsibility.
Some of us
find this distasteful
–
an
undignified kind of life. But for the
poor in spirit, with low levels of both
energy and pride, it may be the least
intolerable choice available.
2.
2.
Flee
This
strategy
also
has
ancient
antecedents.
Ever
since
civilization
began,
certain
individuals
have
tried
to
run
away
from
it
in
hopes
of
finding
a
simpler,
more
pastoral,
and
more
peaceful
life.
Unlike
the
dropouts, they are not parasites. They
are willing to support themselves
and
to contribute something to the general community,
but they simply
don‘t
like
the
environment
of
civilization;
that
is,
the
city,
with
all
its
ugliness and tension.
The trouble with this
solution is that it no longer is practical on a
large scale. Our planet, unfortunately,
is running out of noble savages
and
unsullied
landscaped;
except
for
the
polar
regions,
the
frontiers
are
gone.
A
few
gentleman
farmers
with
plenty
of
money
can
still
escape to the bucolic life
–
but in general the stream
of migration
is
flowing the
other way.
3.
3.
Plot a Revolution
This
strategy is always popular among those who have no
patience
with
the
tedious
working
of
the
democratic
process or
who believe
that basic institutions can only be
changed by force. It attracts some of
the
more
active
and
idealistic
young
people
of
every
generation.
To
them it offers a romantic
appeal, usually symbolized by some dashing
and charismatic figure.
It
has the even greater appeal of simplicity: ―Since
this society
is
hopelessly
bad, let‘s smash it and build something better on
the ruins.‖
Some of
my
best
friends
have
been
revolutionists,
and
a
few
of
them
have
led
reasonably satisfying
lives. These are
the ones whose
revolutions
did
not
come
off;
they
have
been
able
to
keep
on
cheerfully plotting their holocausts
right into their senescence. Others
died young, in prison or on the
barricades. But the most unfortunate
are
those
whose
revolutions
have
succeeded.
They
lived,
in
bitter
disillusionment, to see the
establishment they had overthrown replaced
by a new one, just as hard-faced and
stuffy.
I
am
not,
of
course,
suggesting
that
revolutions
accomplish
nothing.
Some
(The
American
Revolution,
the
French
Revolution)
clearly
do change
things
for
the
better.
My
point
is
merely
that
the
idealists
who
make
the
revolution
are
bound
to
be
disappointed
in
either case. For at best their victory
never dawns on the shining new
world
they had dreamed of, cleansed of all human
meanness. Instead it
dawns
on
a
familiar,
workaday
place,
still
in
need
of
groceries
and
sewage
disposal.
The
revolutionary
state,
under
whatever
political
label,
has
to
be
run-not
by
violent
romantics-but
by
experts
in
marketing,
sanitary
engineering,
and
the
management
of
bureaucracies.
For the
idealists who are determined to remake society,
but who
seek a more practical method
that armed revolution, there remains one
more alternative.
4.
4.
Try to Change the World Gradually, One
Clod at a Time
At first glance, this
course is far from inviting. It lacks glamour. It
promises
no
quick
results.
It
depends
on
the
exasperating
and
uncertain
instruments of
persuasion and democratic decision making.
It demands patience, always in short
supply. About all that can be said
for
it is that it sometimes works
–
that in this particular
time and place
it offers a better
chance for remedying some of the world‘s outrages
that any other available strategy.
So at least the historical evidence
seems to suggest. When I was
graduating
from college, my generation also found the world
in a mess.
The economic machinery had
broken down almost everywhere: In this
country nearly a quarter of the
population was out of work. A major
was
seemed all too likely. As a college newspaper
editor at that time, I
protested
against
this
just
as
vehemently
as
student
activists
are
protesting today.
At the same time, my
generation
was discovering
that
reforming
the world is a little like fighting a
military campaign in the Apennines,
as
soon
as
you capture
one
mountain
range,
another
one
looms
just
ahead. As the big problems of the
thirties were brought under some
kind
of
rough
control,
new
problems
took
their
place
–
the
unprecedented
problems
of
an,
affluent
society,
of
racial
justice,
of
keeping our cities from
becoming uninhabitable, of coping with war in
unfamiliar
guises.
Most
disturbing
of
all
was
our
discovery
of
the
population explosion. It
dawned on us rather suddenly that the number
of
passengers
on
the
small
spaceship
we
inhabit
is
doubling
about
every forty years. So long as the
earth‘s population keeps growing at
this cancerous rate, all of the other
problems appear virtually insoluble.
Our cities will continue to become more
crowded and noisome. The
landscape will
get
more cluttered, the air and water
even dirtier. The
quality of life
is likely to become steadily worse for
everybody
. And
warfare on a
rising scale seems inevitable if too many bodies
have to
struggle for ever-dwindling
shares of food and living space.
So
Jim Binns‘ generation has a formidable
job on its hands. But
not, I
think, an insuperable one. On the evidence of the
past, it can be
handled
in
the
same
way
that
hard
problems
have
been
coped
with
before-piecemeal,
pragmatically,
by
the
dogged
efforts
of
many
people.
Lesson
3: The Use of Force
They
were new patients to me, all I had was the name,
Olson. ―Please
come down as soon as you
can, my daughter is very sick.‖
When I arrived I was met by
the mother, a big startled looking woman,
very clean and apologetic who merely
said, Is this the doctor? And let me
in. In the back, she added.
Y
ou must excuse us, doctor, we have her
in the
kitchen where it is warm. It is
very damp here sometimes.
The child was fully dressed and sitting
on here father‘s lap nea
r the
kitchen table.
He tried to
get up, but I motioned for him not to bother,
took off my overcoat and started to
look things over. I could see that they
were all very nervous, eyeing me up and
down distrustfully. As often, in
such
cases, they weren‘t tel
ling me more
than they had to, it was up to me
to
tell them; that‘s why they were spending three
dollars on me.
The child was fairly eating me up with
her cold, steady eyes, and no
expression on her face whatever. She
did not move and seemed, inwardly,
quiet;
an
unusually
attractive
little
thing,
and
as
strong
as
a
heifer
in
appearance.
But
her
face
was
flushed,
she
was
breathing
rapidly,
and
I
realized
that
she
had
a
high
fever.
She
had
magnificent
blonde
hair,
in
profusion. One of those picture
children
often reproduced in
advertising
leaflets and the
photogravure sections of the Sunday papers.
She‘s had a fever for three
days, began the father and we don‘t know
what it comes from. My wife has given
her things, you know, like people
do,
but it don‘t do no good. And there‘s been a lot of
sickness around. So
we tho‘t you‘d
better look her over and tell us what is the
matter.
As
doctors often do I took a trial shot at it as a
point of departure. Has
she had a sore
throat?
Both
parents
answered
me
together,
No…No,
she
says
her
throat
don‘t
hurt her.
Does
your
throat
hurt
you?
Added
the
mother
to
the
child.
But
the
little girl‘s expression didn‘t change
nor did she move her eyes from my
face.
Have you looked?
I tried to, said the mother
but II couldn‘t see
.
As it happens we had been having a
number of cases of diphtheria in
the
school to which this child went during that month
and we were all,
quite apparently,
thinking of that, though no one had as yet spoken
of the
thing.
Well, I said, suppose we take a look at
the throat first. I smiled in my
best
professional
manner
and
asking
for
the
child‘s
first
name
I
said,
come on, Mathilda, open your mouth and
let‘s take a look at your throat.
Nothing doing.
A
w, come on, I coaxed, just
open your mouth wide and let me take a
look.
Look,
I
said
opening
both
hands
wide,
I
haven‘t
anything
in
my
hands. Just
open up and let me see.
Such
a
nice
man,
put
in
the
mother.
Look
how
kind
he
is
to
you.
Come on, do what he tells you to. He
won‘t hurt you.
As
that
I
ground
m
y
teeth
in
disgust.
If only
they
wouldn‘t
use
the
word ―hurt‖ I might be able to get
somewhere. But I did not allow myself
to be hurried or disturbed but speaking
quietly and slowly I approached
the
child again.
As
I
moved
my
chair
a
little
nearer
suddenly
with
one
catlike
movement
both
her
hands
clawed
instinctively
for
my
eyes
and
she
almost reached them too.
In fact she knocked my glasses flying and they
fell, though unbroken, several feet
away from me on the kitchen floor.
Both
the
mother
and
father
almost
turned
themselves
inside
out
in
embarrassment and apology.
Y
ou bad girl, said the mother, taking
her and
shaking here by one arm. Look
what you‘ve done. The nice man…
For heaven‘s sake, I broke
in. Don‘t call me a nice man to her. I‘m
here to look at her throat on the
chance that she might have diphtheria and
possibly die of it. But that‘s nothing
to her. Look here, I said to the child,
we‘re going to look at your throat.
Y
ou‘re old enough to understand what
I‘m saying. Will you open it now by
yourse
lf or shall we have to open it
for you?
Not
a
move.
Even
her
expression
hadn‘t
changed.
Her
breaths,
however, were coming faster and faster.
Then the battle began. I had to do
it.
I had to have a throat culture for her own
protection. But first I told the
parents that it was entirely up to
them. I explained the danger but said that
I would not insist on a throat
examination so long as they would take the
responsibility.
If you don‘t do what the doctor says
you‘ll have to go to the hospital,
the
mother admonished her severely.
Oh yeah? I had to smile to myself.
After all, I had already fallen
in
love
with
the
savage
brat,
the
parents
were
contemptible
to
me.
In
the
ensuing
struggle
they
grew
more
and
more
abject,
crushed,
exhausted
while she surely rose to magnificent
heights of insane fury of effort bred
of her terror of me.
The father tried his best, and he was a
big man but the fact that she
was his
daughter, his shame at her behavior and his dread
of hurting her
made him release her
just at the critical times when I had almost
achieved
success, till I wanted to kill
him. But his dread also that she might have
diphtheria
made
him
tell
me
to
go
on,
go
on
though
he
himself
was
almost fainting, while the mother moved
back and forth behind us raising
and
lowering her hands in an agony of apprehension.
Put
her
in
front
of
you
on
your
lap,
I
ordered,
and
hold
both
her
wrists.
But as soon as he did the child let out
a scream. Don‘t, you‘re hurting
me.
Let
go
of
my
hands.
Let
them
go
I
tell
you.
Then
she
shrieked
terrifyingly, hysterically. Stop it!
Stop it! Y
ou‘re killing me!
Do you think she can stand
it, doctor! Said the mother.
Y
ou get out,
said the husband to his wife. Do you want her to
die of
diphtheria?
Come on now, hold her, I said.
Then I grasped
the child‘s head with my left hand and
tried to get the
wooden tongue
depressor between
her
teeth.
She fought,
with clenched
teeth, desperately! But now I also had
grown furious-at a child. I tried to
hold
myself
down
but
I
couldn‘t.
I
know
how
to
expose
a
throat
for
inspection.
And
I
did
my
best.
When
finally
I
got
the
wooden spatula
behind
the
last
teeth
and
just
the
point
of
it
into
the
mouth
cavity,
she
opened up for an instant but before I
could see anything she came down
again
and gripped the wooden blade between her molars.
She reduces it
to splinters before I
could get it out again.
Aren‘t you ashamed, the mother yelled
at her. Aren‘t you ashamed to
act like
that in front of the doctor?
Get
me
a
smooth-handled
spoon
of
some
sort,
I
told
the
mother.
We‘re going through
with this. The child‘s mouth was already bleeding.
Her
tongue
was
cut
and
she
was
screaming
in
wild
hysterical
shrieks.
Perhaps I should
have desisted and come back in an hour or
more. No
doubt
it
would
have
been
better.
But
I
have
seen
at
least
two
children
lying dead in bed
of neglect in such cases, and feeling that I must
get a
diagnosis now or never I went at
it again. But the worst of it was that
I
too had got beyond reason. I could
have torn the child apart in my own
fury and enjoyed it. It was a pleasure
to attack her, my face was burning
with
it.
The damned little brat
must be protected against her own idiocy, one
says to one‘s self at such times.
Others must be protected against her. It is
a social necessity. And all these
things are true. But a blind fury, a feeling
of adult shame, bred of a longing for
muscular release are the operatives.
One goes on to the end.
In
the
final
unreasoning
assault
I
overpowered
the
child‘s
neck
any
jaws.
I
forced
the
heavy
silver
spoon
back
of
her
teeth
and
down
her
throat
till
she
gagged.
And
there
it
was
–
both
tonsils
covered
with
membrane. She had fought valiantly to
keep me from knowing her secret.
She
had been hiding that sore throat for three days at
least and lying to
her parents in order
to escape just such an outcome as this.
Now truly she was furious.
She had been on the defensive before but
now
she
attacked,
Tried
to
get off
her
father‘s
lap
and
fly
at
me
while
tears of
defeat blinded her eye.
Lesson 4: Die as Y
ou Choose
The need for laws on
euthanasia cannot be dodged for much longer.
In one of the world‘s
smaller countries, mercy
-killing is
accepted by
the
medical
establishment
and
openly
practiced
a
few
thousand
times
each
year.
In
one
of
the
world‘s
biggest
countries,
euthanasi
a
is
condemned by the medical establishment,
secretly practiced many times
more
often, and almost never comes to light. Which of
these countries has
a
mercy-
killing
doctor
now
languishing
in
its
jails?
It
is
the
small
one,
Holland, which has
rules for euthanasia and so can police it
effectively.
The Dutch doctor broke his
country‘s rules. There is a moral here for all
the countries, and not just for the big
death-forbidding country, America.
Right now it is going over the
arguments about euthanasia once again.
In January the Journal of the American
Medical Association published
a bizarre
letter,
in which an
anonymous doctor claimed to have killed a
20-year-old cancer patient at her own
request. This started a debate that
will
rumble
on
into
the
autumn,
when
Californians
may
vote
on
a
proposed law
legalizing
euthanasia. The
letter was probably written for
polemical impact. It is scarcely
credible. It‘s author claims that he met the
cancer patient for the first time,
heard five words from her
–
―Let‘s get
this
over
with‖
–
then
killer
her.
Even
the
most
extreme
proponents
of
euthanasia do not support such an
action in those circumstances.
Y
et
medical
monstrosities
that
are
hardly
any
better
undoubtedly
continue, almost as a matter of macabre
routine, in America, Britain and
many
other countries. It is disturbingly easy to find
doctors who will say,
in
private,
that
they
sometimes
kill
patients
on
purpose.
Most
say
that
know
somebody
else
who
does.
But
because
they
can
rarely
discuss
euthanasia openly
with patients
–
even when
those patients beg them for
it
–
doctors tend to kill only
when the dying are too far gone to consent.
Thus, because voluntary euthanasia is
taboo, a doctor makes the decision
himself
–
and the
patient is killed involuntarily in the night with
a syringe.
That is one price of keeping
euthanasia secret.
If all
forms of mercy-killing are wrong, they should
remain taboo. But
are
they?
Because
many
people
accept
that
it
is
sad,
undignified
and
gruesome
to
prolong
the
throes
of death
will
all
the
might
of
medical
technology, passive euthanasia
–
letting patients die
–
is widely accepted.
Most American states have ―living
–
will‖ legislation that
protects doctors
from prosecution if
they do not try to save someone who has said he
does
not
want
life
prolonged.
Active
euthanasia
–
killing
–
remains
controversial.
How
long
can
the
distinction
between
killing
and
letting
die hold out?
Just as there can be
culpable omissions, so too can there be blameless
acts. Suppose
–
to take an example from the
moral
philosophy books
–
that
a
man
stands
to
gain
from
the
death
of
a
certain
child.
The
child
strikes his head in the bath and falls
unconscious. The man sits down and
watches him drown. The fact that the
man has performed no action does
not
excuse
him.
Similarly,
suppose
that
a
doctor
does
no
wrong
by
withholding some
treatment in order that death should come sooner
rather
than
later.
Is
he
then
necessarily
wrong
if
he
administers
enough
painkillers
to
kill?
Does
the
fact
that
the
doctor
performed
an
action,
rather than an
omission, condemn him?
Many
doctors
working
on
the
battlefield
of
terminal
suffering
think
that only
squeamishness demands a firm difference between
passive and
active
euthanasia
on
request.
Their
argument
for
killing
goes
like
this:
one o
f a
doctor‘s duties is to prevent suffering; sometimes
that is all there
is left for him to
do, and killing is the only way to do it. There is
nothing
new
in
this
view.
When
Hippocrates
formulated
his
oath
for
doctors,
which
explicitly
rules
out
active
killing,
most
other
Greek
doctors
and
thinkers disagreed with his ban.
Let the past be a guide.
Some people believe that
the time of death is appointed by God and
that
no
man
should
put
the
clock
back
on
another.
Y
et
if
a
patient‘s
philosophical views embrace euthanasia,
it is not clear why the religious
objections of others should intrude on
his death. Another worry is that a
legal
framework
for
euthanasia,
permitting
a
doctor
to
comply
with
a
dying
man‘s
request
in
a
prescribed
set
of
circumstances,
might
pose
dangers for society by setting a
precedent for killing. That depends on the
society. Holland, arguably, is ready
for
it. It
is probably no
coincidence
that it was Dutch doctors
who most heroically resisted pressure to join in
the Nazi medical atrocities that have
given euthanasia its worst name. The
same
tenacious
respect
for
individual
liberty
that
stopped
them
killing
healthy people, who
did not want to die, now lets them help dying
people
who do.
West Germany, by contrast, will not be
able to legalize any form of
euthanasia
for a long time to come. Opposition is too fierce,
because of
the shadow of the past.
Countries with an uninterrupted recent libertarian
tradition
have
less to fear from setting some limited
rules for voluntary
euthanasia. By
refusing to discuss it, they usher in something
worse.
Lesson 5: I’d
Rather Be Black than Female
Being the first black woman elected to
Congress has made me some
kind of
phenomenon. There are nine other blacks in
Congress; there are
ten other women. I
was the first to overcome both handicaps at once.
Of
the
two
handicaps, being
black
is
much
less of
a drawback
than
being
female.
If I said that being black is a greater
handicap than being a woman,
probably
no one would question me. Why? Because ―we all
know‖ there
is
prejudice
against
black
people
in
America.
That
there
is
prejudice
against
women
is
an
idea
that
still
strikes
nearly
all
men
–
and,
I
am
afraid, most
women
–
as bizarre.
Prejudice
against
blacks
was
invisible
to
most
white
Americans
for
many
y
ears.
When
blacks
finally
started
to
―mention‖
it,
with
sit
-ins,
boycotts,
and
freedom
rides,
Americans
were
incredulous.
―Who,
us?‖
they asked in injured
tones. ―We‘re prejudiced?‖ It was the start of a
long,
painful
reeducation
for
white
America.
It
will
take
years
for
whites
–
including
those
who
think
of
themselves
as
liberals
–
to
discover
and
eliminate the racist attitudes they all
actually have.
How much
harder will it be to eliminate the prejudice
against women?
I am sure it will be a
longer struggle. Part of the problem is that women
in
America
are
much
more
brainwashed
and
content
with
their
roles
as
second
–
class
citizens than blacks ever were.
Let me explain. I have been
active
in politics for more
than twenty
years.
For
all
but
the
last
six,
I
have
done
the
work
–
all
the
tedious
details
that
make
the
difference
between
victory
and defeat
on
election
day
–
while men reaped the
rewards, which is almost invariably the lot of
women in politics.
It is still women
–
about three million
volunteers
–
who do most of
this work in the American political
world. The best any of them can hope
for
is
the
honor
of
being
district
or
county
vice-chairman,
a
kind
of
separate-but-equal position with which
a woman is rewarded for years of
faithful envelope stuffing and card-
party organizing. I n such a job, she
gets a number of free trips to state
and sometimes national meetings and
conventions, where her role
is supposed to be to vote the way her
male
chairman votes.
When I tried to break out of that role
in 1963
and run for the New
Y
ork
State
Assembly
seat
from
Brooklyn‘s
Bedford
-Stuyvesant,
the
resistance was bitter.
From the start of that campaign, I faced
undisguised
hostility because of my
sex.
But it was four years
later, when I ran for Congress, that the
question
of
my
sex
became
a
major
issue.
Among
members
of
my
own
party,
closed meetings were held to discuss
ways of stopping me.
My
opponent,
the
famous
civil-rights
leader
James
Farmer,
tried
to
project a black, masculine image; he
toured the neighborhood with sound
trucks filled with young men wearing
Afro haircuts, dashikis, and beards.
While
the
television
crews
ignored
me,
they
were
not
aware
of
a
very
important
statistic,
which
both
I
and
my
campaign
manager,
Wesley
MacD. Holder, knew. In my district
there are 2.5 women for every man
registered
to
vote.
And
those
women
are
organized
–
in
PTAs, church
societies, card clubs, and other social
and service groups I went to them
and
asked their help. Mr. Farmer still doesn‘t quite
know what hit him.
When a bright young woman graduate
starts looking for a job, why is
the
first
question
always:
―Can
you
type?‖
A
history
of
prejudice
lies
behind
that
question.
Why
are
women
thought
of
as
secretaries,
not
administrators?
Librarians
and
teachers,
but
not
doctors
and
lawyers?
Because
they
are
thought
of
as
different
and
inferior.
The
happy
homemaker
and
the
contented
darky
are
both
stereotypes
produced
by
prejudice.
Women have not even reached the
level of tokenism that blacks are
reaching.
No
women
sit
on
the
Supreme
Court.
Only
two
have
held
Cabinet
rank,
and
none
do
at
present.
Only
two
women
hold
ambassadorial rank. But
women predominate in the lower-paying, menial,
unrewarding,
dead-end
jobs,
and
when
they
do
reach
better
positions,
they are invariably paid less than a
man for the same job.
If
that is not prejudice, what would you call it?
A
few
years
ago,
I
was
talking
with
a
political
leader
about
a
promising young woman as a candidate.
―Why invest time and effort to
build
the girl up?‖ he asked me. ―Y
ou
know she‘ll only drop out of the
game to have a couple of kids just
about the time we‘re ready to run her
for mayor.‖
Plenty of people have said similar
things about me. Plenty of others
have
advised me, every time, I tried to take another
upward step, that I
should go back to
teaching, a woman‘s vocation and leave politics to
the
men.
I
love
teaching,
and
I
am
ready
to
go back
to
it
as soon
as
I
am
convinced that this
country no longer needs a women‘s
contribution.
When there are no children going to bed
hungry in this rich nation, I
may
be
ready
to
go back
to
teaching.
When
there
is
a
good
school
for
every
child,
I
may
be
ready.
When
we
do
not
spend
our
wealth
on
hardware to murder people, when we no
longer tolerate prejudice against
minorities,
and
when
the
laws
against
unfair
housing
and
unfair
employment practices
are enforced instead of evaded, then there may be
nothing more for me to do in politics.
But until that happens
–
and we all
know
it will not be this year or
next
–
what we
need is more women in politics, because we have a
very
special contribution to make. I
hope that the example of my success will
convince other women to get into
politics
–
and not just to
stuff envelopes,
but to run for office.
It is women who can bring
empathy, tolerance, insight, patience, and
persistence to government
–
the qualities we naturally
have or have had to
develop because of
our suppression by men. The women of a nation mold
its morals, its religion, and its
politics by the lives they
live. At
present,
our cou
ntry needs
women‘s idealism and determination, perhaps more
in
politics than anywhere else.
Lesson 6: A Good Chance
When I got to Crow Creek,
Magpie was not home. I talked to his wife
Amelia.
―I need
to find Magpie,‖ I said. ―I‘ve really got some
good
news for
him.‖ I
pointed to the briefcase I was carrying. ―I have
his poems and a
letter of acceptance
from a University in California where they want
him
to come
and participate
in
the
Fine
Arts
Program
they
have
started
for
Indians.‖
―Do you know that he was on
parole?‖
―Well,
no, not exactly,‖ I said hesitantly, ―I haven‘t
kept in touch with
him but I heard that
he was in some kind of trouble.‖ She smiled to me
and said, ―He‘s gone a lot. It‘s not
safe around here for him, you know.
His
parole officer
really watches him all
the time and so sometimes it is
just
better for him not to come here. Besides, we
haven‘t been together
for a while. I
hear he‘s in town somewhere.‖
―Do you mean in
Chamberlain?‖
―Y
es, I live here with his
sister and she said that
she saw him
there,
quite
a
while
ago.
But
Magpie
would
not
go
to
California.
He
would
never
leave here now even if you saw him and talked to
him about it.‖
―But he did before,‖ I said, ―He went
to the University of Seattle.‖
―Y
eah, but…well,
that was before,‖ she said, as though to finish
the
matter.
―Don‘t you want him to go?‖ I
asked.
Quickly,
she responded, ―Oh, it‘s not up to me to say. He
is gone from
me now. I‘m just telling
you that you are in for a disappointment. He no
longer needs the things t
hat
people like you want him to need,‖ she said
positively.
When
she saw that I didn‘t like her reference to
―people like you‖, she
stopped for a
moment and then put her hand on my
arm.
―Listen,‖ she
said, ―Magpie is happy
new, finally. He is in good spir
its,
handsome and
free and strong. He sits
at the drum and sings with his brothers: he‘s okay
now.
When
he
was saying
all
those
things
against
the
government
and
against the council, he became more and
more ugly and embittered and I
used to
be afraid for h
im. But I‘m not now.
Please, why don‘t you just
leave it
alone now?‖
I was sitting at the café with Salina.
Abruptly she said, ―I don‘t know
where
Mapie is. I haven‘t seen him in four
days.‖
―I‘ve got
his poems here with me,‖ I said. ―He has a good
cha
nge of
going to a Fine
Arts school in California, but I have to talk with
him and
get him to fill out some
papers. I know that he is interested.‖
―No, he isn‘t,‖ she broke
in. ―He doesn‘t have those worthless, shitty
dreams anymore.‖
―Don‘t say that, Salina. This is a good
chance for him.‖
―Well, you can think what you want, but
have you talked to him lately?
Do you
know him as he is now?‖
―I know he is good. I know he has such
talent.‖
―He is
Indian, and he‘s back here to stay this
time.‖
―Would
you drive into Chamberlain with me?‖ I
asked.
She said
nothing.
―If he is Indian
as you say, whatever that means, and if he is back
here
to stay this time and if he tells
me that himself, I‘ll let it go. But Salina,‖ I
urged, ―I must talk to him and ask him
what he wants to do. Y
ou see
that,
don‘t you?‖
―Y
es,‖ she said
finally. ―He has a right to know about this, but
you‘ll
see…‖
Her heels clicked on the sidewalk in
front of the café
as we left, and
she
became
agitated
as
she
talked.
―After
all
that
trouble
he
got
into
during
that protest at Custer when the courthouse was
burned, he was in
jail for a year. He‘s
still on parole and he
will be on
parole for another
five years
–
and they didn‘t
even prove anything against him! Five years!
Can you believe that? People these days
can commit murder and not get
that kind
of a sentence.‖
Elgie was standing on the corner near
the Bank as we drove down the
main
street of Chamberlain, and both Salina and I knew
without speaking
that
this
man,
this
good
friend
of
Magpie
‘s,
would
know
of
his
whereabouts. We parked the car, Elgie
came over and settled himself
in
the back seat of the car. A police car
moved slowly to the corner where
we
were parked and the patrolmen looked at the three
of us intently and
we pretended not to
notice. The patrol car inched down the empty
street
and I turned cautiously toward
Elgie. Before I could speak, Salina said,
―She is got some papers for Magpie. He
has a chance to go to a writer‘s
school
in California.‖
Always tentative about letting you know
what he was really thinking,
Elgie
said, ―Y
eah?‖
But Salina wouldn‘t let him get away so
noncommittally, ―Elgie,‖ she
scoffed.
―Y
ou know he wouldn‘t go!‖
―Well, you know,‖ Elgie
began, ―one time when Magpie and me were
hiding out after that Custer
thing, we ended up on t Augustana
College
Campus. We got some friends
there. And he started talking about freedom
and I never forget that, and then after
he went wants to be free and you
can‘t
be
that,
man,
when
they‘re
watching
you
all
the
time.
Man,
that
freak that‘s
his parole officer is some mean
watch
-
dog.‖
―Y
ou think he
might go for the scholarship?‖ I asked,
hopefully.
―I
don‘t know. Maybe.‖
―Where is he?‖ I asked.
There was a
long
silence. Then Elgie said at
last, ―I
think
it‘s good
that you‘ve
come, because Magpie needs some relief
from this constant
surveillance,
constant
checking
up.
In
fact,
that‘s
what
he
always
talks
about. ?If I have to associate with the
whites, then I‘m not free: there is no
liberty
in
that
for
Indians.‘
Y
ou should
talk
to
him
now.
He‘s changed.
He‘s
for
complete
separation,
segregation,
total
isolation
from
the
whites.‖
―Isn‘t that a bit too radical? Too
unrealistic?‖ I asked.
―I don‘t know. Damn if I
know.‖
―Y
eah,‖ said Salina, ―Just
what do you think it would be lik
e for
him
at that university in
California?‖
―But
it‘s a chance for him
to study, to write. He can find a kind
of
satisfying isolation in that, I
think.‖
After a
few moments, Elgie said, ―Y
eah, I think
you are right.‖ Soon
he got out of the
back seat and
said, ―I‘m going to walk
over the bridge .
It‘s about three
blocks down there. There is an old, whit
two
-story house
on the left
side just before you cross the bridge. Magpie‘s
brother just got
out of the Nebraska
State Reformatory and he is staying there with his
old
lady, and that‘s where Magpie
is.‖
At last!
Now I could really talk to him and let him make
this decision
for himself.
―There are things about this though,‖
Elgie said. ―Magpie shouldn‘t
have been there, see, because it‘s a
part of the cond
ition of his parole
that
he stays away from friends and
relatives and ex-convicts and just about
everybody. But Jesus, this is his
brother. Wait until
just before sundown
and then come over. Park your car at
the service station just around the
block from there and walk to the back
entrance of the house and then you
can
talk to Magpie about all this.‖
Salina was talking, telling
me about Magpie‘s return to Crow Creek
after months in exile and how his
relatives went to his sister‘s house and
welcomed him hom
e. ―They
came to hear him sing with his brothers, and
they sat in chairs around the room and
laughed and sang wit him.‖
Several
cars
were
parked
in
the
yard
of
the
old
house
as
we
approached,
and Salina,
keeping
here
voice
low,
said, ―Maybe
they
are
havin
g a
party.‖
But
the
silence
which
hung
about
the
place
filled
me
with
apprehension, and when
we
walked in the back door
which hung open,
we
saw
people
standing
in
the
kitchen.
I
asked
carefully,
―What‘s
wrong?‖
Nobody
spoke
but
Elgie
came
over,
his
bloodshot
eyes
filled
with
sorrow
and
misery.
He
stood
in
front
of
us
for
a
moment
and
then
gestured us to go into the living room.
The room was filled with people
sitting
in silence, and finally Elgie said, quietly, ―They
shot him.‖
―They
picked
him
up
for br
eaking
the
conditions
of
his
parole
any
they
put him in jail and … they shot him.‖
―But why?‖ I cried. ―How
could this have happened?‖
―They said they thought he was
resisting and that they were afraid of
him.‖
―Afraid?‖ I asked, incredulously.
―But…but…was he armed?‖
―No,‖ Elgie said, seated now, him arm
on his knees, his head down.
―No, he
wasn‘t armed.‖
I
held the poems tightly
in my
hands pressing my thumbs, first one
and then the other, against the
smoothness of the cardboard folder.‖
Lesson 7: Miss Brill
Although it was so
brilliantly fine
–
the blue
sky powdered with gold
and
the
great
spots
of
light
like
white
wine
splashed
over
the
Jardins
Publiques
–
Miss Brill was glad that
she had decided on her fur. The air
was
motionless, but when you opened your mouth there
was just a faint
chill, like a chill
from a glass of iced water before you sip, and now
and
again a leaf came drifting
–
from nowhere, from they
sky. Miss Brill put
up her hand and
touched her fur. Dear little thing! I t was nice
to
feel
it
again.
She
had
taken
it
out
of
its
box
tat
afternoon,
shaken
out
the
moth-
powder, given it a good brush, and rubbed the life
back into the dim
little eyes. ―What
has been happening to me?‖ said the sad little
eyes. Oh,
how
sweet
it
was
to
see
them
snap
at
her
again
from
the
red
eiderdown!
…But
the
nose,
which
was
of
some
black
composition,
wasn‘t at all firm. It must have had a
knock, somehow. Never mind
–
a
little
dab
of
black
sealing-wax
when
the
time
came
–
when
it
was
absolutely necessary. …
Lit
tle rogue! Y
es, she
really felt like that about it.
Little
rogue biting its tail just by her left ear. She
could have taken it off
and laid it on
her lap and stroked it. She felt a tingling in her
hands and
arms. But that came from
walking, she supposed. And when she breathed,
something light and sad
–
no, not sad, exactly
–
something gentle seemed
to move in her bosom.
There were a number of people out this
afternoon. far more than last
Sunday.
And the band sounded louder and gayer. That was
because the
Season
had
begun.
For
although
the
band
played
all
the
year
round
on
Sundays, out of seaon it was never the
same. It was like someone playing
with
only the family to listen; it didn‘t care how it
played if there weren‘t
any strangers
present. Wasn‘t the con
ductor wearing a
new coat, too? She
was sure it was new.
He scraped wit his foot and flapped his arms like
a
rooster about to crow, and the
bandsmen sitting in the green rotunda blew
out their cheeks and glared at the
music. Now there came a little ―flutey‖
bit
–
very
pretty!
–
a litter chain of
bright drops. She was sure it would be
repeated. It was; she lifted her head
and smiled.
Only two people
shared her ―special‖ seat: a fine old man in a
velvet
coat, his hands clasped over a
huge carved walking-stick, and a bid old
woman, sitting upright, with a roll of
knitting on her embroidered apron.
They
did not speak. This was disappointing, for Miss
Brill always looked
forward to
conversation. She had become really quite expert,
she thought,
at
listening as
th
ough she didn‘t listen, at sitting
in other people‘s lives
just
a minute while they talked round her.
She glanced, sideways, at the old
couple. Perhaps they would go soon.
Last Sunday, too, hadn‘t been as
interesting as usual. An Englishman and
his
wife,
he
wearing
a
dreadful
Panama
hat
and
she
button
boots.
And
she‘s gone on the whole time about how
she ought to wear spectacles; she
knew
she
needed
them;
But
that
it
was
no
good
getting
any;
they‘d
be
sure to
break and they‘d never keep on. And he‘d been so
patient. He‘d
suggested everything
–
gold rims, the kind that
curved round your ears,
little
pads
inside
the
bridge.
No,
nothing
would
please
her.
―They‘ll
always be sliding
down my nose!‖ Miss Brill had wanted to shake
her.
The old
people sat on the bench, still as statues. Never
mind, there
was always the crowd to
watch. To and fro, in from of the flower-beds
and the band rotunda, the couples and
groups paraded, stopped to talk, to
greet, to buy a handful of flowers from
the old beggar who had his tray
fixed
to
the
railings.
Little
children
ran
among
them,
swooping
and
laughing; little boys with big white
silk bows under their chins; little girls,
little French dolls, dressed up in
velvet and late. And sometimes a tiny
staggered
came
suddenly
rocking
into
the
open
from
under
the
trees,
stopped, stared, as
suddenly sat down
mother, like a young
hen, and rushed scolding to its rescue. Other
people
sat on the benches and green
chairs, but they were nearly always the same,
Sunday
alter
Sunday,
and
—
Miss
Brill
had
often
noticed
—
there
was
some-thing funny about
nearly all of them. They were odd, silent, nearly
all old, and from the
way
they stared they
looked as though
they'd just
come from dark little rooms
or even
—
-even cupboards!
Behind
the
rotunda
the
slender
trees
with
yellow
leaves
down
drooping, and through them
just a line of sea, and beyond the blue
sky
gold-veined clouds.
Tum-
tum-tum tiddle-um! Tiddle-um! Turn tiddley-um turn
ta! Blew
the band.
Two young
girls in
red came by and two young
soldiers in blue met
them, and they
laughed and paired and went off arm in arm. Two
peasant
women
with
funny
straw
hats
passed,
gravely,
leading
beautiful
smoke-colored donkey. A cold, pale nun
hurried by. A beautiful woman
came
along and dropped her bunch of violets, and a
little boy ran after to
hand them to
her, and she took them and threw them away
as if they'd
been poisoned.
Dear me! Miss Brill didn't know whether to admire
that or
not! And now an ermine toque
and a gentleman
in grey met just in
front
of her. He was tall, stiff,
dignified, and she was wearing the ermine toque
she'd
bought
when
her
hair
was
yellow.
Now
everything,
her
hair,
her
face,
even
her
eyes,
was
the same
color
as
the
shabby
ermine,
and
her
hand, in its cleaned
glove, lifted to dab her lips, was a tiny
yellowish paw.
Oh, she
was
so pleased
to see
him
—
delighted!
She rather thought they
were
going
to
meet
that
afternoon.
She
described
where
she'd
been
—
everywhere,
here,
there,
along
by
the
sea.
The
day
was
so
charming
—
didn't
he agree? And wouldn't he,
perhaps?
…
But he shook his
head, lighted a cigarette, slowly
breathed a great deep puff
into her
face
and, even while she was still
talking and laughing, flicked the match away
and walked on. The ermine toque was
alone; she smiled more brightly than
over. But even the band seemed to know
what she was feeling and played
more
softly, played tenderly, and the drum beat
over and over. What would she do? What
was going to happen now? But as
Miss
Brill wondered, the ermine toque turned, raised
her hand as though
she'd seen someone
else, much nicer, just over there, and pattered
away.
And the band changed again and
played more quickly, more gaily than
ever, and the old couple on Miss
Brill‘s seat g
ot up and marched away,
and such a funny old man with long
whiskers hobbled along in time to the
music and was nearly knocked over by
four girls walking abreast.
Oh,
how
fascinating
it
was!
How
she
enjoyed
it!
How
she
loved
sitting here, watching it all! It was
like a play. It was exactly like a play.
Who could believe the sky at the back
wasn‘t painted? But it wasn‘t till a
little
brown
dog
trotted on solemnly
and
then
slowly
trotted
off,
like
a
little
―theatre‖
dog,
a
little
dog
that
had
been
drugged,
tha
t
Miss
Brill
discovered
what
it
was
that
made
it
so
exciting.
They
were
all
on
the
stage.
They
weren‘t
only
the
audience,
not only
looking
on;
they
were
acting. Even she had a
part and came every Sunday. No doubt somebody
would
have
noticed
if
she
hadn't
been
there;
she
was
part
of
the
performance,
after
all.
How
strange
shod
never
thought
of
it
like
that
before!
And yet it explained why she made such a point of
starting from
home
at
just
the
same
time
each
week
—
so
as
not
to be
late
for
the
performance
—
and
it also explained why she had quite a queer, shy
feeling
at
telling
her
English
pupils
how
she
spent
her
Sunday
afternoons.
No
wonder! Miss Brill nearly
laughed out
loud. She was on
the stage. She
thought of the old
invalid gentleman to whom she read the newspaper
four
afternoons a week while he slept
in the garden. She had goy quite used to
the frail head on the cotton pillow,
the hollowed eyes, the open mouth and
the
high
pinched
nose.
If
he'd
been
dead she
mightn't
have
noticed
for
weeks; she wouldn't have minded. But
suddenly he knew he was having
the
paper read to him by an actress!
points
of light quivered in the old eyes.
—
are ye?
Brill
smoothed the newspaper as though it were the
manuscript of her pan
and said gently:
The band had been having a rest. Now
they started again. And what
they
played
was
warm,
sunny,
yet
there
was
just
a
faint
chill
—
a
something,
what
was
it?
—
not
sadness
—
no,
not sadness
—
a
something
that made you want to sing.
The tune lifted, lifted, the light shone; and n
seemed to Miss Brill that
in
another
moment all of them, all the
whole
company, would begin
singing. The young ones, the laughing ones who
were
moving
together,
they
would
begin,
and
the
men's
voices,
very
resolute and brave,
would join them. And then she too, she too, and
the
others
on
the
benches
—
they
would
come
in
with
a
kind
of
accompaniment
—
something low, that scarcely rose or
fell, something so
beautiful
—
moving
…
and Miss
Brill's eyes filled with tears and she looked
smiling at all the other members of the
company. Yes we understand, we
understand, she
thought
—
though what they
understood she didn't know.
Just at
that moment a boy and a girl came and sat down
where the old
couple had been. They
were beautifully dressed; they were
in
love. The
hero and heroine,
of course, just arrived from his father's yacht.
And still
soundlessly singing, still
with that trembling smile, Miss Brill prepared to
listen.
the boy.
—
who wants her? Why doesn't
she keep her silly old mug at
home?
fried
whiting.
me, ma petite chere<
/p>
—
yet.
On
her
way
home
she
usually
bought
a
slice
of
honey-
cake
at
the
baker's. It was her Sunday treat.
Sometimes there was an almond in her
slice, sometimes not. It made a great
difference. If there was an almond it
was like carrying home a tiny
present
—
a
surprise
—
something that
might
very
well
not
have
been
there.
She
hurried
on
the
almond
Sundays
and .struck the match for the kettle in
quite a dashing
But today she passed
the baker's by, climbed the stairs, went into the
little
dark
room
—
her
room
like
a
cupboard
—
and
sat down
on
the
red
eiderdown. She sat there
for a long time. The box that the fur came out of
was
on
the
bed.
She
unclasped
the
neck
let
quickly;
quickly,
without
looking, laid it inside. But when she
put the lid on she thought she heard
something crying.
Lesson 8: A Lesson in Living
For nearly a year, I sopped around the
house, the Store, the school and
the
church, like an old biscuit, dirty and inedible.
Then I met, or rather
got to know, they
lady who threw me first lifeline.
Mrs.
Bertha Flowers was the aristocrat of Black Stamps.
She had the
grace
of
control
to
appear
warm
in
the
coldest
weather,
and
one
the
Arkansas summer days it seemed she had
a private breeze which swirled
around,
cooling her.
Her
skin
was
a
rich
black
that
would
have
peeled
like
a
plum
if
snagged, but then no one would have
thought of getting c
lose enough to
Mrs.
Flowers
to
ruffle
her
dress,
let
alone
snag
her
skin.
She
didn't
encourage
familiarity. She wore gloves too.
She
was one of
the
few
gentlewomen
I
have
ever
known,
and
haw
remained
throughout my life the measure of what a human
being can be.
She
appealed
'to
me
because
she
was
like
people
I
had
never
met
personally.
Like
women
in
English
novels
who
walked
the
moors
(whatever they were) with their loyal
dogs racing at a respectful distance.
Like
the
women
who
sat
in
front
of
roaring
fireplaces,
drinking
tea
incessantly
from
silver
trays
full
of scones
and crumpets.
Women
who
talked over the
-bound books and had two last
names
divided
by
a
hyphen.
It
would
be safe
to
say
that
she
made
me
proud to be Negro, just
by being herself.
One summer afternoon,
sweet-milk fresh in my memory, she stopped
at the Store to buy provisions. Another
Negro woman of her health and
age would
have been expected to carry the paper sacks home
in one hand,
but Momma said,
these things.
you,
Mrs.
Henderson.
I'd
prefer
Marguerite,
though.
My
name
was beautiful when she said it.
anyway.
There
was
a
little
path
beside
the
rocky
road,
and
Mrs.
Flowers
walked in front
swinging her arms and picking her way over the
stones.
She said, without turning her
head, to me,
school work, Marguerite,
but that it's all written. The teachers report
that
they
have trouble
getting
you to talk
in class. We passed the triangular
farm on our left and the path widened
to allow us to walk together. I hung
back in the separate unasked and
unanswerable questions.
even
if
I
wanted
to.
She
pronounced
my
name
so
nicely.
Or
more
correctly,
she
spoke
each
word
with
such
clarity
that
I
was
certain
a
foreigner who didn't understand English
could have understood her.
―Now
no one
is
going
to
make
you
talk
—
possibly no
one can. Bui
bear in mind, language
is man's way of communicating with his
fellow
man and it is language alone
which separates him from the
lower
animals.‖
That was a totally new idea
to me, and I would need time to think about
it.
good, but not
good enough. Words mean more than what is set down
on
paper. It takes the human voice to
infuse them with the shades of deeper
meaning.
I
memorized
the
part
about
the
human
voice
infusing
words.
It
seemed so valid and
poetic.
She said she was going to give
me some books and that I not only
must read them, I must read them aloud.
She suggested that i try to make
a
sentence sound in as many different ways as
possible.
handled.
in fact I
did abuse a book of Mrs. Flowers'. Death would be
too kind and
brief.
The
odors in the house surprised me. Somehow I had
never connected
Mrs.
Flowers
with
food
or
eating
or
any
other
common
experience
of
common people.
There
must
have been
an
outhouse,
too,
but
my
mind
never recorded it.
The sweet
scent of vanilla had met us as she opened the
door.
made
tea
cookies
this
morning.
You
see,
I
had planned
to
invite
you
for
cookies
and
lemonade
so
we
could
have
this
little
chat.
The
lemonade is in the icebox.
It
followed
that
Mrs.
Flowers
would
have
ice
on
an
ordinary
day,
when most families in
our town bought ice late on Saturdays only a few
times during the summer to be used in
the wooden ice-cream freezers.
a
seal,
Marguerite.
Over
there
by
the
table.
She
carried
a
platter
covered
with
a
tea
towel.
Although
she
warned
that
she
hadn't
tried
her
hand
at
baking
sweets
for
some
time,
I
was
certain
that
like
everything else about
her the cookies would be perfect.
As
I
ate
she
began
the
first
of
what
we
later
called
lesson
in
living.
She
said
that
must
always
be
intolerant
of
ignorance
but
understanding
of
illiteracy.
That
some
people,
unable
to
go
to
school,
were
more
educated
and
even
more
intelligent
than
college
professors.
She
encouraged
me
to
listen
carefully
to
what
country
people
called
mother
wit.
That
in
those
homely
sayings
was
couched
the
collective
wisdom of
generations.
When 1 finished the
cookies she brushed off the table and brought a
thick, small book from the bookcase. I
had read A
Tale of Two Cities
and
found it up to my
standards as a romantic novel. She opened the
first page
and 1 heard poetry for the
first time in my life.
and
curved down through and over the words. She was
nearly singing. I
wanted to look at the
pages. Were they the same that I had read? Or were
there
notes, music, lined on
the pages, as in a hymn book? Her sounds
began cascading
gently. I
knew
from
listening; to a
thousand preachers
that
she
was
nearing
the
end
of
her
reading,
and
I
hadn't
really
heard,
heard to understand,
a single word.
It
occurred
to
me
that
she
expected
a.
response. The
sweet
vanilla
flavor was still on my tongue and her
reading was a wonder in my ears. I
had
to speak.
I said,
also.
'There s one more thing. Take this book
of poems and memorize one
for me. Next
time you pay me a visit, I want you to
recite.‖
I have tried often
to search behind the sophistication of years for
the
enchantment I so easily found in
those gifts. The essence escapes but its
aura
remains.
To
be
allowed,
no,
invited,
into
the
private
lives
of
strangers, and to share their joys and
fears, was a chance lo exchange the
Southern bitter wormwood for a cup of
mead with Beowulf or a hot cup
of
tea
and
milk
with
Oliver
Twist.
When
I
said
aloud,
is
a
far,
far
better
thing
that
I
do,
than
I
have
ever
done…
tears
of
love
filled
my
eyes at my selflessness.
On
that first day, I ran down the hill and into the
road (few cars ever
came along it) and
had the good sense to stop running before I
reached
the Store.
I was
liked, and what a difference it made. I was
respected not as Mrs.
Henderson's
grandchild
or
Bailey's
sister
but
for
just
being
Marguerite
Johnson.
Childhood's
logic
never
asks
to
be
proved
(all
conclusions
are
ab-
solute).
1
didn't
question
why
Mrs.
Flowers
had
singled
me
out
for
attention,
nor
did
it
occur
to
me
that
Momma
might
have
asked
her
to
give
me a
little
talking to. All I cared about was that she had
made tea
cookies for me and read to me
from her favorite book. It was enough to
prove that she liked me.
Momma and Bailey were waiting inside
the Store. He said.
did she give
you?
his cookies in my arms shielded by
the poems.
Momma said,
heart
good to see settled people take to you all. I'm
trying my best, the
Lord
knows,
but
these
days…
Her
voice
trailed
off.
on
in
and
change your
dress.‖
Lesson
9: The Trouble with T
elevision
It
is
difficult
to
escape
the
influence
of
television.
If
you
fit
the
statistical
averages, by
the
age
of
20
you
will
have
been
exposed
to
at
least
20,000
hours
of
television.
You
can
add
10,000
hours
for
each
decade you have lived after the age of
20. The only things Americans do
more
than watch television are work and sleep.
Calculate for a moment what could be
done with even a part of those
hours.
Five
thousand
hours,
I
am
told,
are
what
a
typical
college
undergraduate
spends
working
on
a
bachelor's degree.
In
10,000
hours
you
could
have
learned
enough
to
become
an
astronomer
or
engineer.
You could have
learned several languages fluently. If it
ap
pealed to you,
you
could
be
reading
Homer
in
the
original
Greek
or
Dostoyevsky
in
Russian. If it didn't, you could have
walked around the world and written
a
book about it.
The
trouble
with
television
is
that
it
discourages
concentration.
Almost
anything
interesting
and
rewarding
in
life
requires
some
constructive, consistently applied
effort. The dullest, the least gifted of us
can achieve things that seem miraculous
to those who never concentrate
on
anything. But Television encourages us to apply no
effort. It sells us
instant
gratification.
It
diverts
us
only
to divert,
to
make
the
time
pass
without pain.
Television's
variety
becomes
a
narcotic,
nor
a
stimulus.
Its
serial,
kaleidoscopic
exposures force us to follow
its lead.
The viewer
is on a
perpetual
guided tour: 30 minutes at the museum, 30 at the
cathedral, 30
for
a
drink,
then
back
on
the
bus
to
the
next
attraction
—
-except
on
television.,
typically,
the
spans
allotted
arc
on
the
order
of
minutes
or
seconds, and the chosen
delights are more often car crashes and people
killing one another. In short, a lot of
television
usurps
one
of
the
most
precious of all
human
gifts, the
ability to focus
your attention yourself,
rather than
just passively surrender it.
Capturing
your attention
—
and holding
it
—
is the prime motive of
most
television programming and
enhances its role as a profitable advertising
vehicle.
Programmers
live
in
constant
fear
of
losing
anyone's
attention
—
anyone's.
The
surest
way
to
avoid
doing
so
is
to
keep
everything
brief,
not
to
strain
the
attention
of
anyone
but
instead
to
provide
constant
stimulation
through
variety,
novelty,
action
and
movement.
Quite
simply,
television
operates
on
the
appeal
to
the
short
attention span.
It is simply the easiest way out. But
it has come to be regarded as a
given,
as
inherent
in
the
medium
itself;
as
an
imperative,
as
though
General
Sarnoff,
or
one
of
the
other
august
pioneers
of
video,
had
bequeathed to us tablets of stone
commanding that nothing
in television
shall ever require more than a few
moments' Concentration.
In
its
place
that
is
fine.
Who
can
quarrel
with
a
medium
that
so
brilliantly packages
escapist entertainment as a mass-marketing tool?
Rut
I
see
its
values
now
pervading
this
nation
and
its
life.
It
has
become
fashionable to think
that, like fast food, fast ideas are the way to
get to a
fast-moving, impatient public.
In
the
case
of
news,
this
practice,
in
my
view,
results
in
inefficient
communication. I
question how much of television's nightly news
effort
is really absorbable and
understandable. Much of it is what has been aptly
described as
coherence.
I
think
it
tends
to
make
things
ultimately
boring
and
dismissible (unless they are
accompanied by horrifying pictures) because
almost
anything
is
boring
and
dismissible
if
you
know
almost
nothing
about it.
I
believe
that
TV's
appeal
to
the
short
attention
span
is
not
only
inefficient
communication
but
decivilizing
as
well.
Consider
the
casual
assumptions
that
television
tends
to cultivate:
that
complexity
must
be
avoided,
that
visual
stimulation
is
a
substitute
for
thought,
that
verbal
precision
is
an
anachronism.
It
may
be
old-
fashioned, but
I
was
taught
that thought is
words, arranged in grammatically precise
There is a crisis of literacy
in this country. One study estimates
that
some 30 million adult Americans
are
read
or
write
well
enough
to
answer
the
want
ad
or
understand
the
instructions on a
medicine bottle.
Literacy may not be an
inalienable human right, but it is one that the
highly
literate
Founding
Fathers
might
not
have
found
unreasonable
or
even unattainable. We are
not only not attaining it as a nation,
statistically
speaking, but we are
falling further and further short of attaining it.
And,
white
1
would
not
be
so simplistic
as
to suggest
that
television
is
the
cause, 1 believe it contributes and is
an influence.
Everything about this
nation
—
the structure of the
society, its forms of
family
organization,
its
economy,
its
place
in
the
world
—
has become
more complex, not
less.
Yet its dominating
communications
instrument,
its principal form of national linkage,
is one that sells neat resolutions to
human problems that usually have no
neat resolutions. It is all symbolized
in
my
mind
by
the
hugely
successful
art
form
that
television
has
made
central
to
the culture,
the
30-second commercial:
the
tiny
drama
of
the
earnest housewife who
finds happiness in choosing the right toothpaste.
When
before
in
human
history
has
so
much
humanity
collectively
surrendered so
much of its leisure to one toy, one mass
diversion? When
before
has
virtually
an
entire
nation
surrendered
itself
wholesale
to
a
medium for selling?
Some
years ago Yale University law professor Charles L.
Black. Jr.,
wrote:
forced
feeding
on
trivial
fare
is
not
itself
a
trivial
matter-
I
think
this society is being forced-fed with trivial
fare, and 1 fear that the
effects on
our habits of mind, our language, our tolerance
for effort, and
our appetite for
complexity are only dimly perceived. If I am
wrong, we
will have done no harm to
look at the issue skeptically and critically, to
consider how we should be residing it.
I hope you will join with
me in
doing so.
Lesson 10: The T
enth Man
It was at three
the
next
afternoon (alarm clock
time) that an officer
entered the cell;
the first officer they had seen for weeks
–
and this one
was very young, with inexperience even
in the shape of his ache which he
had
shaved
too
much
on
the
left
side.
He
was
as
embarrassed
as
a