A Paradise on Earth: Part 3 - In the Spotlight

Guyana is as remote a place as any you can find in the Western Hemisphere.  Overlooked by multinational corporations, foreign governments, and tourists alike, Guyana would prove an ideal refuge for an embattled Jim Jones and his followers. 

Jones had made a brief visit to the then-British Guiana in the early 1960s during his search for a doomsday-safe refuge for Peoples Temple.  Jones had spoken of undertaking a mission in an undeveloped country.  Around 1973, he tasked his advisers to form a contingency plan in case the Temple had to leave the United States.  Guyana was chosen as the destination.

Guyana, which gained independence in 1966, fulfilled a number of criteria for such a refuge.  The limited accessibility of much of its interior was one.  An Anglophone population was another.  The political leanings of the country’s leader, Forbes Burnham, jibed with Jones’ “Apostolic Socialism.”  Guyana was willing to relax its immigration and customs laws to attract settlers.  Finally, Burnham’s government saw Jonestown as a deterrent to Venezuelan claims to western Guyana.

Peoples Temple and Burnham’s government agreed on a long-term lease for a five square mile tract near Port Kaituma.  The cost was $37,000, or about $10 per acre.  The first Temple members arrived in 1974.  The first years of the Peoples Temple Agricultural Project, as Jonestown was officially known, yielded mixed results.  Clearing the dense jungle took time.  The soil was poor.  But they made a go of it and within a year the small group of settlers had cobbled together a tidy, mostly self-sufficient home for themselves.

Jonestown must have been a paradise on earth to the Temple members in California.  Jim Jones took periodic breaks from his very full schedule to visit Guyana, making films hyping the settlement for his flock.  (Among the smiling testimonials from the settlers, one film shows Jones showing off the settlement’s food cache including, among the staple items, Kool Aid.)  However pleasant life in Jonestown may have appeared at the time, there was much else to keep everyone occupied; Edith Roller’s early journal entries in 1975 mention the project only in passing.  Their pastor, on the other hand, had good reason to think about a new life in the tropics.

As it happened, Jones’ delusions of persecution were not totally unfounded.   A few of his followers as early as Ukiah had become alarmed at the pastor’s abusive streak and left.  But defecting from Peoples Temple was no small feat, even in California.  Eight young members, dubbed the “Gang of Eight” by an enraged Jones, left in 1973 ratcheting suspicions of potential future betrayers of the cause.  Members were expected to monitor each other’s words and deeds for the slightest hint of weakness.

Among the defectors the case of the Mertle family is the most noted, since it accompanied early journalistic inquiries into the Temple.  Elmer and Deanna Mertle, perhaps unsurprisingly, were part of the Temple’s public relations machine.  Elmer was the Temple’s photographer, while Deanna was its publisher.  As with so many of the Temple’s adherents, the Mertles had signed over their house, business, and savings to the church.  Their faith in Jim Jones would have its limits, however.

After a particularly vicious paddling of 70 strokes in front of the congregation, the Mertles’ daughter Linda revealed the seriousness of her injuries to her classmates when she dressed down for gym the following day.  (No mention is made of this being brought to the attention of Linda’s teachers.)  Elmer and Deanna had seen enough and left Peoples Temple with their children.  Because they had granted power of attorney to Jim Jones, Elmer and Deanna legally changed their names.  As Al and Jeannie Mills, they would figure prominently in the Temple controversy before and after Jonestown.

The first reporter to expose the inner workings of Peoples Temple, even before the Mertle defection, was Lester Kinsolving.  Kinsolving was hardly one to criticize organized religion itself; he was an ordained Episcopal priest and remains a darling of the Religious Right.  But the rumors surrounding the Temple tended to be ignored given Rev. Jim’s stature in local politics.  Kinsolving sensed the provocativeness of the story should the rumors prove true.  In 1972, well before Jones would descend upon San Francisco, he published an eight-part series of articles in the San Francisco Examiner.  Kinsolving questioned the more out-there aspects of the Temple’s peculiar theology, such as Jones’ claims to divinity and his faith healings.   His financial dealings and unusual closeness to Mendocino County officials were also given a closer look.

The Temple’s response was swift and furious.  A flood of angry letters and phone calls inundated the Examiner and Kinsolving’s final four articles were never run.  One detailed the suspicious death of Maxine Harpe in 1970.  Harpe was discovered hanging in the garage of a Temple communal home in Ukiah.  A county social worker and Peoples Temple member named Jim Randolph had been staying with Harpe and had recently accepted a $2400 check endorsed by her from the sale of her house.  Harpe’s heirs tried to recover the money, but were stymied by Mendocino County ADA Tim Stoen (more about whom later) and the county sheriff.   Another unrun installment concerned allegations Jones made against an African-American pastor that he had propositioned underaged girls.  Still another detailed the violence meted to Temple members.

The furor over Kinsolving’s articles was short-lived.  Jones moved to the big city and made it big.  But the cloud over Peoples Temple never dissipated completely. 

As Jones’ star burned brightest in 1976 and 1977, the forces which would lead to his destruction, and that of 909 others, were gathering swiftly.  The talk surrounding Temple practices and the increasingly vocal Concerned Relatives group, which claimed it was a malevolent cult, begged media coverage.  Marshall Kilduff of the San Francisco Chronicle and Phil Tracy of the Village Voice began researching the Temple.  The Chronicle, nervous after the backlash against Lester Kinsolving’s aborted series in the Examiner, declined to publish the article Kilduff and Tracy submitted. 

New West magazine would print what the Chron would not.  The night before the issue featuring the Kilduff and Tracy piece came out, New West editor Rosalie Wright phoned Jones and read him the article.  The following day, August 1, 1977, the new edition hit the newsstands and went out to the subscribers.

Jim Jones would not be available for comment. 

© 2018 The Unassuming Scholar

A Paradise on Earth: Part 2 - "I'll Be Your God"

The Reverend James Warren Jones was an unusual product of his time and place. 

Jim’s childhood in Depression-era Indiana was lonely.  He was poor.  He was socially isolated.  His father, gassed in the First World War, was too disabled to work.  The father was a drunk and a member of the Ku Klux Klan, which had a large presence in Indiana.  His mother, Lynetta, was the breadwinner and absent much of the time.  Young Jim read extensively and fostered a preoccupation with death and religion.  Jim would play preacher with his few friends and held funerals for dead pets.

The fascination with religion persisted into adulthood.  Jim studied education at Butler University and worked as a hospital orderly, meeting his wife Marceline on the job.  Ordained as a Methodist minister after graduation, he was underwhelmed by his first congregation and felt stifled by its lack of diversity.

Diversity was not a thing in the postwar Midwest.  Jones, who openly espoused Communism at the height of the 1950s Red Scare, found himself at odds with the church.  Attending a faith healing and noticing that the congregants were generous with donations, Jones saw a means for realizing his social vision.  Staging a series of revival meetings was Jones’ springboard to starting his own church.

Initially called Wings of Deliverance, the Peoples Temple attracted blacks and whites alike.  Incorporating the evangelical style of the black church, Jones also sought whites who normally would gravitate to mainstream congregations.  Jones used the Temple as a political springboard.  He was appointed to Indianapolis’ Human Rights Commission.  He used his growing public profile to push for racial integration and suffered the inevitable backlash.

Jones’ commitment to racial equality extended to his own family, adopting a black son and three Asian children in addition to his and Marcy’s own boy.  The accidental death of daughter Stephanie created a media spectacle when Jones searched for an unsegregated cemetery in which to bury her.  Her headstone was marked with the oddly jarring caption, “Our Korean Daughter.”

Around the time of the Cuban Missile Crisis, Jones became worried about surviving the manmade Armageddon he thought inevitable.  He spent time in Hawaii and Brazil and paid a short visit to Guyana on his way back to Indianapolis.  Having read in Esquire that northwestern California would be one of the few places in America to be unaffected by a nuclear war, and catching hell in Indianapolis for his integrationist stance, Jones abruptly uprooted his congregation, packed them into buses, and drove west to Ukiah.

The Temple’s move to its new home brought some changes, with the congregation gaining affluent white adherents.  California had no shortage of spiritual seekers.  Rev. Jim continued his social activism, serving as a substitute teacher and leading adult education classes.  If Peoples Temple had a golden age, its years in Redwood Valley were probably it.  The Temple’s social service network matured then, affording cradle-to-grave care for its members.

Such care came at a cost, however.  Temple members, who had once been required to tithe, now found themselves signing over their assets.  They turned over the bulk of their wages every payday in exchange for a small cash allowance.  Free time was given over to worship services, volunteer activities within the Temple, and service on the congregation’s myriad committees.  Members would boast to each other over how much time they put in and how little sleep they got.  Peoples Temple became a socially isolated group in thrall to its leader.

It isn’t clear when the abuses began.  There is little evidence that the public paddlings and forced boxing matches went on in Indianapolis.  The same goes for Rev. Jim’s pansexual promiscuity among his flock.  Jones is said to have shown a sadistic streak early on, abusing childhood playmates and roughly treating patients as a hospital orderly.  In 1974 Elmer and Deanna Mertle made their exit under death threats after their daughter had been severely paddled.  Few others had the courage to leave. 

Meanwhile, Jones’ theology began to take new shape.  Staged faith healings and socialist rhetoric had always been part of the program.  (A video of a service in Ukiah has the congregation singing a “hymn” to the tune of “The Internationale.”)  Having melded the spiritual and the political, Rev. Jim now began to shape a church without God.  He denounced the King James Bible, and implied that he himself was godlike.

Jones looked to older non-mainstream religious groups for inspiration.  Father Divine was an exemplar of what Jim Jones wanted to be, and Jones appropriated the patriarchal title for himself.  (Marceline in turn was known as Mother.)  Throughout the early 1960s Jones made several trips to visit Father Divine at the International Peace Mission in Pennsylvania.  (The Temple would crisscross the country by bus, holding revivals.  The first visits to Father Divine were likely part of this peripatetic evangelism.)  After Father Divine’s death, Jones claimed his mantle.  He was finally banished in 1971 after he tried to take over the remnants of the Peace Mission and its assets. 

Eventually Redwood Valley proved too small to contain Jim Jones’ ambition.  Peoples Temple members routinely proselytized in San Francisco, and by 1972 it had established a permanent presence.  By mid-decade the city had become the movement’s home base, with its headquarters on Geary Street west of Van Ness.  Jones wasted no time raising his profile in San Francisco politics.

His first success was helping George Moscone win election as mayor in 1975.  Peoples Temple got out the vote for Jimmy Carter the following year and for Harvey Milk the year after that.  Jones won a seat on the city Housing Commission.  The California State Senate passed a resolution commending the Temple.  Jones and his parishioners didn’t ignore social justice issues, supporting LGBT rights and protesting the demolition of International Hotel in Manilatown.  The I-Hotel fight was a symptom of the gentrifying redevelopment which uprooted people of color in the city then which attracted both members and community support for the Temple.

Jim Jones possessed a keen social intelligence which served him well at first.  He studied powerful men’s weaknesses and played to them.  (George Moscone was said to have a roving eye, which allegedly fell upon several of the Temple’s women.)  His aura of mystery and knack for getting publicity added even more color to an already colorful era in San Francisco.  Along with the attention came the rumors and allegations, muted at first, but which would grow too loud for the news media to ignore.

We can gain insight into Peoples Temple from the daily jottings of one of its members, Edith Roller.  Roller was a middle-aged woman, a miner’s daughter from Colorado.  She had worked variously as a CIA employee in Asia and as a creative writing instructor at San Francisco State.  At the time of her journal, Roller worked as a secretary at Bechtel Corporation where she moved among the likes of Caspar Weinberger and George Shultz.  An atheist with a strong commitment to social justice, she was perhaps typical of Peoples Temple’s white adherents during its final stage.

Roller kept her journal at Jim Jones’ behest.  Its minutiae give us a fascinating look at not only at life within the Temple but a snapshot of the recent past as well.  Roller’s life was intentionally full.  She would work at her office job eight hours a day, selling the Temple’s newsletter on street corners on her lunch hour.  Services at the Temple most evenings.  Bus trips to the Los Angeles Temple most weekends, staying at houses of members there. 

What stands out in Edith Roller’s detailed writings is her blasé acceptance of practices which would shock most of us.  Not only did she note the beatings and boxing matches, but she expressed disappointment when they were insufficiently violent.  We do sense her perceptible discomfort as the church encroached upon what remained of her private life until she was made to give up her apartment and move into one of the Tenderloin SROs leased by the Temple for communal living.  There she lived until the exodus to Guyana.

Life within Peoples Temple became an extension of its leader’s mounting paranoia.  The center of power devolved upon a mostly white and largely female Planning Commission, which had begun in Redwood Valley and expanded to nearly 100 members by the end.  The Temple had its own private security force.  Members had to sign powers of attorney giving Jones and the Temple full authority over their legal and financial affairs.  Spaces were bugged within the Temple building and conversations monitored.  Jones began abusing amphetamines, which fed his growing paranoia. 

As the fame of Jim Jones and his congregation grew, so did outside interest in its practices.  A chain of events would be touched off which laid bare the worst abuses within Peoples Temple.  As suddenly as it had burst upon the San Francisco political scene, it disappeared just as suddenly.  The end result would be disastrous. 

© 2018 The Unassuming Scholar

A Paradise on Earth: Part 1 - Tragedy

They all seemed happy.

They all seemed happy in the photos and film footage.  The images give the impression that Jonestown was the earthly paradise Peoples Temple propaganda made it out to be. 

The reality, as we know, was different.  The murder-suicide of 909 people at Jonestown in November 1978 led to the unmasking of what Peoples Temple had become in its final years and the true character of its charismatic pastor, Jim Jones.  The congregation had fled from its base in San Francisco to Guyana the previous year as media revelations surfaced of Jones’ erratic behavior and abuse within the church. 

The day of the massacre Temple gunmen had killed Congressman Leo Ryan, several members of his party, as well as a few Temple defectors attempting to leave Jonestown at a nearby airstrip.  Ryan had been on an official visit to investigate allegations made by relatives of Temple members.  The prospect of losing even a handful of members and possible legal action against him back home pushed Jones over the edge.  After Ryan’s murder Jones told his followers that they faced attack from the Guyanese and U.S. militaries and that there was only one way out.  Those who did not willingly drink the cyanide-laced grape punch were forcibly given the poison.

Followed days later by the assassinations of George Moscone and Harvey Milk, an uneasy pall fell upon those of us living in Northern California.  I was twelve and just becoming aware of the wider world.  I did not fully understand what had happened, only that I felt troubled whenever the story came up on the TV news or in conversation among the adults. 

It certainly was an odd time.  David Talbot captures the zeitgeist in The Season of the Witch, parts of which cover Peoples Temple’s time in the Bay Area and the Moscone mayoralty.  Reading Talbot brings back the same feelings of forty years ago.  Like most people outside San Francisco, I’d never heard of Peoples Temple until after the suicides.  Thinking back on it, though, I’m a little surprised I hadn’t.

Certain aspects of my childhood were a trifle unconventional.  My parents were still together then and even though we lived in a small town with conservative values they experimented with religion.  We kids were not reared in any particular faith outside a nominal adherence to Protestant Christianity.  Nevertheless, our mom and dad searched fruitlessly for a spiritual home.  Perhaps they were grasping for something to save their failing marriage; I don’t know and it really doesn’t matter at this remove. 

For a while we sampled a variety of churches, most outside the mainstream.  My sisters and I were subjected to an evangelical Baptist Sunday School for a few weeks.  We looked into the Seventh Day Adventists and Christian Science.  Mom renewed ties with some of her Mormon relatives with a mind toward conversion.  Dad pursued an interest in faith healing for a spell.  Mom dragged him to seances and “channelings.”  She eventually settled on a cherrypicked mishmash of New Age ideas as her professed belief.  I’m not sure where Dad ended up.  I sleep in Sunday mornings.

Histories of Peoples Temple in the 1970s list several satellite congregations in addition to its homebases in San Francisco and Los Angeles.  One purportedly was in the city nearest our home.  Jim Jones’ charisma and the Temple’s emphasis on such woo as miracle cures through laying on of hands should have made it a natural choice for my parents.  Nevertheless, we never attended and it was never mentioned by my folks until the Temple became headline news.

The only reference to this satellite church near my childhood home was a passing reference by Jones in a radio interview.  A search of city directories yields no clues.  Jones was given to hyperbole; perhaps the congregation was just in his mind.

The real tragedy of Peoples Temple, aside from the obvious, is that it was a truly positive force in the lives of its members.  The prevailing discourse surrounding the Temple emphasizes Jones’ mental unraveling and his abusive behavior.  Something clearly had gone awry in those last years.  But if we look at the Temple’s pursuit of racial harmony and social justice and its devotion to its congregants’ material welfare in sickness and old age, it compares very favorably not only to other New Religious Movements but to established churches as well.

I once made this claim in a paper I presented at an academic conference.  The panel discussant’s comments were generally favorable and she offered up the customary suggestions for improvement.  The subsequent audience Q&A was not as friendly.  “How can you say anything good about a man who killed his followers?” and so forth.  You can’t win ‘em all.  I’ve had worse presentations.  I still think I’m right.

Peoples Temple’s legacy is enshrined in offhanded cultural references like “drinking the Kool Aid.”  I’m uncomfortably amused by the name of San Francisco rock band The Brian Jonestown Massacre.  Serious depictions fixate on the mass suicide in the jungle to the exclusion of a deeper look at the events and forces leading up to it.  The reason we don’t discuss the implications of the Temple’s fate is that it hits too close to home.

As a society we are seized by bouts of irrationality.  Remember the evil clown sightings around public schools and playgrounds a couple of years ago?  The news media covered the story without a smidgen of skepticism, fueling the hysteria.  How about the fears over Satanists during the 1980s and 90s?  People went to prison because prosecutors and juries bought into fantastical stories.  Drivers looking at rather than through their windshields in the early 1960s were convinced that the tiny pitting in the glass was caused by atomic fallout instead of normal wear and tear.  Women in Mattoon, Illinois, during the Second World War suffered fainting spells said to have been caused by an unknown man spraying a mysterious gas through their open windows at night.

We’re unnerved by the ways cults hook and hold on to their adherents because deep down we recognize our own credulity.  Peoples Temple is commonly remembered as a cult, even though it was formally part of the mainstream Disciples of Christ.  In its time, the Temple must have been an unsettling presence in the midst of changing mores.

The trajectory of Peoples Temple from a small midwestern church to a West Coast political force to a utopian agricultural settlement in the wilds of South America was an unlikely one, even with the weird vicissitudes of American life.  The ensuing tragedy bears an occasional retelling that goes beyond the customary shrugs and clichés. 

© 2018 The Unassuming Scholar

After the Guns Fell Silent

The First World War ended a hundred years ago today.

November 11^th is commemorated each year in our country as Veterans Day.  Most of us treat it as just another welcome day off from work or school.  In spite of our cultural fetishization of veterans and the military, however, the origins of the holiday don’t receive much scrutiny.

In Europe, the legacy of the Great War looms large.  I visited London in the summer of 2014 during the commemoration of the war’s centenary and you couldn’t avoid it.  At home, it received sparse notice from a historically oblivious public.

The war and its aftermath have irrevocably changed the course of events in ways which reverberate into the present.  It doesn’t seem to matter much to us, though.  The President traveled all the way to France for the commemoration yet declined to attend a wreath-laying at the Aisne-Marne cemetery at the last minute due to rain.  He also decided not to attend the scheduled Peace Forum summit.  The optics of this in Europe and elsewhere will be undoubtedly negative.

Then again, Mr. Trump’s opt-out is understandable considering how the people back home view that war and the value they place on peace.  World War I took the lives of 53,000 Americans in combat deaths alone not to mention another 63,000 dead from illness but since it rates only a brief mention in the high school history lessons we slept through, it might as well have never happened.

It is not accurate to say that November 11, 1918 marked the end of the fighting.  That was just on the Western Front.  It dragged on for several more years in various theaters in Europe and the Middle East.  The Greeks and Turks and Arabs and Armenians and British and French and Italians all contended for the forlorn remains of the Ottoman Empire.  Russia was wracked by civil war.  Hungary and Bavaria endured first Red, then White Terror.  The Spartacist Uprising was brutally suppressed; Rosa Luxemburg and Karl Liebknecht were among the victims.  Marauding Freikorps threatened the nascent Weimar Republic.

Even at home things were far from calm.  The 1919 Red Scare, unlike most other periods of national hysteria over exaggerated threats, had some justification.  It also provoked the usual disproportionate official and public response.  The Palmer Raids (instigated after attorney general A. Mitchell Palmer’s house was bombed by unknown assailants) were one manifestation.  The mob killing of Wobbly and recently discharged soldier Wesley Everest was another, as were the mass deportations of socialists and anarchists (Emma Goldman being one of them). 

Unsurprisingly, there was an uptick in racial violence as well during 1919’s “Red Summer” in Washington, D.C., Chicago, Omaha, Knoxville, Charleston, South Carolina, Longview, Texas, and Phillips County, Arkansas.  The Red Scare’s repercussions were felt into the next decade, culminating with the executions of Sacco and Vanzetti, and it would raise its head once more in the 1940s.

So, the end of the First World War was more preface than conclusion.  The unnecessarily punitive conditions placed on Germany fueled popular resentment, while the shortcomings of parliamentary democracy led to the rise of fascism there and elsewhere in Europe. Lurking in the background was the specter of nationalism.

Depending on your political proclivities, nationalism is either a fine thing or it’s deplorable.  The President is a self-proclaimed nationalist.  Many Americans are, though they misappropriate the word “patriot” to describe their nationalism instead.  Right or left, we’re partial to anything which makes a social statement while requiring a minimal investment of time and money.  Thus, wearing a flag lapel pin or slapping a yellow ribbon sticker on a car qualifies one as a patriot. 

The nationalism I am describing is the move toward ethnolinguistic identity which began in the Enlightenment’s aftermath and would challenge the authority of those dynasties ruling multiethnic states.  Such ideas do animate white supremacist and alt-right activism in this country, but probably doesn’t register as strongly with the rest of the American electorate.  It remains very strong in parts of Europe, particularly Central and Eastern Europe. 

This fact became manifest after the breakup of the Soviet Union and Yugoslavia.  I personally witnessed the aftermath of the Yugoslav wars of the early 1990s and am still struck by the scope of destruction to both lives and property they brought.  Those conflicts were something of an anomaly, however.  The Croatian, Serbian, and Bosnian peoples share a common tongue and racial heritage.  Their national identities are instead rooted in their respective historical religious faiths.  That was enough to plunge them into a war that took roughly 140,000 lives and displaced millions.

That conflict was itself informed by the mass population transfers following the Second World War in Eastern Europe.  A beaten Germany was shrunk to two-thirds of its 1914 territory and split into two mutually hostile states.  Eastern Germans were expelled from their homeland after it was annexed by Poland, Czechoslovakia, and the Soviet Union.  Poles were expelled from their homes in the east after their lands in turn were annexed to the Soviet Union (Poland was actually shifted westward from its 1939 footprint).  Italians were driven from Istria by the Yugoslavs.  The Soviets pushed the Finns out of Karelia.  And so forth.  We can chart the border changes and count the numbers of people involved.  The scale of the human suffering caused cannot be measured.

This is the legacy of the “forgotten” World War.  Few Americans know about it, or care.  This does not negate the profound value of the lesson the twentieth century nightmare can teach us, however.  We ignore it at our peril.

Enjoy your day off, everyone.

© 2018 The Unassuming Scholar

Climate Change

Going through this morning’s campus mail, I found a hand-addressed envelope among the usual clutch of publisher’s circulars and club announcements.

This is unusual.  I rarely get personal mail through the college.  The missive was formally addressed to “Mr. Unassuming Scholar” at my college’s main campus where I’d taught during summer session.  That explained the delay between the day it was mailed and my receiving it at the satellite campus where I normally work.  I surmised it was from one of the students in that class, but there was no return address.

I’d hoped it was good news about the sender’s transfer to a prestigious four-year uni, or an award or scholarship won.  No such luck.  Instead, the envelope’s only contents were a clipping from the Wall Street Journal.  It was an editorial by David Gerlenter published last week.  Its heading: “The Real Reason They Hate Trump.” 

Evidently the sender considered me to be one of the titular they.  The gist of the article is that those in the “Left” (i.e., mainstream centrist Democrats who oppose the president’s policies) do not have any program aside from attacking him.  More to the point, “they” hate Donald Trump because he’s a larger than life version of the average American.   The sender highlighted what he (presumably it was a he) believed were the most important passages in case I missed it in my liberal cluelessness. 

In a week which witnessed such horrors as the Tree of Life Synagogue shooting in Pittsburgh and the mailing of pipe bombs to Democratic politicians and the murder of two African Americans by a white supremacist in Louisville, receiving a clipping from an anonymous critic is beneath trivial.  But in one sense it’s all of a piece, reflections of the sea change in an already poisonous social climate which existed well before the 2016 election.  Incivility has become an accepted social norm.  We choose our “enemies” and proceed to dehumanize them.  For a few of the less balanced among us, it is a short leap to violence.

Most of what we experience is petty nastiness from the people we disagree with or have chosen to dislike us for who we are.  Unreasonableness festers on both sides of the divide.  Among some of my colleagues, political discussions that don’t categorically vilify Trump are met with knee-jerk hostility.  Early on in the Mueller investigation, a friend asked when (not if, when) the president would be impeached.  I said that as far as I could tell The Donald’s misdeeds did not rise to treason or bribery or high crimes and misdemeanors.  Her expression hardened, her eyes narrowed slightly, and she asked in a strained voice why I was taking his side.  I wasn’t defending him by any means; I was simply reading the tea leaves of the news and offering an opinion of what was politically feasible. 

The Gerlenter article gets one thing right in that Democratic leaders have been tone deaf when discussing the very working people the party has historically championed.  Barack Obama saying that they needed to let go of religion and guns and Hillary Clinton describing Trump supporters as “deplorables” are the most cited examples of this.  Such attitudes percolate through affluent liberal social circles, an implicit criticism which is as much of working class culture and tastes as it is of their political preferences.

This trend cuts both ways, and again it’s often a matter of style.  While affluent liberals take a condescending approach, some of the symbolic blows struck by the Trump crowd verge on the childish.  Sometimes it’s merely offensive bumper stickers and T-shirt slogans.  Other times it’s less benign such as the practice of diesel pickup owners disabling emissions controls so as to produce sootier exhaust while passing Priuses, a pastime called “rolling coal.”  Sometimes it takes a dark turn in the form of racist, anti-immigrant, or homophobic websites and social media posts.

The White House’s protestations that the president is not responsible for the uptick in hate crimes are factually correct on their face, but it is a disingenuous argument nonetheless.  Donald Trump has benefited enormously from the bottled-up anger of poor whites.  Gerlenter’s thesis that Trump is what half of America sees in the mirror as their idealized self is spot on.  As another commenter said (and I don’t remember who), Donald Trump is a poor American’s idea of a rich person.  He’s the product of mass frustration over the perceived loss of an American dream. 

What’s left unsaid, or more accurately unacknowledged, is that even in the era of our nation’s “greatness” many of those sporting MAGA hats still would not have thrived.  The myth of equality in America is that it’s myth.  Always has been.  Consequently, the only thing propping up the self-image of many Trump supporters is the prospect of preserving white male dominance. 

Conservatism is all about hierarchy, and the only arena in which working class whites historically benefited from hierarchy was through racial and gender dominance.  That’s what’s driving the PC backlash; it’s an assertion of the supposed right of straight white men to dominate.  Trump’s antics with women, his xenophobia and anti-immigrant rhetoric, his insensitivity to the rights of others, his bluster, his substitution of his own judgments for the actual expertise of others, and his gaudy, shameless persona are all a figment of their collective id. 

As for the assertion that liberals are devoid of solutions or a viable political program, I pretty much agree.  For three decades the Democrats have merely tread water; instead of offering an alternative to the Republican program it instead swung to the right so as to hold on to any kind of base.  Like my unnamed correspondent who sent the clipping, like Mr. Gerlenter, I can plainly see that the Democratic Party is adrift and rudderless.  That said, my unnamed correspondent misjudges my political stance.  I am not a liberal.  I am a progressive.

Republican candidates have muddied the ideological waters in the run-up to next week’s election by tarring centrist Democrats as dangerous radicals.  Whereas I once inwardly bristled when a professor in graduate school described the public of being politically unsophisticated, I’m beginning to think she was on to something. 

What were simple ideological descriptors have become epithetic projectiles.  Most progressives are not dangerous radicals, and the typical liberal certainly is not.  And yet half the voting public is being gradually convinced this is the case if they aren’t there already.  And although the mainstream Dems are short of new ideas, my fellow progressives, particularly those who espouse the idea of participatory democracy, are not only forging new ideas but organizing on the street as well.   Maybe their efforts will ultimately stem the tide of political climate change for the better…if they’re given half a chance.

© 2018 The Unassuming Scholar

I Was Never Here

The thought of disappearing without a trace terrified me as a child.  The idea that one could be here one minute and gone the next with no explanation, the notion of abnegation, was deeply unsettling. 

It’s hard to say what brought it on.  It could have been the times.  The 1970s were a heyday for media-hyped serial killers, several of whom were either never identified (such as the Zodiac killer) or evaded capture for years until advances in forensic technology led to the culprit (as with the recently arrested Golden State Killer suspect). 

It was also a time when, with alarming frequency, kids like me would leave for school, or a friend’s house, or on an errand and never return.  The sudden death of a grandmother when I was still a preschooler may also have contributed to my pervasive feeling of unease.  I’m at a loss to explain it now; I just know it was a preoccupation which darkened a time other people usually remember fondly.

I never really outgrew it.  Instead, my childhood fear morphed into a fascination and even a yearning as I got older.  Historic missing persons cases such as those of Judge Crater and Richard Colvin Cox have held a relentless grip on my imagination.  (I’ve already written about a couple of other cases in this space, namely those of folk singer Connie Converse and poet Weldon Kees.)  Lying in bed during any number of insomnia-wracked nights, I’ve tried to devise ways of escaping and starting over free from the past’s baggage.

Such fantasies aren’t unusual.  For most of us, they are just that and nothing more.  For a few, they have been well-laid plans successfully realized. 

It is generally thought that many adults who “disappear” are merely voluntary absentees.  There is no law preventing this.  If you want to leave, just get up and go. 

It’s a temptation, but one which has been increasingly circumscribed by the Information Age.  Most of the so-called disappearances I’ve read about occurred in a time when you could still reinvent yourself someplace else without fear of being caught.  A couple of recent news items show that despite the volumes of data collected on us it’s still possible to live undiscovered as someone else for a long stretch of time.

Both stories were unusual in that neither man really needed to resort to subterfuge.  The first was that of an Air Force captain who went missing in 1983.  The other concerned a man whose assumed identity was only discovered a decade and a half after his suicide.  William Howard Hughes, Jr., had abruptly left his post in New Mexico shortly after withdrawing a large amount of money from the bank.  Hughes had worked with the space program and held a top secret clearance.  It was conjectured Hughes had defected to the Soviet Union, which was thought to explain why nothing further was heard of him.  Joseph Newton Chandler III took his life in Ohio in 2002, leaving no known heirs.  A private investigator was hired to find any next of kin.

Hughes was found in California last month in the course of a passport fraud investigation.  He had been living under an assumed name for 35 years.  Hughes explained he had been depressed about his career and that’s why he left.  The Air Force plans to charge him with being AWOL.  The investigator in the Chandler case eventually found that the man known as Chandler was actually named Robert Ivan Nichols.  Nichols abandoned his family in the early 1960s, appropriating the identity of a child killed in an auto accident to cover his tracks.

Hughes could simply have resigned from the service and gotten on with his life.  Chandler / Nichols could have just divorced his wife and gotten on with his life.  Instead, each man chose a creative though ultimately troublesome route from an intolerable existence.  Each man had quietly dropped out.

My fascination with unexplained disappearances was rekindled years ago when I came across a book by Robert S. Gallagher titled If I Had It to Do Over Again: America’s Adult Dropouts.  The title is the book’s premise.  Like those of Messrs. Hughes and Nichols, most disappearances are best explained as decisions by rational adults to start anew as someone else.

Gallagher describes a number of such absences some of which have persisted in the popular imagination as well as others more obscure.  There was former child prodigy writer Barbara Newhall Follett, caught in an unhappy marriage, who left her Brookline, Massachusetts, apartment on a dreary December day in 1939 never to be heard from again. 

Then there was Gertrude Jones, who walked away from her Marin County home on a May morning in 1964.  She was last seen by a neighbor on State Route 1.  (Mrs. Jones, alas, was ultimately denied the romantic cachet of the disappeared: Her remains were discovered near her home in 2008.  The cause of death was a broken neck.  Her by then deceased husband, a longshoreman’s union official, is considered the likely murder suspect.) 

Yet another spooky vanishing was that of one Bruce Nelson Campbell, the “Man in the Green Pajamas,” who was discovered missing from his Jacksonville motel room in May 1959, leaving his glasses, wallet, and car keys a day after he had been treated by a doctor for “exhaustion.”   There is also the story of John T. Symes, Jr., a New York banker who left his small town in the autumn of 1963 saying he “had to get away for a while.”  He was last seen by a waitress at a Manhattan lunch counter. 

Perhaps the most interesting of Gallagher’s tales concerns an Illinois salesman named Orja Glenwood Corns, Jr., if only because the author gives us a detailed narrative.   Mr. Corns found himself at loose ends on a sultry July evening in 1948.  His wife and kids were out of town and he had just gotten back from a business trip.  After opening all the windows in his stifling house, Corns drove to Chicago for a night on the town.  Apparently Corns fancied mixing among the demimonde, because he ended the night at a clip joint called the Parody Club on N. Clark Street. 

There he spent the $150 he brought with him (a healthy sum in 1948) and cashed two personal checks to keep the party going.  Corns left in the wee hours and hasn’t been seen since, though his mechanic claimed to have seen Corns driving through Winnetka a day or two later.  The Corns case resurfaced in the news occasionally over the next decade or so, such as when Mrs. Corns divorced her husband in 1954 on grounds of abandonment.  But…no account offered a viable explanation for why he was missing.

A centerpiece of Gallagher’s tome is the famous case of the dropout who got caught: Lawrence Bader, a.k.a. Fritz Johnson.  Larry Bader, a cash-strapped Ohio salesman—why do so many of these stories involve salesmen?—never returned from an impromptu solo fishing trip on Lake Erie in 1957.  He was last seen by Coast Guardsmen offering assistance as a storm set in.  Bader cheerfully waved them on.  His rented boat turned up the next day, slightly damaged, without its occupant.

Less than a week later a debonair gentleman calling himself Fritz Johnson surfaced in Omaha.  Hired as a bartender at the Roundtable steakhouse, Fritz soon became a beloved local character.  He signed his checks solely with the moniker, “Fritz.”  He pulled off charity stunts, such as spending a month sitting atop a flagpole raising money for polio research.  After losing an eye to cancer, he sported an eyepatch further enhancing his dashing persona.  He drove a converted hearse around town and lived in a bohemian bachelor pad.  (Eventually, though, Fritz settled down and married a young lady half his age.)  A skilled archer, Fritz was hired by a local TV station as a sportscaster.  His fame and legend grew.

One can’t hide in plain sight forever, though.  In Chicago on a business trip to a trade show, Fritz was spotted by Lawrence Bader’s niece who approached him and pointed out the resemblance between the two men.  Fritz naturally denied he was Larry Bader.  But further investigation backed up by a matching fingerprint comparison solved the Bader mystery.  Fritz claimed to be mystified; he was an orphan named John Johnson.  Even after a reunion with the family he abandoned, Fritz maintained the ruse.  But he didn’t have long to dwell on the past.  His cancer returned and the Man with the Double Life passed on in September 1966, less than a year and a half after he was outed by his niece.

Even though Larry Bader was caught in the end, his story offers intriguing possibilities.  If you kept your head down, you could probably avoid detection.  Robert Gallagher, writing in 1969, devotes several chapters in his book to various ways one could abruptly cut ties and cover one’s tracks.  Unfortunately, few if any of these would work in the early 21^st century. 

Take for instance the mundane but vital Social Security number.  Gallagher describes how you could dummy up a certified copy of a birth certificate not your own, walk into a Social Security office and apply for a card in that individual’s name.  Until relatively recently this was doable.  I lived my first fourteen years without a Social Security number.  Neither my parents nor I needed me to have one back then.  I finally applied when I was in high school and wanted an after-school job.  My two sons, on the other hand, who were born in the 1990s, were automatically issued numbers a few weeks after their birth.  Nowadays it would look awfully suspicious for a mature adult born in this country to apply for a new Social Security card out of the blue.  (I suppose you could claim to be Canadian, but then you’d have to fake a green card on top of your other deceptions.)

Social media and digital records of our every move have obviated most of the strategies Gallagher covered nearly fifty years ago.  Even then, they were becoming tenuous.  If you fall off the radar today, it’s probably because you have ceased to live.  Going off the grid can lower, but not eliminate, your profile.  And that’s a pity.

I’ve more or less stopped dreaming of walking away and starting over.  Once upon a time, however, my dreams of escape kept me halfway sane.  Living in South Florida in my late twenties, married with a kid and another on the way and stuck in a soul-crushing job which barely left me time to breathe on my own, I would enviously watch the kids on the beaches and in the bars as I drove down A1A. 

At times like these I would lapse into a reverie of a different life.  I knew I could never be nineteen again, and so I set my sights on a less idealistic ideal.  I would drift down to Miami, maybe to the Keys.  I would work as a dishwasher or a day laborer.  I’d live in cheap motels and drink cheap beer in dive bars. 

Then, my cell phone would ring.  (I actually carried one of those goddamned things then.  My boss insisted.)  Or, if someone was in the car with me, they would speak and my pipe dream of living out a Jimmy Buffett song would burst like a soap bubble in a baby’s bath. 

I think that’s how it works out for most of us.  But even if we didn’t have cold feet, the Big Brother corporate state makes the possibility of carrying out an escape nigh impossible.

You could say you were never here, but your footprints would give you away.

© 2018 The Unassuming Scholar

For the Bible Tells Me So

The Trump Administration’s policy of separating detained “illegals” from their children apparently now has the endorsement of The Man Upstairs.

In a speech late last week Attorney General Jeff Sessions cited Romans 13: 1-3 as justification for the detention policy.  Actually, Sessions quoted the Apostle Paul out of context.  Paul did enjoin Christians to obey the temporal authorities as they would the spiritual; but he tells them to welcome strangers as well.

The Bible is notoriously open to interpretation.  In the various news stories about Sessions’ speech, we’re reminded that the same passages were used to justify slavery in the United States and that the Lutheran clergy drew upon them to instruct Germans to acquiesce to Nazi policies.  Normally, Godwin’s Law would make me hesitant to mention the latter fact.  However, the passive role of churches in 1930s Germany has received considerable attention from contemporary historians and so bears special mention here.  Given the xenophobic bent of our own Christian Right, the invocation of Romans 13 in this controversy is unsurprising.

Donald Trump’s appeal to religious conservatives is, well, puzzling.  As Bill Maher once described him, Trump is the world’s “least godly man.”  He’s dishonest, crass, profane, proud to the point of hubris, unkind, uncharitable, and bigoted.  Then again, maybe that’s why he’s appealing.  Some of the angriest, most resentful people I’ve known have been evangelical Protestants who proclaimed their faith in Blue-Eyed Jesus at every opportunity.  These folks are livid at the social changes of the past few decades and would love to see the calendar turned back to 1955 with everything that that implies.

Evangelicals have a particularly strong authoritarian streak which turns to the Scriptures for justification even while cloaking it in the Christian message of love and forgiveness.  An uncle used to like to quote Isaiah 1:18 to me.  “Come now; let us reason together,” it begins.  (Lyndon Johnson also liked to quote this particular phrase to his political opponents.)  “Though your sins be of scarlet, they shall be white as snow.”  So far, so good; this sounds like the Message I recall from Sunday School.

But let’s remember that this is the vengeful God of the Israelites speaking and not Jesus of Nazareth.  The next verses are downright chilling, for you are given no alternative.  “If ye be willing and obedient, ye shall eat the good of the land / But if ye refuse and rebel, ye shall be devoured by the sword…”  Yikes!

I always wondered why my uncle always left the second part out.  It spoke so strongly to his conservative values, and he was a gun-loving, pickup driving, blue collar Nixon and Reagan man.  A kickass line like that should have appealed to his overbearing, my-way-or-the-highway nature more than its namby-pamby preamble.

For the denizens of Walmart-like megachurches, the thought of an action hero God is undoubtedly a selling point.  (An impromptu Google search tells me that there are actually action hero movies and comics marketed to Christians.)   Their resort to fantasy is understandable, since their fictional conception of a God-fearing U.S.A. is dissolving like a wet tissue.  Media chimeras such as the “War on Christmas” help them maintain a relentless sense of grievance.  And the presence of people with darker complexions speaking a language other than English is a reminder the country has changed and is changing still.  Tie all these factors—authoritarianism, revealed religion, an aversion to change, and xenophobia—and Mr. Sessions’ claim sounds convincing.

The White House is standing by its man, despite the President’s recent complaints about Sessions.  Sarah Sanders, when confronted with the Attorney General’s remarks at a press conference, retorted that “it is very biblical to enforce the law.”  (Well, she is a preacher’s daughter after all.) 

At least on this issue, the administration is presenting a unified front.  But Sessions' and Sanders’ pronouncements ring hollow when we hear of nursing mothers being separated from their babies, children being herded en masse into cells, and families being unable to ascertain the whereabouts of detained relatives.  We are witnessing an appalling lack of empathy for the less fortunate, and I have a sinking feeling that there is a dead silence on that subject these days in our houses of worship.  If so it’s a damning commentary on our society’s character.

© 2018 The Unassuming Scholar