Confessions of a Liberal Fascist

 If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh?
-William Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice

Perhaps the most startling assertion by the teabaggers and the conservative media is their equation of liberalism with fascism. I don't read their propaganda books because I won't give them my money, so I didn't know that the source of all this is a two-year publication by right-wing provocateur Jonah Goldberg called Liberal Fascism: The Secret History of the American Left, from Mussolini to the Politics of Meaning. Recently, the History News Network sponsored an on-line symposium on the book, in which academic specialists in fascism eviscerated Goldberg's fundamental grasp of the term, his selective misreading of history, and his flawed scholarship. Goldberg's blustery response attacked straw men and defended his right to define fascism as he chose, never mind that the academic definition of the term has coalesced around a meaning that has nothing to do with contemporary liberalism.

The allegations in Goldberg's book are apparently gospel among the right, and explain why I am an America-hating force of evil in the eyes of Goldberg, Rush Limbaugh, Glenn Beck, Fox News, and the teabaggers.

Who am I? What makes me a threat to truth, justice, and the American Way?

I was born in 1955, the first of five sons, to a librarian father and a stay-at-home mother who practiced speech therapy on the side to bring in extra money.  We went to church on Sunday and most of us attended parochial school at one time or another, despite the financial burden that must have been. In both parochial school and public school, my brothers and I not only said the Pledge of Allegiance and sang the Star-Spangled Banner, we meant every word. Our family lived in such exotic locales as Washington, D. C.; South Bend, IN; Concord, NH; Baltimore, MD; Columbus, OH; and Kingsville, TX. (Back then, the country had a shortage of librarians, who ascended the career ladder by moving.)

My father was, and is, a Stevenson Democrat who annually paid out a dime to any of his boys who knew that February 5 was "Adlai's" birthday. He also never let my mother forget that she voted for Dwight Eisenhower in 1952. From them, all of five of us came to value reading, humor, education, history, art, politics, movies, music, travel, and the Democratic Party. And, I'll come right out and say it, my veteran father raised us to have a deep skepticism of the military, especially generals. Dad -- a Bostonian -- also bequeathed us his lifelong devotion to the Boston Red Sox, an inheritance which may or may not be a blessing. He'll answer for that one on Judgment Day.

Six weeks shy of her 45th anniversary, my mother passed away. What kind of person was she? The kind whose passing had five daughters-in-law in tears at her memorial service. The kind who did the everyday work of raising five boys while returning to graduate school so that she could resume her career, the point of which was to save money to send us to college. From her, we learned patience and forbearance. From both, we learned as a matter of daily instruction that "violence never solved anything." (My father, now 81, also had a two-word apothegm that I will lobby to have etched into his grave marker: "Cheer up!")

My parents also raised us to respect others regardless of race or religion. I can't remember a time when I assumed anything other than, as Sly Stone put it, "we are the same whatever we do." Like any white person, I've had to keep a watchful eye on my assumptions about race, but that's not because of anything my parents taught me. I once told my father that if I ever hit it big, I didn't want to make the mistake of believing that it had been 100% by dint of my own hard work. He told me to never lose my compassion. (He has also been known to say that one should never resist a generous impulse.)

They were so open-minded that two of their closest friends were Republicans, although this was back in the days when conservatives didn't automatically dismiss anyone who disagreed with them as being fascist-Nazi-socialist-communists. I recall my mother laughingly telling my father that a neighbor boy had asked his mother -- who told her the story -- if his family and ours were still friends because we were Democrats. Those were the days.

Above all, my parents taught us to value family. We moved a lot, and so learned to stick together. Vacations were spent visiting relatives in Pittsburgh and Boston. Oft-told stories were typically of family lore. My father adopted Pittsburgh sports teams as readily as if he had grown up there and made sure that my brothers and I pulled for the Pirates and Steelers (who genuinely sucked back then) almost as hard as we rooted for the Red Sox and Notre Dame.

After graduating from college in San Antonio, I met and married the woman who would be my wife for twenty years until her death. During the course of our marriage, we also lived in Austin, the San Francisco Bay Area, and Seattle. She stayed at home and took care of our two sons while my career -- in the private sector, I might add -- developed and flourished.

Our boys grew up, stayed in school, and learned from me many of the same things my parents taught. They are hard workers, well-liked, and don't have many bad words for anybody. It's also their curse to be fourth-generation Red Sox fans.

My wife took care of me when we thought that I had Multiple Sclerosis and when we knew that I had cancer. We were, for want of another phrase, best friends. Five years after her death, I was fortunate enough to meet Premium T., now my wife and best friend.

In short, I was raised in a church-going nuclear family that lived family values and believed in liberty, justice for all, and the national pastime. I married, had a career, and raised children. I've suffered sickness and loss. I've grieved. I've loved and been loved twice.

And that's how I became a fascist...

The on-line edition of the Seattle Times published an edited version of my What If... blog of last Thursday. The comment thread is here. I read one of the three comments removed by The Times, an unhinged rant about William Ayers. The Times did not respond to my request that they reinstate it. Too bad, because it was unthreatening, contained no obscenities, and was a perfect example of how loony tunes these people are...

God, but I love this stuff. You can't make it up. Nope, you won't catch the Republican National Committee at just another "club with glass boxes filled with naked dancing girls." These boxes are made from the windows of a 1920s Manhattan building that housed the New York Times. Talk about a class act. But what's this about equipment rental?...

Roy demolishes the theology of Glenn Beck...

Check out this comical exchange between Rushbo stand-in Mark Steyn and a caller who proudly hails from "Belair, Maryland, home of John Wilkes Booth." I mean, with these people the laffs just keep on coming...

Call Me Disillusioned Dept: Sean Hannity is a greedy fraud and Michael Steele is a corrupt pol...

Onward Christian soldiers, marching as to war. "It's just patriotism. It's in our Constitution." All I can say is, "Shake it, shake it, Hutaree." All the way to prison for a very long time, please. Parsley Pics has more here, including video...

Sunday Funnies & Arts

As always, click to enlarge. For more Ben Sargent, Pat Oliphant, Zippy the Pinhead, and Tony Auth, go here, here, here, and here...

(Thanks to Sylvia From Over The Hill.)

Get your NFL free agent tracker here...

Occupied Territory Funk has a terrific Miles Davis video here. It's an abstract soundscape that reflects the  music in visual pulses and and impressions...

The New York Times obituary for Antoinette K-Doe is here. She believed in her spouse and in her community -- and acted on her trust -- in ways that few people have...

Keith Speara writes that her funeral was appropriately musical and flamboyant:

Deacon John Moore, alone with an acoustic guitar, belted "One More River to Cross." Gospel vocalist Jo "Cool" Davis stood on his artificial leg and wailed an uptempo spiritual; the church band, featuring James Andrews on trumpet, joined in as the congregation rose and clapped in time.

Porgy Jones serenaded the casket with a delicate flugelhorn solo. Congregants sang "We Shall Not Be Moved" as they filed past Mrs. K-Doe one last time.

In the lead [of the funeral procession] was an antique-style, glass-walled hearse carriage pulled by two white mules. Once Mrs. K-Doe's coffin was stowed inside, the marchers strutted past onlookers crowding the narrow strip of Ursulines neutral ground. Rain threatened, but held off.

A mule named Christmas pulled a passenger carriage, the sort that normally hauls tourists around the French Quarter. Riding in the front row, wearing his permanent smile, was the mannequin of Ernie K-Doe. A human attendant held the mannequin's top hat in place through a tight U-turn at North Prieur.

Lower Alabama...

Looking back on looking back:

Sometimes the most trivial and mundane things take on a life of their own. Take the simple water meter cover in New Orleans. Of late, it has appeared on shirts, jewelry, photos and more. Taking on "the part represents the whole", it has developed an aura of its own. It represents in peoples' mind a symbol of the New Orleans they always knew. A New Orleans from more carefree times.

Big Railroad Blues Dept: Ronni Bennett writes about railroad songs here on As Time Goes By. One of my favorite train songs is "Big Railroad Blues" as covered by the Grateful Dead. It's here, about 2:25 into the video...

Beats me why these guys are called the Moron Brothers. It seems to me that they have it made...

Yesterday afternoon, T. and I saw The Class, the 2008 Best Foreign Picture nominee from France. Although fictional, the film is shot and produced in a cinema verite style that places the viewer in the classroom. We are also present at parent-teacher conferences, in the teacher's lounge (yes, they smoke in there), and at student evaluation conferences. The Class follows teacher Francois Marin (played by Francois Begaudeau, who wrote the autobiographical novel on which the film is based) and the students of his inner city middle school literature class through a complete school year. They achieve enough triumphs that we suffer their failures that much more acutely. 

Throughout the film, M. Marin perseveres in his efforts to convey the concept of the meaning of words to his students. Though some often respond with the frustrating literalness of middle school students, others slowly take his point. Thus it is the height of irony when he loses a student -- one that Marin defended in private while often clashing with in class -- when he misunderstands how loaded a certain slang word is and cannot get the class to accept his literal use of the word. The film ends when the school year ends, with students cheering on teachers as they play soccer, a reminder that the student-teacher relationship is ever symbiotic and antagonistic. Highly recommended.

Discovery Channel: Jessie Lee Miller. This Austin-based cowgirl chanteuse successfully blends torch singing, western swing, jazz, and countrypolitan into a unique confection that epitomizes Texas music. That is, while Miller's approach is neither fish nor fowl, it is an unconventional alchemy perfectly reflecting a musical tradition that borrows from other traditions without qualm and somehow forges its own larger-than-life identity.

Miller has released two CDs, both good if abbreviated. Now You're Gonna Be Loved (2006) is straightforward swing-jazz characterized by Miller's sultry voice backed by a swinging band. Adept, economic instrumental breaks punctuate the vocals as Miller and her band course through thirteen ballads and honky tonkers. An acoustic rendition of "You Are My Sunshine" provides a nice finishing touch. 

Waiting (2007) introduces elements of countrypolitan, with the occasional Nashville-style strings nicely augmented by a New Orleans clarinet. This set is jazzier, further flung in its influences, and definitely more ambitious. The opening torch ballad, "People Fall In Love Like That," with its clarinet intro, jazz piano solo, and sultry vocals sets the tone nicely for the remainder of the CD. Nonetheless, one of the most charming aspects of Waiting is that Miller never forgets her origins: Miller romps through "Good Lookin' No Good," the very next song, accompanied by a steel guitar, and honky tonk piano, and a blues guitar solo that comes out of nowhere. Then comes the mid-tempo "Always October" followed by the lounge blues of "Runaround." Miller continues to mix her pitches deftly (including Latin version of Marilyn Monroe's "Loved By You"!) and holds the CD together with her relaxed yet seductive voice. It's always encouraging when an artist follows up a promising debut with an even stronger second effort, and, with Waiting, Jessie Lee Miller has accomplished just that.

Here is she is singing "Pennies On The Railroad Track" from her first CD: