Dorian Gray, a Parable for Our Time

Sarah Snook in the recent Broadway production of Picture of Dorian Gray

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Wednesday

The Atlantic recently had a fascinating review of a recent one-person theatrical version of Oscar Wilde’s Picture of Dorian Gray. (The paywalled article can be found here .) Talya Zax observes that by having Sarah Snook perform all the characters, the Broadway production has the effect of turning parts of the novel into interior dialogues. It also shows how Wilde anticipates the way in which our own social media “has made the drive to maintain an idealized aesthetic more powerful than ever.”

Which is to say, we have more ways of crafting flattering public images of ourselves than ever before. Dorian needed a gifted painter to show his image to the world but now millions can use photoshop and Tik-Tok.

Zax calls Dorian “the most infamous narcissist in literary history,” and while I’d give Milton’s Satan pride of place in this assessment, I love one point that Zax makes that’s barely in the book. While Dorian, at the end, is appalled at how his portrait has become grotesque even as he remains young and beautiful, Snook’s Dorian takes delight in toggling between the two. This is done by Snook playing with filters: after first using her smartphone to broadcast her images to a giant screen, she first gives her face “an unsettling porcelain-doll perfection, then zooms out, cackling with glee as she strips the effect away to show her true face.” In doing so, Zax observes that

Dorian isn’t just thrilled by his supernatural ability to maintain a flawless visage; he’s also highly aware of—and titillated by—the gap between the false perfection he embodies and the truth of who he is. The act of deception has become, for him, not just a conduit to pleasure, but a source of pleasure itself.

After reading this, I wondered if Trump too takes a special glee in conning his supporters, convincing them that he is the second coming of Washington or Lincoln while knowing underneath that he is nothing but a two-bit grifter. “What a thrill,” Zax writes, “to be able to present yourself as perfect while knowing that you are, at heart, willfully ugly.” Meanwhile Trump’s growing list of sins, like Dorian’s, stain his soul more and more every day.

Zax notes that by playing all the characters, Snook effectively shows how a culture of superficiality is a poison that can spread to different parts of oneself. “One of the apparent costs of putting ourselves constantly on display,” Zax writes, “is the risk of flattening the complexity of what lies within.” This doesn’t only impact Dorian and his cynical friends, however, but also Sybol, the actress he is at one point in love with. Along with obliterating Dorian’s tender parts, the obsession with image also leads to Symbol obliterating herself. Because she can’t live up to the vision he initially has of her—a failure that leads him to reject her—she commits suicide.

Again, I think of those Trump supporters who take to heart his comments that they are better than everyone else, especially people of color. He makes them think they are special members of his club, not suckers and losers. Then, when they inevitably fail, they are filled with self-disgust. And while they usually don’t commit suicide, they often turn to racism to regain their dignity, convincing themselves that they are at least better than those people.

In a clever twist, however, Zax then adds complexity to her argument by reviewing a second one-person production, that of Chekhov’s Uncle Vanya. It’s not altogether bad to have both an inner self and an outer self. Zax says that actor Andrew Scott shows us that “there might be a way to express ourselves, to be in and of the world, without losing our interior richness.” In fact, doing so “can even be a form of liberation”:

You must be every part of yourself to be all of yourself, Scott’s sensitive exploration of these linked characters suggests. It is natural to have many different selves, and the ways they interact, when given the chance to speak honestly with one another—as Scott’s quiet, tormented souls so movingly do—can be powerful. 

The difference lies in speaking honestly. Dorian denies his humanity and, in the end—like the Faustus story on which the novel is based—is so appalled (the painting acting as his conscience) that he turns against the reminder of his loss, slashing the canvas. Chekhov, by contrast, creates such three-dimensional characters that, even when they falter and make mistakes, they never lose their souls. A superficial fixation on image can never match our dazzling DEI complexity.

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Trapped in Trump’s Morality Play

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Tuesday

Political blogger Robert Hubbell recently observed that Trump’s second term resembles a medieval morality play, a genre in which the characters “personify abstract virtues and vices, such as good and evil, avarice and generosity, malice and charity.” By exaggerating human traits, Hubbell explains, the playwrights ensured that the moral would not be lost on their audiences.

At present, he observes, we are emotional hostages in such a play, performed daily, as we watch Trump and his GOP enablers engage “in conduct of such grotesque and exaggerated vice that it surpasses caricature.” The purpose of their play is to dispirit and frighten us.

Fortunately, in morality plays good triumphs over evil. “Everyone can see the ultimate resolution from a mile away,” Hubbell points out. That’s certainly the case with Everyman (1530), the best known of England’s morality plays.

Observing that Everyman is drowned in sin and obsessed with earthly riches, God instructs Death to meet with him. While Death won’t grant Everyman a life extension, he does give him time to find a friend who will accompany him. To Everyman’s sorrow, he discovers he must walk that lonesome valley by himself as Fellowship, Kindred, and Cousin all abandon him once they find out where he is going, as do Goods, Beauty, Strength, Discretion, and Five Wits. Only Good Deeds and Knowledge join him on the road to death, although Knowledge can’t go with him once he leaves his physical body. In the end, he and Good Deeds ascend to heaven together, where they are welcomed by an angel.

The play was a major influence on John Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress (1678), where Christian, carrying a burdensome pack of sins, must brave the Slough of Despond, Vanity Fair, the Doubting Castle of the Giant Despair, and various other obstacles on his journey to the Celestial City. Along the way he also encounters various false friends, such as Worldly Wiseman, Formality, Hypocrisy, and others, whom he must learn to reject.  

Everyman opens with a dissatisfied God wondering how to get people to turn away from evil, something which many of us are wondering about the supporters of our billionaire conman:

God: I perceive here in my majesty,
How that all creatures be to me unkind,
Living without dread in worldly prosperity:
Of ghostly sight the people be so blind,
Drowned in sin, they know me not for their God;
In worldly riches is all their mind…

God goes on to observe that people are on their way to becoming “much worse than beasts; for now one would by envy another up eat.” Sadly, “charity they all do clean forget.”

Because Everyman repents and embraces Good Deeds, however, his ending is happy. It’s worth noting, however, that, before Good Deeds can come to his aid, he must be aided by Knowledge and Confession. In other words, he must undergo a personal transformation. Once he does, things brighten up:

Knowledge. Now hath he suffered that we all shall endure;
The Good-Deeds shall make all sure.
Now hath he made ending;
Methinketh that I hear angels sing
And make great joy and melody,
Where Everyman’s soul received shall be.

Angel. Come, excellent elect spouse to Jesu:
Hereabove thou shalt go
Because of thy singular virtue:
Now the soul is taken the body fro;
Thy reckoning is crystal-clear.
Now shalt thou into the heavenly sphere,
Unto the which all ye shall come
That liveth well before the day of doom.

So what comparable ending, I hear you ask, is Robert Hubbell promising us? What is that happy ending that we should see from a mile away? Hubbell points to how the Trump administration is losing case after case in the courts. These include:

–the case involving the law firm Perkins Coie, in which a court ruled that

using the powers of the federal government to target lawyers for their representation of clients and avowed progressive employment policies in an overt attempt to suppress and punish certain viewpoints, however, is contrary to the Constitution…

“By personifying injustice,” Hubbell writes, “Trump has ensured that justice will prevail.”

[I note in passing that Judge Beryl Howell correctly applied a passage from Shakespeare’s Henry VI, Part II—“Kill all the lawyers”—in her ruling:

This action draws from a playbook as old as Shakespeare, who penned the phrase: “The first thing we do, let’s kill all the lawyers.”  WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, HENRY VI, PART 2, act 4, sc. 2, l. 75.  When Shakespeare’s character, a rebel leader intent on becoming king, see id. l. 74, hears this suggestion, he promptly incorporates this tactic as part of his plan to assume power, leading in the same scene to the rebel leader demanding “[a]way with him,” referring to an educated clerk, who “can make obligations and write court hand,” id. l. 90, 106.  Eliminating lawyers as the guardians of the rule of law removes a major impediment to the path to more power.  See Walters v. Nat’l Ass’n of Radiation Survivors, 473 U.S. 305, 371 n.24 (1985) (Stevens, J., dissenting) (explaining the import of the same Shakespearean statement to be “that disposing of lawyers is a step in the direction of a totalitarian form of government”). 

Check out Judge Thomas Thrash’s in-depth exploration of the passage, which I recently shared here.

–Maine has just gotten the Trump administration to drop its lawsuit threatening to withhold food program funding for not acceding to Trump’s discrimination against transgender athletes under Title IX.

–Trump will lose in his plainly illegal attempts to order the IRS to strip Harvard of its tax exempt status;

–Also dead on arrival is a lawsuit filed by a Trump-affiliated advocacy group designed to take over control of judicial operations. Hubbell explains that, by taking charge of operations and funding, “Trump could force the judiciary to bend to his will by threatening to withhold funds for judges or circuits that he perceives as hostile to his agenda.” However right-leaning the Supreme Court may be, it will never give up its own power.

–Also DOA is  DOGE’s attempt to gain access to Social Security data that is protected from disclosure by privacy laws.

–Hubbell could also have mentioned a recent ruling by Trump-appointed judge Fernando Rodriguez, Jr. prohibiting Trump from using the Alien Enemies Act of 1798 (AEA) to deport Venezuelans from South Texas. Chris Geidner quotes from the ruling to tell us what happened:

“[T]he historical record renders clear that the President’s invocation of the AEA through the Proclamation exceeds the scope of the statute and is contrary to the plain, ordinary meaning of the statute’s terms,” Rodriguez wrote in his opinion, finding that the 1798 law’s use of “invasion” and “predatory incursion” do not sweep as broadly as the Trump administration argued.

–Hubbell should also include Reagan-appointed Judge Royce Lamberth ruling that the Trump administration must restore $12 million in funding taken from Radio Free Europe.

–And then there’s the 9-0 Supreme Court decision supporting a lower court order that the deported Kilmar Ábrego García had a right to a due process before any action could be taken.

Although the Supreme Court has acted badly in the past—especially in granting broad immunity to Trump—Hubbell says that it is starting to push back after realizing it has created a monster. Pushing back as well are the lower courts, including Trump-appointed judges, leading Hubbell to conclude that this morality play will conclude as all such plays do:

We won’t win every battle. But over time, rationality and the rule of law will prevail. Our efforts to defend democracy hasten the day when reckoning will arrive!

Of course, both Everyman and John Bunyan’s Christian undergo a lot of suffering and experience much doubt on their way to the Celestial City. Sometimes they lose sight of the prize as they are distracted by side concerns. “The only thing is, it has never been easy,” says that Pueblo grandmother at the end of Leslie Marmon Silko’s novel Ceremony. But the narrative arc bends towards truth and justice.

At least, that’s what morality plays assure us.

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A Poem to Celebrate Cinco de Mayo

Celebrating Cinco de Mayo in Santa Ynez, California

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Monday – Cinco de Mayo

I share today Luis J. Rodriguez’s poem about “Cinco de Mayo,” a holiday that celebrates the 1862 Battle of Puebla. The poet notes that, in that battle, native peasants armed with machetes and bows and arrows defeated a larger and better-equipped French army. Napoleon III had wanted to establish Mexico as a French colony allied with the American confederacy, and though the Battle of May 5, like America’s own Lexington and Concord, was only an initial skirmish in a longer war, it inspired Mexican freedom fighters. The French left Mexico five years later.

Rodriguez notes that Cinco de Mayo is sometimes more celebrated in the United States, where it began, than in Mexico. He finds this appropriate, however, since the resistance had an impact on America: as French forces were tied up fighting Mexicans, they could not come to the aid of the American slave states.

As Rodriguez sees it, the battle for freedom has never ended, which is why in the poem he relates to the drunk who shouts out “¡Que viva Cinco de Mayo!” The poet wrote “Cinco de Mayo” in 2010 after Arizona passed the “Support Our Law Enforcement and Safe Neighborhoods Act.” As Rodriguez characterized the bill at the time, it

obligates local police to act as federal agents in stopping Mexican-looking people to see if they are authorized to be in this country. Those under scrutiny include Central Americans and other Native-looking Latinos, since most racists don’t know the difference. Believe me, this is not meant for Europeans, Canadians, and non-Native looking peoples. This profiling has already been going on for a long time, particularly in Maricopa County where Sheriff Joe Arpaio has targeted thousands of people he deems as “illegal.” All statements to the contrary are hollow with the long history of profiling Mexicans and Central Americans for stops, arrests, and deportations.

Although the Supreme Court declared parts of Arizona’s law unconstitutional, we know to our sorrow that the 2010 Arizona battle is being fought now in all 50 states as ICE, the FBI, Homeland Security agents and others invade homes and engage in unlawful arrests and deportations. Almost all those being grabbed by masked agents and spirited away are people of color, many of them Hispanic.

Cinco de Mayo
By Luis J. Rodriguez

Cinco de Mayo celebrates a burning people,
those whose land is starved of blood,
civilizations which are no longer
holders of the night. We reconquer with our feet,
with our tongues, that dangerous language,
saying more of this world than the volumes
of textured and controlled words on a page. 
We are the gentle rage; our hands hold
the stream of the earth, the flowers
of dead cities, the green of butterfly wings.
Cinco de Mayo is about the barefoot, the untooled,
the warriors of want who took on the greatest army
Europe ever mustered—and won.
I once saw a Mexican man stretched across
an upturned sidewalk
near Chicago’s 18th and Bishop one fifth of May day.
He brought up a near-empty bottle
to the withering sky and yelled out a grito
with the words: ¡Que viva Cinco de Mayo
And I knew then what it meant—
what it meant for barefoot Zapoteca indigenas
in the Battle of Puebla and what it meant for me
there on 18th Street among los ancianos
the moon-faced children and futureless youth
dodging the gunfire and careening battered cars,
and it brought me to that war
that never ends, the war Cinco de Mayo 
was a battle of, that I keep fighting,
that we keep bleeding for, that war
against a servitude that a compa
on 18th Street knew all about
as he crawled inside a bottle of the meanest
Mexican spirits. 

In addition to calling out oppression, however, Rodriguez also points to what his people contribute to America. When he talks about the Mexicans as “a burning people…whose land is starved of blood,” perhaps he has in mind the way that vanilla Anglo culture has sucked some of the vitality from the southwest. The new civilization, unlike the “holders of the night,” doesn’t eat, drink and dance deep into the late hours. “Our hands hold the stream of the earth, the flowers of dead cities, the green of butterfly wings,” the poet writes, while the “dangerous” Spanish language says “more of this world than the volumes of textured and controlled words on a page.”

For these reasons, we should all of us—not just Mexican Americans—be greeting each other today with “¡Que viva Cinco de Mayo!”

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Feed My Sheep

Raphael, Christ’s Charge to Peter

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Sunday

In today’s Gospel reading we have the account of Jesus showing up for a beachside breakfast and instructing Simon Peter to “feed my sheep.” Mary Baker Eddy, founder of Christian Science, has a simple but moving poem on the theme.

First, here’s the passage from John 21: 1-17, in which Jesus is letting Peter know that he still trusts him despite his Good Friday betrayal. It’s always been one of my favorite stories because of the intimate details–charcoal baked fish anyone?–and humble setting:

Jesus showed himself again to the disciples by the Sea of Tiberias; and he showed himself in this way. Gathered there together were Simon Peter, Thomas called the Twin, Nathanael of Cana in Galilee, the sons of Zebedee, and two others of his disciples. Simon Peter said to them, “I am going fishing.” They said to him, “We will go with you.” They went out and got into the boat, but that night they caught nothing.

Just after daybreak, Jesus stood on the beach; but the disciples did not know that it was Jesus. Jesus said to them, “Children, you have no fish, have you?” They answered him, “No.” He said to them, “Cast the net to the right side of the boat, and you will find some.” So they cast it, and now they were not able to haul it in because there were so many fish. That disciple whom Jesus loved said to Peter, “It is the Lord!” When Simon Peter heard that it was the Lord, he put on some clothes, for he was naked, and jumped into the sea. But the other disciples came in the boat, dragging the net full of fish, for they were not far from the land, only about a hundred yards off.

When they had gone ashore, they saw a charcoal fire there, with fish on it, and bread. Jesus said to them, “Bring some of the fish that you have just caught.” So Simon Peter went aboard and hauled the net ashore, full of large fish, a hundred fifty-three of them; and though there were so many, the net was not torn. Jesus said to them, “Come and have breakfast.” Now none of the disciples dared to ask him, “Who are you?” because they knew it was the Lord. Jesus came and took the bread and gave it to them, and did the same with the fish. This was now the third time that Jesus appeared to the disciples after he was raised from the dead.

When they had finished breakfast, Jesus said to Simon Peter, “Simon son of John, do you love me more than these?” He said to him, “Yes, Lord; you know that I love you.” Jesus said to him, “Feed my lambs.” A second time he said to him, “Simon son of John, do you love me?” He said to him, “Yes, Lord; you know that I love you.” Jesus said to him, “Tend my sheep.” He said to him the third time, “Simon son of John, do you love me?” Peter felt hurt because he said to him the third time, “Do you love me?” And he said to him, “Lord, you know everything; you know that I love you.” Jesus said to him, “Feed my sheep. 

And now for Eddy’s poem, which draws other images from the episode, such as the fruitless labor and the initial failure to recognize Jesus (“Strangers on a barren shore,/ Lab’ring long and lone”). At such moments, Eddy tells us, Jesus is the open door that awaits.

Feed My Sheep
By Mary Baker Eddy

Shepherd, show me how to go
      O’er the hillside steep,
    How to gather, how to sow,–
      How to feed Thy sheep;
    I will listen for Thy voice,
      Lest my footsteps stray;
    I will follow and rejoice
      All the rugged way.

    Thou wilt bind the stubborn will,
      Wound the callous breast,
    Make self-righteousness be still,
      Break earth’s stupid rest.
    Strangers on a barren shore,
      Lab’ring long and lone,
    We would enter by the door,
      And Thou know’st Thine own;

    So, when day grows dark and cold,
      Tear or triumph harms,
    Lead Thy lambkins to the fold,
      Take them in Thine arms;
    Feed the hungry, heal the heart,
      Till the morning’s beam;
    White as wool, ere they depart,
      Shepherd, wash them clean.

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Pricked and Bleeding Thanks to Trump

Al Pacino as Shylock

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Friday

I don’t know if the mother of the family brutalized by the Department of Homeland Security Monday night was quoting Shakespeare’s Merchant of Venice in her comments to the press, but she could have been. In case you haven’t heard, Marisa (not her real name) and her three daughters had just moved to an Oklahoma City neighborhood when Department of Homeland Security agents burst into their home, taking their phones, laptops, and life savings.

The agents were looking for a previous owner but refused to back off when the family failed to match their warrant. The woman reports that they didn’t allow her or her daughters to dress before sending them out in the rain. “They wanted me to change in front of all of them, in between all of them,” the woman said. “My husband has not even seen my daughter in her undergarments—her own dad, because it’s respectful. You have her out there, a minor, in her underwear.”

The agents refused to back down even after Marisa told them, “We just moved here from Maryland” and kept repeating, “We’re citizens.” The agents, she says, “were very dismissive, very rough, very careless.”

Then came the echo of Merchant of Venice:

My initial thought was we were being robbed—that my daughters, being females, were being kidnapped. You have guns pointed in our faces. Can you just reprogram yourself and see us as humans, as women? A little bit of mercy. Care a little bit about your fellow human, about your fellow citizen, fellow resident. We bleed too. We work. We bleed just like anybody else bleeds. We’re scared. You could see our faces that we were terrified. What makes you so much more worthier of your peace? What makes you so much more worthier of protecting your children? What makes you so much more worthy of your citizenship? What makes you more worthy of safety? Of being given the right that they took from me to protect my daughters?”

Shylock, explaining why he insists on collecting an agreed-upon “pound of flesh” from a delinquent debtor, talks about how his own humanity has been disregarded:

He hath disgraced me, and hindered me half a million; laughed at my losses, mocked at my gains, scorned my nation, thwarted my bargains, cooled my friends, heated mine enemies; and what’s his reason? I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes? hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions? fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer, as a Christian is? If you prick us, do we not bleed? if you tickle us, do we not laugh? if you poison us, do we not die?

Merchant of Venice is a controversial play because of its depiction of Shylock, with Harold Bloom fearing the play has done more harm to Jews than The Protocols of the Elders of Zion, the infamous tract that the Nazis used to justify the Holocaust. Shakespeare scholar Stephen Greenblatt, however, counters that Shakespeare so humanizes Shylock that the character threatens to run away with the play (that’s why the Bard drops him from Act V). In other words, we experience Shylock’s humanity to such a deep degree that all of our previously held prejudices are thrown into doubt.

Interestingly, in addition to echoing Shylock, Marisa also mentions mercy, another major theme of the play. Attempting to get Shylock to modify his suit, Portia delivers the following memorable passage:

The quality of mercy is not strain’d,
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath: it is twice blest;
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes:
‘Tis mightiest in the mightiest: it becomes
The throned monarch better than his crown;
His scepter shows the force of temporal power,
The attribute to awe and majesty,
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;
But mercy is above this sceptered sway;
It is enthroned in the hearts of kings,
It is an attribute to God himself;
And earthly power doth then show likest God’s
When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew,
Though justice be thy plea, consider this,
That, in the course of justice, none of us
Should see salvation: we do pray for mercy;
And that same prayer doth teach us all to render
The deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus much
To mitigate the justice of thy plea;
Which if thou follow, this strict court of Venice
Must needs give sentence ‘gainst the merchant there.

In the case of the Oklahoma woman, it is as if she is Shylock and Portia both, pleading for justice and mercy. Note how her words can apply to all immigrants who are being brutalized by Trump’s special agents, not just citizens. “Can you just reprogram yourself and see us as humans, as women? A little bit of mercy. Care a little bit about your fellow human,” Marisa begged the intruders.

The sociopathic Trump appears to have the power to shut down empathy in many of his supporters. Fortunately, there are Americans all over the country who are stepping up and coming to the aid of victimized families. In the meantime, however, countless individuals, guiltless of any crime, are being traumatized and sometimes spirited away by Trump’s thugs–who, by the way, have yet to return the money and objects they stole from the Oklahoma family.

One can only hope that hearing such stories of Trump victims bleeding as they are pricked will galvanize the resistance.

Further thought: While one sympathizes to a degree with Shylock, he is also a monster, so obsessed with revenge that he surrenders his own humanity. In this way, he is like those MAGA folk who are willing to suffer themselves if it means sticking it to the people they hate. Shylock blames his foes for his own extreme measures:

if you wrong us, shall we not revenge? If we are like you in the rest, we will resemble you in that. If a Jew wrong a Christian, what is his humility? Revenge. If a Christian wrong a Jew, what should his sufferance be by Christian example? Why, revenge. The villany you teach me, I will execute, and it shall go hard but I
will better the instruction.

The psychological power of resentment is such that suffering under Trump’s policies may not be enough to turn his supporters against him. As Democratic Congresswoman Jasmine Crockett recently observed, “The fact that people are ok with losing their jobs and healthcare, going into a Trump-induced recession, not being safe (militarily, medicinally, digitally, while flying, etc.), all in hopes that someone else will be hurt, is WILD.”

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Brecht Celebrated Overlooked Workers

Edmund Lewandowski

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Thursday – International Workers Day

As Donald Trump attempts to bring back the Gilded Age, assaulting union rights and workplace protections, and as various red states roll back child labor laws, International Workers’ Day takes on increased importance. The holiday has its origins in the general strike of 1884, where up to half a million workers nationwide demonstrated in favor of a 40-hour work week (down from 60).

On Saturday, May 1 of that year, Chicago’s Haymarket Square was the scene of an immense rally. While that day was peaceful, violence broke out in the days that followed and multiple people were killed. In the end, seven workers were sentenced to death in what was later regarded as a miscarriage of justice. The first International Workers’ Day memorialized Haymarket on May 1, 1890, with rallies held all over the world.

In “Questions from a Worker Who Reads,” Bertolt Brecht reminds us—as International Workers’ Day reminds us—of the forgotten workers upon whom society rests. Workers must read, the poem implies, in order to understand their part in the process.

Questions from a Worker Who Reads
By Bertolt Brecht

Who built Thebes of the 7 gates? 
In the books you will read the names of kings. 
Did the kings haul up the lumps of rock? 

And Babylon, many times demolished, 
Who raised it up so many times? 

In what houses of gold glittering Lima did its builders live? 
Where, the evening that the Great Wall of China was finished, did the masons go?

Great Rome is full of triumphal arches. 
Who erected them? 

Over whom did the Caesars triumph? 
Had Byzantium, much praised in song, only palaces for its inhabitants? 

Even in fabled Atlantis, the night that the ocean engulfed it, 
The drowning still cried out for their slaves. 

The young Alexander conquered India.
Was he alone? 

Caesar defeated the Gauls. 
Did he not even have a cook with him? 

Philip of Spain wept when his armada went down. 
Was he the only one to weep?  

Frederick the 2nd won the 7 Years War. 
Who else won it? 

Every page a victory. 
Who cooked the feast for the victors? 

Every 10 years a great man. 
Who paid the bill? 

So many reports.  

So many questions.

The poem may well have influenced a poem on Machu Picchu by Pablo Neruda, which I have written about in the past. Neruda shares Brecht’s working class sympathies so that, while he is in awe of the architectural accomplishment, he too pays attention to the forgotten workers:

Machu Picchu, did you lift
stone upon stone on a groundwork of rags?
coal upon coal and, at the bottom, tears?
fire-crested gold, and in that gold, the bloat
dispenser of this blood?

Let me have back the slave you buried here!

I come to speak for your dead mouths.
Speak through my speech and through my blood.

“There is no document of civilization that is not at the same time a document of barbarism,” Walter Benjamin famously stated. Then again, those civilizations that will flourish in the future will be those that do right by their workers.

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Remembering My Son 25 Years Later

Justin at 16 carries the cross at the National Cathedral

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Wednesday

It was 25 years ago—April 30, 2000—when my 22-year-old son Justin died in a freak drowning accident. In the quarter of a century since, my sorrow has mellowed to a golden note (to borrow from Langston’s Hughes’s “The Trumpet Player”)–which is to say, it no longer comes to me as a sharp pang but as something more muted.

The poem I share today has some of this softer feel, a sorrowful aching. “Dirge” is Ralph Waldo Emerson’s lament for the brothers who used to play with him in the woods. While alive, he says, they made this world “the feast it was”:

They took this valley for their toy,
They played with it in every mood,
A cell for prayer, a hall for joy,
They treated nature as they would.

They colored the horizon round,
Stars flamed and faded as they bade,
All echoes hearkened for their sound,
They made the woodlands glad or mad.

Now, however, he tills a “lonely field,” encountering his brothers only as “pensive hosts.” His former “strong, star-bright companions,” he writes, “are silent, low, and pale.”

Dirge
By Ralph Waldo Emerson

Knows he who tills this lonely field
To reap its scanty corn,
What mystic fruit his acres yield
At midnight and at morn?

In the long sunny afternoon,
The plain was full of ghosts,
I wandered up, I wandered down,
Beset by pensive hosts.

The winding Concord gleamed below,
Pouring as wide a flood
As when my brothers long ago,
Came with me to the wood.

But they are gone,— the holy ones,
Who trod with me this lonely vale,
The strong, star-bright companions
Are silent, low, and pale.

My good, my noble, in their prime,
Who made this world the feast it was,
Who learned with me the lore of time,
Who loved this dwelling-place.

They took this valley for their toy,
They played with it in every mood,
A cell for prayer, a hall for joy,
They treated nature as they would.

They colored the horizon round,
Stars flamed and faded as they bade,
All echoes hearkened for their sound,
They made the woodlands glad or mad.

I touch this flower of silken leaf
Which once our childhood knew
Its soft leaves wound me with a grief
Whose balsam never grew.

Hearken to yon pine warbler
Singing aloft in the tree;
Hearest thou, O traveler!
What he singeth to me?

Not unless God made sharp thine ear
With sorrow such as mine,
Out of that delicate lay couldst thou
The heavy dirge divine.

Go, lonely man, it saith,
They loved thee from their birth,
Their hands were pure, and pure their faith,
There are no such hearts on earth.

Ye drew one mother’s milk,
One chamber held ye all;
A very tender history
Did in your childhood fall.

Ye cannot unlock your heart,
The key is gone with them;
The silent organ loudest chants
The master’s requiem.

“Their hands were pure, and pure their faith” describes Justin’s quest to be a kind and loving man who was spiritually awake. Sometimes an object or an occasion will, like Emerson’s silken leaf and singing warbler, bring him flooding back. I also know that, because of losing him, my ear is more attuned than it was to earth’s sorrows—“the heavy dirge divine”–than it was before. As a result, I became a better teacher, a better father, son, and husband, and a better friend.

My heart didn’t lock down, as it sounds like Emerson’s did, but the poet helps me hear a requiem in Justin’s silence.

Further thought: The things that trigger Emerson’s remembrances, the flower and the bird song, remind me of two Wordsworth poems. “Even the meanest flower that blows can give,” he writes in “Intimations of immortality, “thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.” Meanwhile, in “Solitary Reaper” he writes of a woman singing as she harvests grain, “The music in my heart I bore/ Long after it was heard no more.” Both are about full hearts that struggle to adequately express their feelings.

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My Restorative Father-Sons Reunion

Henri-Lucien Doucet, Reunion of Odysseus with Telemachus

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Tuesday

I’ve just returned from a memorial service for my brother David, who managed to survive pancreatic cancer for seven years before finally succumbing. I had forgotten how beautiful and restorative it can be for a family to come together to mourn one of their own. At moments like this, sometimes we open up in unexpected ways, discovering previously unknown depths to people we thought we knew. It’s unfortunate it takes a death to make this happen but, then again, such bonding provides a degree of consolation.

At this service I was particularly sustained by the presence of the two magnificent young men who are my sons. Darien is a Chief Product Officer for a company that services restaurants—his own company just merged with the one he works for now—and Toby is an English professor. Looking back at the joy they brought me in this time of sorrow, I am reminded of the reunion of Odysseus and Telemakhos in Book XVI of The Odyssey.

Odysseus has returned home in disguise and is staying with his loyal servant, the swineherd Eumaios. While they are dining, Telemakhos makes a surprise appearance. Eumaios, who knows that the suitors have been planning to kill him, responds as the disguised Odysseus would like to:

                                        But before [Odysseus] finished,
his tall son stood at the door.
The swineherd rose in surprise, letting a bowl and jug
tumble from his fingers. Going forward,
he kissed the young man’s head, his shining eyes
and both hands, while his own tears brimmed and fell.
Think of a man whose dear and only son,
born to him in exile, reared with labor,
has lived ten years abroad and now returns:
how would that man embrace his son! Just so
the herdsman clapped his arms around Telemakhos
and covered him with kisses–for he knew
the lad had got away from death.

This moving interaction will be reenacted a little while later between Odysseus and Telemakhos but let’s stay with Eumaios for the moment:

Light of my days, Telemakhos,
you made it back! When you took ship for Pylos
I never thought to see you here again.
Come in, dear child, and let me feast my eyes;
here you are, home from the distant places!

Telemakhos then turns to Odysseus and, although believing himself to be addressing a stranger, behaves courteously and magnanimously, as befits a prince. Then we have the moment when, after the two step outside, Odysseus reveals himself. The disguised change, effectuated by Athena, is so pronounced that at first Telemakhos thinks he’s dealing with a god and must be reassured:

“No god. Why take me for a god? No, no.
I am that father whom your boyhood lacked
and suffered pain for lack of. I am he.”
Held back too long, the tears ran down his cheeks
as he embraced his son.

Finally convinced, Telemakhos reciprocates:

Then, throwing his arms around this marvel of a father
Telemakhos began to weep. Salt tears
rose from the wells of longing in both men,
and cries burst from both as keen and fluttering
as those of the great taloned hawk,
whose nestlings farmers take before they fly.
So helplessly they cried, pouring out tears,
and might have gone on weeping so till sundown…

What then transpires is the two of them working together seamlessly to defeat the suitors and restore order. The easy comradeship and mutual respect between father and son warms the heart.

My own heart was warmed as Toby and Darien stepped forward to support me in my grief, and I was reminded of another touching father-son moment in Homer’s epic. Seeking to praise Achilles in the underworld, Odysseus is rebuffed because Achilles now sees his achievements as meaningless. “Better, I say, to break sod as a farm hand for some poor country man, on iron rations,” the warrior tells him, “than lord it over all the exhausted dead.”

What pulls Achilles out of his funk is news of the prowess of his son, which Odysseus recounts in detail. At the end, the warrior now sees mortality in a new light. Death no longer gets the last word:

                                               But I said no more,
for he had gone off striding the field of asphodel,
the ghost of our great runner, Akhilleus Aiákidês,
glorying in what I told him of his son.

That’s what my children did for me and they followed it up with stories of their children. In other words, they reminded me of continuity. Sad though the occasion was, by the end I was doing my own version of asphodel field striding.

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On Claiming Christ While Hating the Poor

Carl Bloch, Christ Healing

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Monday

I have become a fan of Joseph Fasano, who regularly shares his poetry on BlueSky. The following poem reminds me of the George Herbert sonnet that I shared for Good Friday. At a time when rightwing Christians are applying their political muscle to put down fellow Americans and demonize immigrants, Fasano calls out a hypocrisy that Jesus too preached against.

In “Redemption” Herbert talks about searching for Christ in “cities, theaters, gardens, parks, and courts”—in other words, upper class neighborhoods—but ultimately finding him amongst murderers and thieves. That poem came to my mind as I watched White House spokesperson Katie Leavitt, wearing a gold cross around her neck, jeer at the young men who are being sent to a Salvadoran concentration camp. “We are encouraging illegal immigrants to actively self-deport to maybe save themselves from being in one of these fun videos,” the smirking Leavitt said at one point, referring to footage of guards shaving and shackling men who have been convicted of no crime and provided with no hearing.

Later, thumbing her nose at the fifth amendment, she said of Kilmar Ábrego García, “If he ever ends up back in the United States, he would immediately be deported again.”

Fasano’s poem functions as a passionate and principled response:

To Those Who Call Themselves Christian
but Seek to Divide and Conquer the World

By Joe Fasano

My god you think
that’s what love is?
Go
to your little, bitter meetings,
your callous rallies,
your palaces of gold.

You think you can choose who is beautiful?
Your country is open
to the chosen–
while somewhere, in the shadows
of your houses,
the one you believe
you are hearing
is hanging
in a crown of thorns, in agony,
burning the world with mercy,
his arms in an embrace he cannot close.

While American Calvinists regard themselves as “the Chosen,” the true Chosen include those that Emma Lazarus points to in her Statue of Liberty poem.  Put another way, God does chooses to love us all, even when people use nails in an attempt to prevent Jesus’s arms from closing around us.

To the rest of the world, America is a golden palace currently controlled by people who don’t know what love is.

Note on the author: Joseph Fasano’s most recent collection of poetry, well worth checking out, is The Last Song of the World (BOA editions, 2024).

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