The Meaning of Trump’s Shark Fears

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Wednesday

Last week, when I was using the figure of Mack the Knife in Three Penny Opera to explain why Donald Trump’s fans are drawn to him, I initially missed the shark connection—which is to say, Mackie is compared to a shark while Donald Trump is obsessed with the fish. Recently, the former president went on a weird riff about how, if he had to make a choice between death by electronic boat battery or death by shark, he would choose the former.

Trump has a visceral hatred of sharks, as we learned when Stormy Daniels revealed how they watched Shark Week during their non-dinner date. Trump’s obsession gives me the opportunity to reflect back on the significance of the best-selling novel and blockbuster film Jaws, which gripped the country in 1974-75.

Daniels writes that Trump is “terrified of sharks. He was like, ‘I donate to all these charities and I would never donate to any charity that helps sharks. I hope all the sharks die.’” This obsession with sharks prompted a recent suggestion by Andy Borowitz that Joe Biden come to tomorrow’s debate dressed in a shark costume:

“There is nothing in the debate rules that prohibits a participant from dressing as a giant man-eating fish,” a Biden spokesman said.

As if to taunt his adversary, Biden appeared in a video today dressed as the carnivorous sea creature, telling Trump, “Shark Week came early, pal.”

In case you missed it, here’s Trump’s riff. I run it in its entirety (you’re free to skip over it) because it’s been prompting people to query whether Trump is losing it. Washington Post columnist Gene Robinson, for instance, observed in his understated way,

In 2016, Trump said outrageous things at his campaign rallies to be entertaining. In 2024, his tangents raise serious questions about his mental fitness.

So here’s the shark tangent, which started off (I think) as an attack on electronic vehicles and moved on to electronic boats:

I say, ‘What would happen if the boat sank from its weight, and you’re in the boat, and you have this tremendously powerful battery, and the battery’s now underwater, and there’s a shark that’s approximately 10 yards over there?’

By the way, a lot of shark attacks lately, do you notice that? Lot of sharks. I watched some guys justifying it today: ‘Well they weren’t really that angry, they bit off the young lady’s leg because of the fact that they were not hungry but they misunderstood who she was.’ These people are crazy. He said, ‘There’s no problem with sharks, they just didn’t really understand a young woman swimming.’ No, really got decimated, and other people, too, a lot of shark attacks.

So I said, ‘There’s a shark 10 yards away from the boat, 10 yards, or here. Do I get electrocuted if the boat is sinking, water goes over the battery, the boat is sinking? Do I stay on top of the boat and get electrocuted, or do I jump over by the shark and not get electrocuted?’ Because I will tell you, he didn’t know the answer.

He said, ‘You know, nobody’s ever asked me that question.’ I said, ‘I think it’s a good question. I think there’s a lot of electric current coming through that water.’ But you know what I’d do if there was a shark or you get electrocuted? I’ll take electrocution every single time. I’m not getting near the shark. So we’re going to end that, we’re going to end it for boats, we’re going to end it for trucks.

While Trump’s tangent is whacky, his fear of sharks has a classic psychological explanation, brought to you courtesy of Sigmund Freud and Carl Jung. Freud says that whatever we fear, we repress and what we repress becomes toxic and returns to us in the form of nightmares and neurosis. “Secrets make us sick” covers the first point and “the return of the repressed” the second.

So what is Trump’s fear? Of being vulnerable and therefore (in his eyes) not a real man. (Many authoritarians have this fear.) Strong women especially are seen as emasculating threats, and one of the forms this fear takes is of the vagina dentata or toothed vagina, which swallows up one’s manhood. Sharks fit this archetype particularly well although Jung talks about how the fear can take the form of other predatory animals as well.

One of the most famous literary toothed vaginas is Scylla in The Odyssey. This six-headed female monster lurks in a cave and springs out as mariners pass, grabbing sailors. Scylla is paired with the giant whirlpool Charybdis, another devouring vagina. As a warrior epic, it makes sense that Homer’s poem would present Odysseus with a number of female threats to his manhood. (There’s also Circe, Calypso, the Sirens, and the cannibalistic giantess who rules over the Laestrygonians.)

Jung’s word for the phenomena is anima, man’s female side. If men accept this side of themselves, they will achieve balance and the monsters will lose their toxic power. But if they don’t—and Trump certainly hasn’t—these animals will haunt their dreams (and not only their dreams, as we are seeing with Trump). Men in the grip of toxic masculinity believe they can prove themselves by asserting their dominance over women—grab them by their pussies—but that just makes the problem worse.

One can attribute the immense popularity of Jaws to male anxieties of the era. At the time, second wave feminism was at its height while, at the same time, America’s period of the Great Prosperity was coming to an end. Men were losing their jobs or finding it more difficult to raise their families. And then the country lost its first war.

In short, men who defined themselves by their manliness felt themselves dangerously exposed.

There were a lot of movies in the early seventies of masculinity under threat, from Clint Eastwood’s Dirty Harry movies to Charles Bronson’s Walking Tall. But Jaws held special prominence. As men read the book and watched the film, they (1) saw their anxieties articulated and (2) could indulge in a revenge fantasy wish fulfillment. The man with the bigger boat defeats the toothed monster from the id.

The satisfaction was short-lived, however, because Benchley’s story doesn’t address the underlying anxieties in a substantive way. The problem with pop culture is that, while offering temporary sugar highs, it doesn’t last long.

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Trump’s VP? Lady Bracknell Knows

Dench as Lady Bracknell in Importance of Being Earnest

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Tuesday

I’m in full proofreading mode for my book (Better Living through Literature) so today’s essay will be short. I was recently struck by a Thom Hartmann substack article on the Heritage Foundation’s 2025 Plan and how the billionaires backing it don’t care much for Donald Trump. They just see him as the means to make it happen.

A passage from the piece brought to mind a line from The Importance of Being Earnest. More on that in a moment.

If you don’t know about the plan, it’s essential that you should because it’s a systematic blueprint for ending American democracy, converting it into (in Hartmann’s words) “something like the old Confederacy.” Among its goals are ending public education, criminalizing most forms of birth control, firing thousands of federal civil servants, deporting 10 million+ undocumented immigrants, rolling back LGBTQ+ protections, slashing Medicaid, and on and on.

Step #1, of course, is reelecting Trump and, ideally, a GOP Congress. Hartmann’s column gets interesting when he moves on to step #2, however. To enact the Heritage plan, these billionaires need the right vice-president.

We talk of the V-P choice being Trump’s to make, but Hartmann makes a convincing case that the oligarchs will be doing the deciding. As Hartman observes,

To accomplish a major task like this is going to require a person who’s smart, well-educated, disciplined, wealthy, and utterly without scruples or a moral compass. In other words, JD Vance (or somebody very much like him: Tom Cotton, Josh Hawley, Ted Cruz, Elise Stefanik).

In his show The Apprentice, Hartmann points out, we are now learning that everything was scripted and that Trump wasn’t in fact using his (non-existent) business savvy to keep and fire people. Instead, he was provided names ahead of time. And so it will be the case here: Trump will be informed who his vice-president will be and, because he is so desperate for billionaire cash, will say yes to whomever. And here’s where Wilde comes in, with Trump as Gwendolyn and the Heritage folks as Lady Bracknell:

Gwendolyn: I am engaged to Mr. Worthing, mamma. [They rise together.]
Lady Bracknell: Pardon me, you are not engaged to anyone. When you do become engaged to someone, I, or your father, should his health permit him, will inform you of the fact. An engagement should come on a young girl as a surprise, pleasant or unpleasant, as the case may be. It is hardly a matter that she could be allowed to arrange for herself.

So while we’re sure to watch several weeks of Trump teasing us as to whom he’s going to pick—like Gwendolyn, he thinks he has a choice—the script may already have been written. My money is on J.D. Vance, a favorite of billionaire Peter Thiel. Maybe Thiel will even be the one to inform Trump of the fact.

Perhaps over a plate of cucumber sandwiches.

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D.H. Lawrence’s Egotistical Jesus

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Monday

Today I follow up a partially formulated thought shared in Friday’s post about how Bertolt Brecht’s Three Penny Opera helped me to understand Donald Trump’s seductive lure. In that essay I spoke about Trump going for rogue appeal, the bad boy whose swagger enchants the public. Although I myself am horrified by Trump, through recalling my attraction to Mack the Knife I may have caught a glimpse into the thrill that Trump fans experience when he goes on one of his rants.

For those of us who walk around with “thou shalt not” in our head all the time, it’s sometimes a relief to encounter a character who thumbs his or her nose at the morality police. Certainly, I heard this internal voice fairly constantly when I was a child. Above all, I carried around “thou shalt not focus on your own concerns, only those of other people.” As a result, I would feel guilty if I thought about my own desires. Much of my childhood was spent self-censoring.

This notion of self-sacrifice came down to me from both sides of the family, with three of my four grandparents born during the Victorian era and the fourth born not long after. You see the idea of self-sacrifice promulgated over and over in 19th century novels.

Noble though it is, self-sacrifice took some noxious forms when I was growing up in the 1950s. I think of the women who were expected to give up career ambitions to take care of husband and children. And of men who were expected to give up their lives to fight for the greater good, which is one thing if you are fighting fascism in Germany and Japan but quite something else if the enemy is a man who fought against colonial French rule in Vietnam.

When I got to college, I remember encountering some thinkers who encouraged me to push back against this sense of (to borrow a phrase from Garrison Keillor) perpetual responsibility. (Our Lady of Perpetual Responsibility is the Catholic church in Lake Woebegone.) One was Friedrich Nietzsche, who contended that Christian morality was a passive aggressive power move by a slave religion to gain power. (“The meek shall inherit the earth” was a way of hamstringing the free-spirited and powerful, the Übermenschen.) Brecht, meanwhile, appeared to tear the mask off “middle class morality” (to quote Eliza Doolittle’s father in Pygmalion) and show what people really think and how they behave. And then there was D.H. Lawrence’s novella The Man Who Died.

In the novella, a resurrected Jesus decides to stop living for others and to start living for himself. In this decision, he disappoints Mary Magdalene, who as a former prostitute (which is not historically accurate) has gone from one extreme (excessive taking) to the opposite (excessive giving). In their conversation they talk about the two kinds of excess, starting with Jesus:

My public life is over, the life of my self-importance…I have died, and now I know my own limits. Now I can live without striving to sway others anymore. For my reach ends in my fingertips, and my stride is no longer than the ends of my toes. Yet I would embrace multitudes, I who have never truly embraced even one. But Judas and the high priests saved me from my own salvation…

“Do you want to be alone henceforward?” she asked. “And was your mission nothing? Was it all untrue?”

“Nay!” he said. “Neither were your lovers in the past nothing. They were much to you, but you took more than you gave. Then you came to me for salvation from your own excess. And I, in my mission, I too ran to excess. I gave more than I took, and that also is woe and vanity. So Pilate and the high priests saved me from my own excessive salvation. Don’t run to excess now in living, Madeleine. It only means another death.”

She pondered bitterly, for the need for excessive giving was in her, and she could not bear to be denied.

And further on:

The cloud of necessity was on her, to be saved from the old, willful Eve, who had embraced many men and taken more than she gave. Now the other doom was on her. She wanted to give without taking. And that, too, is hard, and cruel to the warm body.

“I have not risen from the dead in order to seek death again,” he said.

From feeling guilty all the time for indulging my desires–or at least wanting to–I felt a surge of exhilaration at the idea of putting myself first. I was grateful to Lawrence for giving me permission to break with a Victorian sense of duty.

Now I’m wondering if a number of Trump supporters feel grateful to him for releasing them in another way—from their responsibility when it comes to racism, sexism, and homophobia. Having hidden their prejudices before—perhaps even from themselves—now they are free to express them openly. Not only that, but they can enjoy how he unloads upon all those politically correct members of the thought police, liberals like myself. If they have felt guilty in the past for harboring such thoughts or using such language, Trump has absolved them.

I can report to them, from my own vantage point, that living for yourself while turning your back on your fellow creatures is a dead-end street. Every time I’ve been tempted to take more than I gave, I’ve been reminded that true nourishment comes from supporting and being supported by a community. Likewise, acknowledging the full humanity of others is a richer and healthier way to live than retreating into tribal fears and hatreds.

Remembering the thrill I got from Nietzsche and Lawrence, however, has given me some insight into Trump’s power. He encourages us in our narrowness and sometimes that can be a powerful drug.

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Which Is Scarier? The Storm or Jesus?

Rembrandt, Jesus on the Sea of Galilee

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Sunday

It took me years before I began thinking of Mary Oliver as a religious poet. Every Easter I used to share one of her poems, thinking it fortuitous that they fit the occasion so perfectly. Then I discovered that she was a practicing Episcopalian and that she wrote in the mold of what Harold Bloom has described as American Gnosticism. The tradition includes Ralph Waldo Emerson, Walt Whitman, Emily Dickinson and Hart Crane and includes ecstatic encounters with God—or, if you’d rather, with the soul at the heart of things—while immersed in nature.

I am therefore less surprised that I once would have been to come across an Oliver poem explicitly about Jesus–in this case, about Jesus calming the storm, which is today’s Gospel text. To set up the poem, here’s the reading from Mark (4:35-41):

When evening had come, Jesus said to his disciples, “Let us go across to the other side.” And leaving the crowd behind, they took him with them in the boat, just as he was. Other boats were with him. A great windstorm arose, and the waves beat into the boat, so that the boat was already being swamped. But he was in the stern, asleep on the cushion; and they woke him up and said to him, “Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?” He woke up and rebuked the wind, and said to the sea, “Peace! Be still!” Then the wind ceased, and there was a dead calm. He said to them, “Why are you afraid? Have you still no faith?” And they were filled with great awe and said to one another, “Who then is this, that even the wind and the sea obey him?”

Maybe
By Mary Oliver

Sweet Jesus, talking
    his melancholy madness,
       stood up in the boat
          and the sea lay down,

silky and sorry.
    So everybody was saved
       that night.
          But you know how it is

when something
    different crosses
       the threshold — the uncles
          mutter together,

the women walk away,
    the young brother begins
       to sharpen his knife.
          Nobody knows what the soul is.

It comes and goes
    like the wind over the water —
       sometimes, for days,
          you don’t think of it.

Maybe, after the sermon,
    after the multitude was fed,
       one or two of them felt
          the soul slip forth

like a tremor of pure sunlight
    before exhaustion,
       that wants to swallow everything,
          gripped their bones and left them

miserable and sleepy,
    as they are now, forgetting
       how the wind tore at the sails
          before he rose and talked to it —

tender and luminous and demanding
    as he always was —
       a thousand times more frightening
          than the killer sea.

I’m wondering if the image of the wind tearing at the sails is how, for much of our lives, we feel caught up in tempestuous storms, which we come to normalize. In the process, Oliver points out, we lose touch with our souls:

Nobody knows what the soul is.

It comes and goes
    like the wind over the water —
       sometimes, for days,
          you don’t think of it.

At times, to be sure, we get glimpses of this soul—“a tremor of pure sunlight”—but then the moment passes and we are left, “miserable and sleepy” in our storm-tossed boats. Rather than changing our lives when we are saved–you’d think we would do this “when something different crosses the threshold”–we instead forget about it and return to our muttering and our knife sharpening. “You know how it is,” Oliver says with resignation.

What stays with us, however, is Jesus’s “tender and luminous and demanding” words to us, words that demand more of us that we think we are capable of. Are we really prepared to love God and to love our neighbor? “A thousand times more frightening than this killer sea,” the poet informs us, is this injunction, which comes from one who speaks with authority (“even the wind and the sea obey him”).

Will we rise to the occasion?

Maybe.

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Mackie, Trump, and Sadistic Thrills

Forster as Mackie in Three Penny Opera (1931)

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Friday

So Donald Trump, now that he’s been convicted of bank fraud, has decided to play the role of rogue. There’s an American tradition of the glamorous outlaw, and while these outlaws are not generally overweight, 78-years-old, and suffering from incontinence, nevertheless Trump is attempting to convince young Black men that he is like them. Now that he has his own mug shot, surely these thugs from hellhole cities (as he sees them) will vote for him.

In the past I’ve compared him with the highwayman Mac the Knife in John Gay’s Beggar’s Opera because of his ability to slip accountability time and again. I think we get further insight into his popularity with his followers if we compare him to Bertolt Brecht and Kurt Weil’s updated version of Mackie in Three Penny Opera.

While Brecht, one of the 20th century’s greatest playwrights, was famous for exposing the corruption and hypocrisy of the bourgeoisie, sometimes his plays had unintended consequences. What if, rather than turning away in horror from slasher Mackie, audiences experienced a thrill from his criminality. That’s what happened when Frank Sinatra sang Mackie’s signature song and what, I think, Trump cultists experience at his rallies. They come to see which liberals he will slice up:

Oh, the shark has pretty teeth, dear
And he shows ’em, pearly white
Just a jack knife has Macheath, dear
And he keeps it, keeps it way out of sight

When that shark bites with his teeth, dear
Scarlet billows, they begin to spread
Fancy white gloves though has Macheath, dear
So there’s rarely, never one trace of red

On the sidewalk, one Sunday mornin’
Lies a body oozin’ life
Someone’s sneakin’ ’round the corner
Could that someone, perhaps, perchance, be Mack the Knife?

[Added note: I just realized, given Trump’s terror of sharks, the irony of comparing Trump to one.]

I remember feeling a sadistic thrill when I first heard Mackie and Brown’s song about army comradery. Brecht and Weil undercut the ideal of the noble and patriotic soldier by reporting on the sordid reality, and the way they puncture the platitudes felt momentarily refreshing:

Johnny joined up and Jimmy was there
And George got a sergeant’s rating
Don’t give your right name, the army don’t care
And the life is so fascinating

Let’s all go barmy, live off the army
See the world we never saw
If we get feeling down
We wander into town
And if the population
Should greet us with indignation
We chop ’em to bits because we like our hamburgers raw!

I think of how Trump lionized, and pardoned, war criminal Eddie Gallagher, whom comrades reported as “okay to shoot anything that moved”—including a schoolgirl and an old man—and was accused of stabbing a boy to death for no reason, after which he posed with the body. While fellow soldiers described him as “freaking evil,” Trump saw him as a hero. It’s why he also admires Vladimir Putin and Kim Jong Un.

This frank avowal of human bestiality leads Trump’s followers to see him as a truth-teller and also appeals to their bloodlust. In “What Keeps Mankind Alive,” Brecht and Weil too show how humans can be bestial, but their hope is that we will work to clean up our act, not applaud:

What keeps mankind alive?
The fact that millions are daily tortured
Stifled, punished, silenced and oppressed
Mankind can keep alive thanks to its brilliance
In keeping its humanity repressed
And for once you must try not to shrink the facts
Mankind is kept alive by bestial acts

Richard Slotkin, in Gunfighter Nation, describes America’s long history of “regeneration through violence.” The myth that won the west, he writes, is that people had to descend into savagery in order to establish civilization. Many of Trump’s followers see him in this light, with liberals standing in for the savages. Bestial acts are called for given the battle that must be waged.

Or at least imagining bestial acts. Trump is reality television, something you can enjoy without actually getting hurt. Unfortunately, dismantling the guardrails of democracy and weaponizing the justice department will lead to actual violence.

Further instance of Trumpian rhetoric: Trump advisor, radio personality, performance artist, and general grifter Steve Bannon—who thanks to a Trump pardon is not in jail for embezzling funds meant to build a border wall–keeps upping the rhetoric. A fiery speech he delivered in Detroit last Saturday included the following threats if Trump is reelected:

We’re coming after Lisa Monaco, Merrick Garland, the senior members of DOJ that are prosecuting President Trump. Jack Smith. And this is not about vengeance. This is not about revenge. This is not about retribution. This is about saving this republic! We’re gonna use the Constitution and the rule of law to go after you and hold you accountable.

And:

We’re going to take apart the FBI. The FBI, the American Gestapo…There’s not going to be any FBI.

And in conclusion, as reported by Newsweek:

Ending his speech, Bannon issued a rally call, asking the audience, “Are you prepared to fight? Are you prepared to give it all? Are you prepared to leave it all on the battlefield? I can’t hear you and they can’t hear you!” People cheered, clapped, and shouted in support before beginning a “USA USA USA” chant.

Bannon concluded his speech and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, it’s very simple: Victory or Death!”

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Two Poems to Welcome in Summer

Monet, Cliff Walk at Pourville (1883)

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Thursday – First Day of Summer

As this is the first day of summer, I’m sharing two delightful summer poems, one celebrating summer moonlight and one summer mornings. In “Moonlight, Summer Moonlight,” Emily Bronte pictures herself lying a bower such as we might encounter in Midsummer Night’s Dream. From that vantage point, she looks up at the moon and at the swaying trees while “the solemn hour of midnight/ Breathes sweet thoughts everywhere”:

Moonlight, Summer Moonlight
By Emily Bronte

Tis moonlight, summer moonlight,
All soft and still and fair;
The solemn hour of midnight
Breathes sweet thoughts everywhere,

But most where trees are sending
Their breezy boughs on high,
Or stooping low are lending
A shelter from the sky.

And there in those wild bowers
A lovely form is laid;
Green grass and dew-steeped flowers
Wave gently round her head.

Mary Oliver, meanwhile, reminds her heart that “it’s time to come back from the dark” given that it’s a summer morning, with the hills pink and the roses “opening now their soft dresses”:

Summer Morning
Mary Oliver

Heart,
I implore you,
it’s time to come back
from the dark,
it’s morning,
the hills are pink
and the roses
whatever they felt

in the valley of night
are opening now
their soft dresses,
their leaves

are shining.
Why are you laggard?
Sure you have seen this
a thousand times,

which isn’t half enough.
Let the world
have its way with you,
luminous as it is

with mystery
and pain–
graced as it is
with the ordinary.

In life Oliver appears to have been bipolar—at least that’s one way to explain her ecstatic highs and depressed lows—and on this summer morning it sounds like she’s reconnecting with a world she lost sight of when she was wandering “in the valley of night.”

Indeed, she’s offering up a summer morning as a way to negotiate our experiences “with mystery and pain.” She assures readers that if they let such a moment “have its way with you, luminous as it is,” they will find grace even in the ordinary. This goes even for things we have seen “a thousand times.”

So yes, give over your heart to both summer moonlight and summer morning.

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An MLK Poem for Juneteenth

Poet Margaret Walker

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Wednesday – Juneteenth

In observance of Juneteenth, the now official holiday celebrating the ending of slavery in the United States, here’s a powerful Margaret Walker poem expressing appreciation for Martin Luther King. First, however, I share a strange connection that my hometown of Sewanee, Tennessee has to the events that transpired in Texas back in 1865.

I grew up surrounded by Kirby-Smiths, who were descendants of the last Confederate general to surrender to Union forces. Our obstetrician, our surgeon, my seventh-grade English teacher, and one of my best friends were all descendants. There was even a Kirby-Smith monument in the middle of town which, mercifully, was finally renamed—and the plaque taken down—a few years ago. First branded a traitor and then receiving a pardon, Kirby-Smith came to Sewanee to become a math professor at the newly opened University of the South.

 Kirby-Smith had surrendered in Galveston on June 2, 1865, and it was in Galveston 17 days later where Major General Gordon Granger arrived to inform the slaves that they were all free. Although Robert E. Lee had surrendered at Appomattox on April 9, news traveled slowly in those days. Kirby-Smith had been in fact cut off from the rest of the Confederacy ever since Ulysses S. Grant captured Vicksburg in 1863, which meant that parts of Arkansas, Missouri, Texas, and western Louisiana became their own department, known as Kirbysmithdom.

Our featured poet today was born in 1915 in Birmingham, Alabama. In 1963, in response to Martin Luther King’s “I Have a Dream” speech, she wrote the following in which she compares King to the Hebrew prophet Amos. As King was well aware, social justice was Amos’s central mission, and the prophet didn’t hesitate to call out anyone who trampled on the poor. At one point in her poem Walker quotes from his angry words:

You have sold the righteous for silver
And the poor for a pair of shoes.
My God is a mighty avenger
And He shall come with His rod in His hand

Even if you don’t know about Amos, you’ll recognize the line that shows up in King’s speech. It was a line that buoyed oppressed Israelites in Amos’s time and it has buoyed millions ever since it was delivered from the steps of the Lincoln Memorial:”Let justice roll down like waters, and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream.”

Here’s the poem:

Amos, 1963
By Margaret Walker

Amos is a Shepherd of suffering sheep;
A pastor preaching in the depths of Alabama
Preaching social justice to the Southland
Preaching to the poor a new gospel of love
With the words of a god and the dreams of a man
Amos is our loving Shepherd of the sheep
Crying out to the stricken land
“You have sold the righteous for silver
And the poor for a pair of shoes.
My God is a mighty avenger
And He shall come with His rod in His hand.”
Preaching to the persecuted and the disinherited millions
Preaching love and justice to the solid southern land
Amos is a Prophet with a vision of brotherly love
With a vision and a dream of the red hills of Georgia
“When Justice shall roll down like water
And righteousness like a mighty stream.”
Amos is our Shepherd standing in the Shadow of our God
Tending his flocks all over the hills of Albany
And the seething streets of Selma and of bitter Birmingham.

King’s speech was delivered almost a century after Texas slaves learned they were free, sad evidence that the arc of history, while it may bend toward justice, bends with excruciating slowness. Walker, however, is heartened to see it bending.

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The Right’s Love Affair with Assault Rifles

Stallone as Rambo

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Tuesday

“The Supreme Court just effectively legalized machine guns,” read the Vox headline while Washington Post columnist E.J. Dionne wrote, “Conservatives on the U.S. Supreme Court have decided that more Americans must die in mass shootings because they have a quibble over the word ‘function.’” At issue was a 6-3 ruling by the Court’s rightwing justice overturning a Trump-era ban (!) on bump stocks.

In 2017 a Las Vegas killer carried out America’s deadliest mass shooting in its history (which is really saying something) after using a bump stock to convert his rifle into a super deadly weapon. He killed 58 people and wounded over 500 in mere minutes.

I think of a poem that my father wrote years ago critiquing the NRA. Due to corrupt leadership, the NRA is now only a shadow of its former self, making the poem somewhat dated, but the organization succeeded in its major mission, which was getting the GOP to internalize its fanaticism. It even got the rightwing members of the Supreme Court to sign on.

Referring to a 1986 law banning machine guns, liberal Justice Sonia Sotamayor lambasted her colleagues for using an “artificially narrow definition” to “hamstring[ ] the Government’s efforts to keep machineguns from gunmen like the Las Vegas shooter.” She predicted “deadly consequences.”

I’m reposting my father’s poem, along with my previous commentary. He was familiar with toxic masculinity, having seen instances of it when a soldier in France and Germany during World War II.

Reprinted from Oct. 3, 2017 (slightly amended)

I share today the angriest poem my genial father ever wrote, which takes America’s leading gun organization to task. In “Ballad of the National Rifle Association,” he unloads on the gun group for the ways that it exploits white male anxieties. The poem was “triggered” by a gun ad in Gun World that guaranteed “shooting satisfaction.”

“Ballad” is a complex mixture of fantasies and fears, combining macho displays of supremacy, erotic dreams of manly sexual performance, and various emasculation anxieties. Stanza two is filled with power rape fantasies (“Whang her bang her get your action”).

At one point my father imagines Hollywood scenarios of protecting virginal daughters while cleansing the world of urban “putrefaction.” In this drama, which one sees in D. W. Griffith’s Birth of a Nation, the virginal daughters are the longing for a lost innocence while putrefaction is the black Other that makes anxious whites feel small and fearful. Donald Trump, of course, plays on fears of threatening African Americans (for instance, his description of urban neighborhoods as “hell holes”), and, right on cue, after the Las Vegas shooting Trump spokeswoman Sarah Huckabee Sanders mentioned Chicago violence as a reason not to enact gun control measures.

The poem’s deep dive into the psychology of gun fanatics also examines revenge fantasies against chaotic nature and against parents—which is to say, against the fathers who mock their sons’ sensitivity and the mothers whose sensitivity they both long for and hate (because it makes them feel vulnerable). “Pistol Pentheus” is Euripides’s uptight control freak in The Bacchae, who tries to assert his manhood and is torn apart by his Dionysus-crazed mother. There is also an Oedipal reference to shooting the castrating father before he shoots you and adds your “skin” to his collection.

The utopian vision of a new Jerusalem is a power fantasy designed to override anxieties: a militarized America is very good at “winging rockets,” whether at enemies or at the moon. (“It’s natural the boys should whoop it up for so huge a phallic triumph,” W. H. Auden wrote about the moon landing.) My father’s ballad was written in the 1990’s but is impressively prescient given how commonplace apocalyptic language has become among many Christian gun-toting enthusiasts.

My father writes the poem in a southern accent. Having spent most of his life in southern Tennessee, he saw up close how susceptible poor Appalachian whites are to NRA fear mongering. The poem appeared in his collection The ZYX of Political Sex (Highlander Research and Education Center, 1999) so expect the language to be explicit.

Incidentally, Lucille Thornburgh, to whom the poem is dedicated, was a longtime union activist.

Ballad of the National Rifle Association
By Scott Bates

In memory of Lucille Thornburgh, dedicated worker for social justice, who liked this poem.

“For your shooting satisfaction . . .”
–from an ad in Gun World

Pistol small arm handgun gun
Trooper Trailsman Frontier Scout
Smith & Wesson Remington
Combat Cobra Knockabout
Browning Sheridan Colt Snap-Out
Single-six and Double-action
TOP PERFORMANCE SUPER CLOUT
Give you shooting satisfaction.

Pistol short arm peter prick
Rod avenger redmeat dong
Johnnie joystick reamer dick
Dummy fixer hicky prong
Swinging sirloin two feet long
Have a similar attraction
Every boy can be King Kong
With a shooting satisfaction.

Pistol-heist her hunt her down
Line her up and ream her right
Ride her home get off your gun
Shag her shoot her up tonight
Jump her hump her out of sight
Whang her bang her get your action
Fill her full of dynamite
For your shooting satisfaction.

Pistol Po-lice save your pity
For the dirty rotten hood
Gun him down in Inner City
Like they do in Hollywood
Save your daughter’s maidenhood
And pulverize the putrefaction
Trash him baby trash him good
For your shooting satisfaction.

Pistol Pentheus git yer maw
Afore she tears you limb from limb
Beat yer pappy to the draw
And incidentally get him
The sonavabitch who wants yer skin
To add it to his rug collection
Blast yer pappy Jungle Jim
Fer yer shootin’ satisfaction.

Pistol Patriot shoot your wad
The world the moon your mouth your brother
Build Jerusalem by God
Winging rockets at each other
Love your country like a mother
Love your enemy dog-fashion
Love your neighbor till he smother
In your shooting satisfaction.

Envoy

Pistol pirate cool tycoon
Do us all a benefaction
Go take a flying fuck at the moon
For our shooting satisfaction!

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Eating Intentionally and Ethically

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Monday

A former colleague at St. Mary’s College of Maryland, Jennifer Cognard-Black, is out with a beautiful new anthology entitled Good Eats: 32 Writers on Eating Ethically. As the book jacket announces, the essays “seek to understand the experiences, cultures, histories and systems that have shaped their eating and their ethics.”

In her introduction, Jennifer and her collaborator Melissa A. Goldthwaite say that their selections have been guided by four ethical principles. These are protecting and helping others, seeking to do no harm and to limit pain and suffering, respecting rights of choice and self-determination, and furthering justice, “which includes fairness, equitable distribution, and recognition of both need and contribution.” The essays range “from factory farming and the exploitative labor practices surrounding chocolate production, to Indigenous foodways and home and community gardens.”

The book opens with a Naomi Shihab Nye poem that beautifully captures the spirit of the writers. By intermixing food with its natural and cultural setting, “Truth Serum” goes to the heart of ethical eating. When one is intentional and mindful in making one’s food choices, Nye tells us, sorrow lifts in small ways.

Truth Serum

We made it from the ground-up corn in the old back pasture.
Pinched a scent of night jasmine billowing off the fence,   
popped it right in.
That frog song wanting nothing but echo?   
We used that.
Stirred it widely. Noticed the clouds while stirring.
Called upon our ancient great aunts and their long slow eyes   
of summer. Dropped in their names.   
Added a mint leaf now and then   
to hearten the broth. Added a note of cheer and worry.   
Orange butterfly between the claps of thunder?   
Perfect. And once we had it,
had smelled and tasted the fragrant syrup,   
placing the pan on a back burner for keeping,   
the sorrow lifted in small ways.
We boiled down the lies in another pan till they disappeared.
We washed that pan.

I think of how Salman Rushdie once described literature as a “no bullshit zone,” an essential antidote to the non-stop lying and gaslighting we get from various political figures. Nye has a place for those lies on her stove: she boils them down “in another pan till they disappeared.”

A recipe  that includes night jasmine, frog song, a mint leaf now and then, “a note of cheer and worry,” and an orange butterfly “between the claps of thunder”–and that is watched over by “ancient great aunts and their long slow eyes of summer”–will stand up to a lot of bullshit.

Jennifer’s book aims to do the same.

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