The O'Toole Papers

The Birth of the "Birthers:" Are They OED Worthy?

noreply@blogger.com (Tom O'Toole) — Fri, 16 Oct 2009 00:17:00 +0000

"A lot of people talk about Obama and his Messianic complex," joked Rush Limbaugh on his conservative talk show recently, "but he does have one thing in common with God. God doesn't have a birth certificate either" (Kleefeld 1).

Since words often have a funny etymology anyway, I figured a bit of humor was as good a way as any to introduce my new "candidate" for the OED. Besides, its inclusion on the nation's most listened to radio program shows not only how widespread this conservative "conspiracy theory" has become. And, since they have even made a splash across the pond, I thought this was further proof our OED brethren should give them a shot.

A birther is one who "rejects the legitimacy of the President of the United States citizenship and therefore his eligibility to be president." ("Barack") Although the Birther Movement was born in the blogosphere, the exact origin of the term remains somewhat murky. Most agree "the 'birther' nickname is half adapted from the 9/11 'truthers'" (Page 40) -- there is quite a difference of opinion, mainly along party lines, as to their importance or remaining relevance. Most of the birthers' claims against Obama's citizenship have something to do with his birth certificate (either due to the fact it was never seen publicly, or there is some flaw in the document that has been shown digitally) which led to speculation that Barack was born elsewhere -- most likely in Kenya, as was Obama's father. And so, while the birther's original goal was to prevent Obama from running, their current focus is to remove him from office.

Indeed, immediately after Obama announced his candidacy for the presidency, reports about his dubious birth certificate surfaced. Perhaps because Hawaiian law barred "release of a certified birth certificate to anyone without 'tangible interest'" ("Barack") the conspiracy fire began to flame into the mainstream, as respected journalists like Jim Geraghty of National Review fame declared that, while "'I do not consider myself a birther...Senator Obama should release his birth certificate to dispel the rumors'" ("Barack"). Shortly thereafter, Fightthesmears.com, a pro-Obama website, released a picture of the certificate, but this so-so replication only fueled speculation that the image was photoshopped, culminated with author Jerome Corsi's claim in his New York Times list best seller Obama Nation: Leftist Politics and the Cult of Personality that, "The campaign has posted a fake birth certificate on their Web site" (Corsi 188).

Of course, Obama survived the onslaughts of the birthers and others to become president, and many assumed the birth certificate controversy would die out after he was elected. However, lawsuits challenging the birth certificate by the likes of former Obama U.S. Senate seat opponent Alan Keyes, as well as the unflappable Russian-born, self-described "lawyer, dentist, birther" Orly Taitz ("Orly") kept the issue alive both with the media and in the court system, so that by summer, even England's well-known Guardian site, citing birther support not only from popular commentators such as Limbaugh, Lou Dobbs and Sean Hannity, but notable members of Congress like John Campbell (who said Obama was a citizen "As far as I know") and Michele Bachmann, who stated to Hannity that Obama "is planning re-education camps" declared, "The president has yet to prove he's a U.S. citizen" ("Birther"). This uproar prompted the unprecedented presidential statements by both the White House's Spokesman Robert Gibbs, "I almost hate to indulge in such fictional nonsense, but I have news for the birthers...the president was born in Honolulu, Hawaii...He's a citizen," and Hawaiian Department of Health director Dr. Chiyome Fukino, "I have seen the vital records on file verifying Barack Hussein Obama was born in Hawaii, and I have nothing further to add" (Silva 8), in an attempt to squelch the madness.

In the end, it was probably not these official statements, but the birthers' loss of interest (not to mention ineptness) that slowed the movement down. The Limbaughs and Hannitys moved on to other topics, while the diehards like Ms. Taitz were shooting themselves in the foot. After the White House allowed FactCheck.Org to examine and photograph the certificate, stating "We conclude it meets all requirements...for proving U.S. citizenship" ("Born"). Orly released "an authentic Obama birth certificate from the Republic of Kenya" ("Barack"), only to discover Kenya wasn't a Republic at the time Obama was born. Indeed, this fraud was only compounded when just last week, not only was Taitz' latest birther lawsuit thrown out, but the judge fined the lawyer-dentist $20,000 for "misuse of the legal system" (McAffee 4881).

And so, Professor Zambreno, while your claims (especially after the recent turn of events) that my word may be too "current and specific" for the OED appear quite accurate, I can counter with the fact that the Birther Movement appeared to have died several times already, only to rise again. After all, "Oxford" seeks not only "new words," but evidence for words thought to have died out" ("Contribute") and "birther" fits that bill perfectly! If nothing else, the word could become "generalized" (Allegro 210) to mean all those opposing Obama, or extended to those who oppose certain policies (for example, pro-lifers could become "pro-birthers") or those who question Obama's biblical origins (maybe "the birth-of-the-Anti-Christ-ers?"). Either way, "birther" deserves to be included...at least until Obama actually shows that damned certificate to the Republicans...

O'Toole on O'Toole Part III: Renewing America while Saving Notre Dame

noreply@blogger.com (Tom O'Toole) — Wed, 12 Aug 2009 17:54:00 +0000

You start out by innocently musing with a fellow alum about your alma mater's ethical future. Next, you write a politically prophetic blog with a touch of dark humor, and forget about it. Nine months later the blog is re-born on a national Web site, and suddenly you are a leader in the conservative Catholic movement that for a couple of months (an eternity in the era of cyberspace) captures the imagination of the nation. Welcome to the brave new world of blogging, where your rhetoric can make you famous for a time-- and you still don't make a dime!

The event I eluded to, of course, is President Barack Obama's commencement speech at Notre Dame. The national online paper is Renew America, which as you can probably guess just from their header picture, is a leading right wing, conservative Christian site. Thus, writing for RA is a cross (pun intended!) between writing for Culture Wars and the Elmhurst Press: you needn't make your points subtlely, but you do have to make them relatively brief. So long drawn out historical examples are out, but quick, modern proofs and fables are in.

After briefly explaining the origin of "Barack at Notre Dame?..." and the reason for its reprinting, I open with two quotes that hopefully set the tone for my prophetic call to arms. As you may have noted reading the intro, names like "Barack the Butcher" (which for the most part refers to the president's unwavering support of abortion) while highly offensive to liberal Democrats, are accepted (if not applauded) by the site's supporters. Similarly, the regulars also pick up on the puns and interplay (the "comes to pass-Gipper-Reagan" references refer to not only the fact the Republicans' most popular recent president once played Notre Dame's most beloved football player in a movie, but that Reagan frequently refereed to Gipp during his 1981 commencement speech at Notre Dame) that the outsiders do not. On the other hand, while the majority of RA's readers probably haven't read my book (which is mentioned in my bio-blurb on the site, sort of the Web way of giving the author "instant ethos") my prophetic comment (which I originally wrote in 1996) about how Notre Dame would eventually face the secularization battle that once Christian schools like Harvard and Yale succumbed to should give me credibility in their eyes, and thus my cry for Woodstock-like numbers something to be heeded.

After again expressing my hope that the whole thing won't happen, I give my rather incredible prediction (sort of a mix of both the fable and analogy Crowley talks about in Ancient Rhetoric pgs. 162-3) about what should happen if it does. While on the one hand this vision is meant to be extremely fantastic, at the same time it is intended to fire up the imagination as to what is possible. For example, while few really expect nuns to smuggle aborted fetuses into the event, using not just nuns but Mother Teresa's sisters actually gives the piece extra ethos, for when she was alive the former Nobel Prize winner and future saint was known by friend and foe as the person who, by word and deed, best articulated the pro-life vision. And while the images of "General Huckabee" and "pro-life paratroopers" were deliberately (and humorously) far-fetched, the idea that a massive, creative protest (which in some real way would have to be led by Bishop D'Arcy) in response to Obama's appearance was not. Finally, although most readers realize that for this "man of speeches" to actually "leave the campus speechless" would require a major miracle, my rhyming ending ("neglected, expected; Son, one") is meant to be memorable enough to convince them that their participation is both needed and necessary.

"These stones will shout (and march?)" the original title of my commentary (The P.O.P.E. Project was actually a Web site my wife and I started detailing the various protest events in response to Obama's ND appearance that Renew America mistook to be the headline) was my opening assault on the Notre Dame administration and their disastrously dishonest president, Father John Jenkins. After letting Father know what one of the ancient Catholic community authorities, the immortal poet Dante, thought about Jenkins' moral neutrality, I contrast the decidedly different moral vision the Notre Dame landscape and monuments present (especially the new "In Memory of the Innocent Victims of Abortion" statue that is pictured) compared to that of the guest president. My brief quote from the Bishops 2004 "Catholics in Political Life" statement is also paramount to my argument (not to mention to the denigration of Jenkins') because this recent teaching was written precisely to clear up any confusion as to who a Catholic institution should or should not invite.

While Jenkins' disregard for this document is crucial to point out to the pro-lifers, it is even more critical that I dissect it for the dissenters. For as Ms. Crowley aptly notes, "From this point of view, ethics is more important to rhetoric than the search for the truth," (AR pg. 10) and since the Obama/Jenkins supporters, unlike the pro-lifers, have not accepted "abortion is murder" as truth, the only way my opponents would accept my argument is if they, by sensing the dishonesty in Father's words, begin to doubt his character. They may not accept Church teaching, but if they can accept the enthymeme, "The Catholic bishops issued a ruling on guest speakers/ Fr. Jenkins knowingly disregarded this decision and deliberately broke Church law/Jenkins must retract his invitation or resign his position as president of a Catholic university," they at least may understand why his choice of Obama was a big deal after all.

After calling Jenkins out on his ridiculous "dialogue/engagement" statement (obviously, no one dialogues with a commencement speaker during the speech, so for him to do so beforehand would be the only real possibility) I return to the image of the statue, as well as to the kind of allegorical/fictional example Aristotle and Aesop so favored. Again, it is important to note that while the statues "march on the stadium" is both somewhat symbolic and utterly apocalyptic, the loyal Catholic doesn't totally dismiss the possibility of marching monuments either, if for no other reason than the fact Jesus Himself predicted "shouting stones" (Luke 19:40) on a similar occasion. Also, although renegade reverends are far more likely to reject the possibility of miracles than the simple, humble believer, they are also unlikely to openly dismiss scripture either, for that is a sure way to invoke the masses wrath.

Lastly, in "Looking back at Jenkins, Barack..." (the last in what became known as my "Saving Notre Dame" series) I open with a hopeful note for those many followers who felt anything short of President Obama not speaking, or being booed out of the stadium, was a failure. There was not the "Nun-sense" protest I predicted in my first article, nor the "monumental" march I predicted in "My letter to Jenkins, but pro-life alliteration still wins out when "their lies were subtly undercut by the most poetically appropriate protester possible--the cries of a baby."

Next, I examine how many seemingly mainline publications (such as our own Chicago Tribune) continue to be fooled by the rhetoric of "the priest and the president," for they fail to examine the reasoning behind the words. For whether it is Obama smilingly proclaiming his desire to lessen abortions (when all his actions as senator and president have thus far only increased them) or Jenkins pretending his invitation to Barack is in line with Church teaching by quoting John Paul II out of context (after he openly defied both his local bishop and the USCCB letter) a real inspection of their "dialogue" reveals them worthy not of "respect" but rejection, as all their "fruit" proves rotten.

Although I don't often delve into the same document twice in the short blog format, I once again return to the USCCB's "Catholics in Political Life" not only because of its crucialness to the case ( and in case some readers missed my first commentary) but to analyze Father's laughable use of "CIPL" in an attempt to justify himself. At this juncture, it is important to point out (or at least remind) readers that a huge advantage online publications have over traditional newspapers is not only the quickness with which its rhetoric can be spread, but the instantaneous way its sources can be accessed by way of the "link." While I didn't use this feature in the "Saving Notre Dame" series as much as I sometimes do (although you may have noticed the "Suffering Irish" link in my first article was a shameless plug for a Notre Dame t-shirt I designed and sell) I did feel it necessary here to include the link to the complete text of "Catholics in Political Life." For though I would like to think my explanation of Jenkins' ridiculous rationalization (which I depict as intellectually and morally inferior to that of a fifth grader) is damaging enough, linking to the document gives the really into-it onliners an easy opportunity to judge for themselves.

As is often my pattern, I conclude with an appeal to pathos, and a return to the image of the baby. True, it was not the hit-you-over-the-head image of a pile of aborted babies my prophecy foretold, but as "even the most impressive pro-choice speech doesn't sound quite right over the strains of a peacefully moaning infant," I argue that it may have been at least as effective. Mother Teresa's nuns didn't show, but many powerfully pro-life leaders, including Norma McCorvey (a recent Catholic convert who is now an outspoken opponent of abortion) did, and while police estimate the number of protesters closer to 50,000 than 500,000, if you include the four hundred and fifty thousand online signatures protesting Obama's ND appearance (which were printed out and personally delivered to Jenkins) we reached Woodstock-like numbers as well. And, no, the statues didn't speak and the monuments didn't march--but when you consider that, not only were they not covered up (as at Georgetown, where Obama had the crucifixes and statues covered before he spoke) but Obama himself was draped in robes that proclaimed Mary, the patroness of the pro-life movement, "Our Life, Our Sweetness, and Our Hope," my conclusion, "though the war may be far from over...on this day...it was Notre Dame, not Obama or Jenkins, who won over all," no longer seems so far-fetched either.

While I don't doubt that Aristotle and the ancients would have praised the many benefits of writing ethical rhetoric for popular on-line publications, in their wisdom they probably would have warned about the dramatic downsides as well. Certainly, the many positive e-mails and interesting invitations I received (including a guest commentator appearance on CNN.com) from these articles were all very gratifying, but the fact that even major Internet sites do not pay freelancers (and have put many of the medium-sized magazines who did pay out of business) has put the writer who tries to support himself with his rhetoric in an even more precarious position than before. My attempt to obtain an education certification shows that I believe maybe the best place for the modern rhetorician is the teaching profession, for you are not only paid for nine months to profess positive ethics to students, but have summers off to write them down too. These three papers may not have converted you to what I consider as "truths," but I hope they've convinced you that my "character" is right for the duel pursuits of teaching and writing...and that my appeals are pathetic in the ancient sense rather than the modern!

O'Toole on O'Toole Part II: Catholic Capitalism, Malloy's Employment and Novak's Nonsense

noreply@blogger.com (Tom O'Toole) — Sun, 09 Aug 2009 18:11:00 +0000

"Catholic Capitalism?: A View from behind the Counter," the cover article I wrote for the orthodox but feisty Catholic magazine Culture Wars over a decade ago, is an extended feature and will serve as the sole text of my second critique. Of course, at over 6,000 words, this article is as long as many pamphlets and thus should, if written with the right ethical, pathetic and extrinsic proof, be able to stand on its own with no problem. On the other hand, finding the right balance (ethos) between an academically acceptable article and a roller coaster of personal pathos is not easy, but I believe it's still possible to a loyal Catholic if you remember your faith and one important fact. In other words; pray and make sure the pope is on your side!

Unlike the Elmhurst Press (and almost any other publication), Culture War's editor, E. Michael Jones, lets you make your points about orthodox Catholicism boldly rather than subtlety, and gives you enough space to state your argument both openly and completely--so you'd better be ready to stand and deliver. Realizing it's better to start off a CW essay with a cannon than a cap gun, I open the article with two opposing quotes from "Catholic" authorities that couldn't be more contrasting if I had made the words and people up myself. While even the most ardent of agnostics can see these openings on the poor are polar opposites, these quotes (and authorities) were chosen precisely for this point; far from the liberal-pseudo Catholic talking heads who falsely claim their opinion is just as important as the pope's, the formerly left-leaning Michael Novak now claims to be a conservative Catholic, loyal to all the pope teaches. By juxtaposing the quotes, I am already insinuating that Novak's case for Catholic capitalism is ambiguous (Ancient Rhetoric, pgs.175-176) at best.

The way I establish my ethos in the first paragraph may strike one as a bit unorthodox, but then again Culture Wars is a curious (but orthodox) Catholic publication and I a curious (and ironically, orthodox) writer. Although a large percentage of its readers should be sympathetic to my logic, to have the CW cover story written by someone without even a masters degree, let alone a doctorate, was definitely an oddity, and it was my job to show them that my background made me uniquely qualified to write this piece...or at least keep them entertained enough to continue on to paragraph two. Thus, while the sentence "Blessed with real world experiences that ivory tower scholars on both the right and left lack..." contains not only my lofty goal but my usual dose of parallel structure and alliteration, my academic sounding opening "a comparison of the social-economic theories of the post-industrial popes vs. those of neo-conservative Catholic critic..." was quickly undercut by the purposely colloquial "I didn't make a heck of a lot of money...living in a single room in a boarding house eating bologna sandwiches..." in hopes that if my intellect didn't impress the reader, my humility or humor would.

The opening paragraph also served as a springboard to the next section, where I relate the story of my own retail history (interspersed with quotes form Mr. Novak and the various papal social encyclicals) to see whether or not my experiences confirmed the Catholic work-ethic theory. Although I go into both my first two jobs (Osco and Friendly Spirits) with an open mind, I also do not present myself as overly optimistic that either would become a "calling," at least in the long run ("It didn't inspire me to feel as John Paul did in Laborem Exercens...but it was alright,") so while the way I presented my demises (looking up at the "Count on People Who Care" sign above the door after having been told to get lost; explaining how "Dave probably cared more about his cats than capital,") may have been entertaining, they are hardly unexpected. In fact, the sort of reverse poetic justice that takes place (Dave is bought out and his unique corner becomes another Jewel-Osco) seems to preclude any possibility that I find happiness in retail again...only to have the perfect suitor come along...

For the next five paragraphs, I build up Emmett Malloy and Sav-Way with almost nary a discouraging word. The "company parties" were fun, the "long time employees" got "along quite well," and "it wouldn't be long" before I moved up the company ladder. I not only knew "corporate," but he was both a gracious Irish family man and a Notre Dame football fan whose monetary gifts in addition to the regular paychecks had me thinking of him as a second "father." Sadly, just as steadily as the house of Malloy is built up, in the next five paragraphs Emmett's empire comes crashing down, in an ethical if not economic sense. Now, quoting not only condemnatory passages from the ultimate Catholic community authority's, the popes, but the number one Christian authoritarian source, the Bible, I show how contrary to right ethics Emmett's later actions were. And, while you can conclude with Quintilian (AR pg.153) Emmett's brand of "Catholic" capitalism (given what human nature is like), is the likely probability, I can also deduce (as I do later in the article) with Aristotle (or John XXIII's Mater et Magistra) that, based on my early days at Sav-Way, Catholic capitalism is at least possible.

While I could not truly have strengthened my ethos defending the Church's social teaching without reading (and incorporating) the papal social encyclicals (especially Leo XIII's Rerum Novarum, which, written in 1891, was the first ever Christian document to extensively defend workers' rights in democratic industrialized societies, and John Paul II's Laborem Exercens, which in 1981 brought the workers' plight up to date) I could not fully have wrecked Emmett's ethos without delving into, and denigrating, the writings of his mentor, Michael Novak. Like Mike, Emmett Malloy claims to be a practicing Catholic, but when push comes to shove he'd rather be a profitable one. Indeed, Novak (and Malloy) often substitute the Protestant work ethic (which allows one to be a bastard in business as long as you're a choir boy with the wife and kids) for the Catholic labor ethos, which allows no such dichotomy. And the easiest way to expose Novak's was to highlight his disastrous choice of "the greatest man...who lived business as a calling," Andrew Carnegie.

To those not used to the fiery tones of Culture Wars, my comparing Emmett Malloy to a man who ordered his striking workers fired upon might seem extreme, but I can only reply that Emmett, being a businessman who also did all he could legally to get away with concerning his employees, almost certainly would have used Carnigie's 19th century worker strategy if he had lived in the era of Leo XIII instead of John Paul II. In fact, the souls of Andrew and Emmett ( the one giving money to self-named Carnegie charities, the other to the non-profits that would agree to name him "Man of the Year" rather than pay their own employees justly) are so similar that my ironic line "For example, while Emmett never paid me enough that I could buy my own house, he headed a commission that discusses how other poor people can," brought more than a couple cynical chuckles. In the end, I sum up this contradiction by showing Novak's capitalist motto, "To want to be rich is no sin," is nearly the polar opposite of the Catholic Catechism's cry "The disordered desire for money cannot but produce perverse effects..." or the Bible's classic "The love of money is the root of all evils" (see "Catholic Capitalism," pg.25). Finally, to those who still feel my criticism of my former boss is too harsh, I throw in the reaction of Carnegie's former manager, Henry Clay Frick, after the former tried to arrange a make-up photo-op after Frick left the company in a huff. Indeed, Frick's hilarious come-back, "tell Mr. Carnegie I'll meet him--in hell!" make my rejoinders look mild by comparison.

Unlike Frick, I close with pathos, trying to reconcile with my opponents, hoping for Novak's "complete conversion," and praying that Emmett sees his membership in "the mystical body of Christ" is more important than that of "the country's economic elite." Sure, I trash Novak's TV speech along the way, but this is merely in keeping with Quintilian's contention (as summarized by Ms. Crowley) that "The Roman's were confident [dishonest men] could not become successful orators because their immoral...intentions would...be detected" (AR pg.11). Meanwhile, my final symbolic comparison, that of the coin and the host, is probably nearly as mysterious as my "genuine" "Catholic Capitalism" suggestions (that of owners paying a just wage even when their store is not profitable, or Catholics not shopping on Sundays) seem quixotic. But I would hate to have my tale persuade someone that the Malloy/Novak way of doing business is false only to leave them with nothing to pursue that (at least to those Christians of honest ethos) is true.

"Catholic Capitalism?..." was certainly my most ambitious published piece up to that point, and with the possible exception of my book, still my most prolific piece to date. Published just before the boom in the Internet, this article was never put online, so its impact was somewhat limited. In addition, since the technology at the time didn't allow works of this size to go over in proper format, the whole thing had to be retyped for the magazine, and although Mr. Jones kept his promise to not edit the content, the typing job ("but he is wrong" not "but he are wrong" and "earthly states," not "earthly statues" on pg. 17 to name a few) was mediocre at best, and our clever inside/cover photos (can you tell that I was holding the Catechism?) my wife took of me could have been reproduced clearer. And yet, after looking back after all these years, I am still for the most part pleased with my efforts and feel that, despite its age, the article still makes some important points about the way a Catholic business should be run. What I am surprised about is my naivete; that it took me that long to figure out that Emmett was filled with more bologna than those sandwiches I used to eat!

O'Toole on O'Toole: Inside "Inside Elmhurst"

noreply@blogger.com (Tom O'Toole) — Sat, 01 Aug 2009 20:48:00 +0000

While assessing one's own talents is a difficult task for any soul with a shred of humility, for a writer to comment on his own writing is a daunting duty indeed. Nevertheless, I hope that the perspective I've gained from the time that has passed between story and critique, coupled with the added insight attained from the classical orators and philosophers, is enough to render both my ethos desirable and my words worthwhile. And, since I've often found that reading the artist's personal take on a piece they've written to be a sort of literary icing on the cake, I guess it's only fitting I attempt to share some thoughts on my works too.

The first group of writings that I'd like to look at are three newspaper articles I wrote during my tenure as columnist for "Inside Elmhurst." Although this type of column, which is meant to drum up interest in the community, is common in many local papers, in the past I tended to find these features either boring, a sort of extended community calender that provided little insight (let alone excitement) about the event, or gossipy, whose alleged exclusive tips always bordered on baloney. Since this was not the ethos I wished to create between me and my community, I sought a different way, a trust based on the commonplaces I shared with the common man.

In "Ryan McLean...," the first of my columns I've included, I was just a little over a month into my new role, and thus my ethos (and voice) was still being established. Since my body of work with the Elmhurst Press was still scant, I attempted to enhance my ethos by eluding to my previous writing experience in the opening quote (I had already mentioned my book Champions of Faith in my first IE column) while at the same time making light of my "expertise" ("and being the type who enjoys connecting sports with just about anything") to show I was really just an ordinary guy who happened to like to write. Furthermore, I sought to gain the trust of not only Ryan's gracious if slightly over-protective parents but that of an extremely shy and quiet seventh grader (and by extension both age groups of readers) by being a professional writer with the one--letting Ryan's dad show his off his knowledge by explaining the "lift, weight and thrust," the scientific angle of the contraption--and being a curious kid with Ryan 'til he finally opened up about the part of the project that he took pride in, which of course was sports. And, once both father and son (and mother!) were happy, I closed the article with what would become my trademark humorous pathos; that although I was now a responsible parent myself and thus "realized we were not about to head out to the street and start heaving baseballs, let alone hockey pucks," I showed that I (and hopefully my readers) still had "a young man's heart" by pointing out "that even in the year 2002, throwing round objects (at least for a male!) as far as one can" was still cool.

Although "Ryan McLean" was one of my first articles, many of my written and rhetorical conventions were already in place. Newspaper writing is a genre where brevity is at a premium, but whereas this kept some of my favorite stylistic conventions such as alliteration ("head out to the street to start heaving...hockey pucks") and inter-line parallelism and rhyming ("his dad Jim sat in on the conversation, just in case his son's answers needed a little elaboration") to a minimum, I believe it enhanced my other literary choices. For example, I used both the first person perspective and question and answer style to, as Sharon Crowley aptly notes in her Ancient Rhetoric for Contemporary Students text, " draw attention to certain points" (pg. 207). Interestingly, while I had not read Ms. Crowley's book until recently, I realized in retrospect that I agreed wholeheartedly with her reasons, despite conventions, for (usually) using the first person perspective. Indeed, Crowley's rational ("it seemed...more honest," yet not "too authoritative and decisive," so that "the readers would more readily identify with [me]") for adopting this voice easily won out over my editor's tired old Journalism 101 lament, "you're not supposed to put yourself into the story!" But whether it was favorable reader response or the mere fact that a good writer is hard to find, by May my editor was not only won over, but was handing me stories usually reserved for the full time folks at Press Publications.

If "Ryan McLean" got me acclaim from the middle school crowd (including a truly touching "Thank You" letter from Ryan's mom) "Wishing for stars" not only brought me kudos from (Elmhurst) College, but a big pat on the back from my paper for "taking lemons and making lemonade." As in many of my columns, (and in all three I'm critiquing) I opened (also against conventional newspaper wisdom) with an attention getting quote. But in a sign that perhaps my ethos was increasing, the quote was from an exclusive invitation as opposed to my spouse. And, my out of breath downplay of our handshake not withstanding, Charley Henderson greeting me by name was most certainly ethically a positive. Finally, while these columns tended not to rely heavily on data, Dr. Gilbert Pearson was undoubtedly the community authority this situation called for, and his testimony appeared to be the right touch to put the story over the top. Unfortunately, his honesty, not only in debunking the printed PR hype "light pollution [is] a problem as far as seeing all five planets through the telescope at once," but in derailing the night's significance "it's so cloudy you would see as much through the telescope as you would with your eyes closed," threatened to make the article an absolute dud of dullness. But as an ancient philosopher (and a middle-aged writer) once said, "where there's a will, there's a way."

If there is a common thread in my columns, besides the fact they focused on the common people, it is that each article came to a seeming dead end, only to resurrect both the hopes of its participants and the dreams of the readers by story's end. If making a (praiseworthy) story out of a science project that was over in two seconds described by a kid who barely said two words seemed futile, a telescope on a cloudy night with a cranky professor and some gloomy students clearly did not offer much promise either. Call my maxims ("where there's a will...," "not to judge a book by it's cover") corny, but every other newspaper reporter left after Pearson's dismal proclamation, while my persistence in both action and language won over not only coed but Doctor and reader alike. And I believe it was because my story focused not on the telescope but on those behind it, allowing not the stars but the people to shine.

While "Preservation..." was neither one of my funnier "IE" stories or even very fun to write, it was probably my most important as it had the most positive community impact. Perhaps not so coincidentally, it was also my most controversial. Ironically, its apparently innocent opening quote, this time not from my spouse or a press release but a supportive reader, seemed to complete the ethos I was after. Unfortunately, as Socrates discovered so long ago, though the honest ethos may be the most rewarding, it may also be the most dangerous.

Although I'd like to think I always packed a lot of punch into a short amount of space, there's more going on in "Preservation is on the mind..." than most pieces. Historical preservation of landmark houses and buildings was a hot topic in Elmhurst back then, and while I was quite sympathetic to the preservationists plight (and already had written one column on the subject from the unusual angle of a teenager fighting to preserve "ancient" town history), I also was not the Elmhurst Press' editor, and could not exactly come right out and blast the big shots mowing down architecturally significant buildings as dishonest, short-sighted and shifty. Thus, while "Wishing for stars..." and "Ryan McLean..." each had one basic theme and enthymeme, "Preservation..." had several going at the same time. If "McLean's" enthymeme could be summed up something like, "Most boys (and men) like sports/Most also like combining sports with other activities/Therefore, most boys will like McLean's machine," and "Wishing for stars" as "Although academic work in important, a lot of what you learn in college (and writing!) occurs outside the classroom/The new observatory is an invaluable classroom aid/But the telescope is also great for non-academic learning," the obvious (and safe) "Preservation" enthymematic premise is "The people of Elmhurst have given me and my column overwhelming support/Individuals who are shown support should give something back/I will help Reginald Darley get his story published," it's "revolutionary" enthymeme, that (also according to Ancient Rhetoric) "'rhetors are obligated by their membership in communities always to write as good [and honest] persons'/I know that those businessmen responsible for tearing down old buildings are not always acting ethically or honestly/I am obliged to expose them and urge others to fight against them," is also undeniable.

First, I think "Preservation" benefits from the fact that Reginald Darley comes off as such a credible proximate witness. Certainly, Ryan McLean and Rachel Bridger could be considered such, but Mr. Darley, from his past as a journalist to his present as a devoted husband-father-grandfather, respected businessman, not to mention longtime owner of a landmark historical house in Elmhurst, more than allows him to meet the four criteria of observing, perceiving, offering and accurately reporting evidence that Ms. Crowley notes in AR (pg. 144). Still, while his personal example of the joys and struggles of preserving an historical home prove invaluable, his discourse would have run out of steam if I didn't give him a little nudge in the right direction. Yes, my helping Reg get his story published does seem to complete the journalistic angle of the story, but the true turning point is undoubtedly when Darley is about to give up on the Fischer/Crane house, and I hit him with the ol' "pen may be mightier than the sword" maxim. This not only revives Reg, but revs him up to the point of talking revolution, and his American patriot analogy not only gets the message out, but gives me the perfect line with which to end my story.

While "Let the Revolution begin!" is meant to refer to the revolution of kindness the mutual charitable acts exchanged between writer and reader in the column's last paragraph, I'd be lying if I pretended that it didn't also allude to (and second) Reg's talk of rebellion against the dark local forces of historical destruction. Certainly the readers thought so, for upon publication the paper was flooded with calls and letters denouncing the condemning of the beloved Fischer-Crane building. I never knew if my bosses were in on the smoke-filled, big money backroom deal done without the approval of the city council by an Immaculate Conception pastor and a mayor and property owner who were members of his church, but despite (or perhaps because of) the great reader response, the main editor of the Elmhurst Press almost immediately informed me I could no longer even mention "Preservation," as it was no longer a subject suitable for a community column. I reluctantly agreed, but when the endings of my columns (in the tradition of filler news stories edited for space, something I had previously been assured my column wasn't) were now either unceremoniously lopped off, or any possible double entendre was dropped, I knew my usefulness there was over and resigned, allowing "Inside Elmhurst" to go back to it's previous dull existence. No, I did not save the Fisher/Crane (it came down unannounced one dawn so no one could protest) but my column did lead to the passing of a Preservation Ordinance, not to mention a host of new friends and fond memories.

When I was writing "Inside Elmhurst," I figured it would be a fun sidelight, and had no idea a local column could make such a great impact. This experience proved to me that the right language, when combined with right ethos, will always make a difference, even when (or sometimes because) others try to stop it. Or as Ms. Crowley would say, "Rhetoric is not the enemy of democracy. Silence is."

Poe is Woe and Woe is Poe: The me I see in Annabel Lee

noreply@blogger.com (Tom O'Toole) — Sun, 24 May 2009 17:27:00 +0000

Back in high school, when my taste for horror and the related genres was much higher (as was I!) I loved to dig into the short stories of these masters of disaster, especially those of Kafka and Poe. To me, if Kafka spelled "catastrophe," then Poe surely meant "woe," and these twin towers of impending doom never failed to give me a good time, in a bad sort of way. Then came college, and my sadness focus shifted to Edgar Allan, not only because he (too) wrote poetry, but also spoke of a real, really heavy relationship with a woman! And so, just as my fondness for Poe's prose goes way back, my admiration for "Annabel Lee" dates from "many and many a year ago" as well. And thus, when considering both my "old flames" and current love(s), this poem not only demonstrates Tyson's conjecture that "reader-response theorists believe that even the same reader reading the same text on two different occasions will probably produce different meanings ..." (pg.170) but in my case proves Donald W. Hall's point #8 that, "It is possible to [still] enjoy a work of literature and [now, at least to a large extent] disagree with the author!"

First, from a strictly structuralist standpoint, one is amazed that "Annabel" succeeds despite such a simplistic rhyme scheme. I can vouch from experience that for most budding poets, ending all six verses with virtually the same rhyme scheme ("me," "sea," and "Lee," with the exception of verse five, where "we" is substituted for "me") would be a recipe for disaster, as in a "D" or worse. How, then, does Poe pull this poem off? Certainly, the internal rhyme (especially in the last verse) helps, as does the heavy dose of alliteration. Yet even the internal rhyme is inconsistent, and much of the alliteration ("many and many," "But we loved with a love that was more than love") repeats the exact same words as well. I argue that the simple structure succeeds largely because it is built around a simple theme. Of course, "Annabel" is not written around just any simple theme, but the simple theme, that of a lost love. Furthermore, "Lee" is not just any lost lover, but a beautiful, tragic, young one drawn from the poet's deepest personal experience ...

After reading over my poems, I'm sure any decent critic could tell you that "A Song of Sue" and "The Endless River and the Timeless Tree" both owe a significant debt to "A-Lee" based on structure alone. Repeated end rhymes "tree" and "me" ("ER/TT") "Sue" and "you" ("SOS") echo "Annabel," as do the alliteration, "Many a moment her mood would mellow" ("SOS"), and the internal rhyme with similar sounding words, "I could see that she was lonely" ("ER/TT"). Still, these similarities certainly could be dismissed as nothing more than literary coincidences if not for the mirrored themes. For it is at the level of lost love that my literary kinship with Poe both deepens and departs.

In a general sense, it is quite easy for me to identify with a fellow poet who, despite attaining a certain amount of critical success from writing during his lifetime, was also (in the words of Wikipedia), "forced to make humiliating pleas for money for the rest of his life." But as the poems show, it was far more than the struggle to make ends meet through writing that we shared. As you probably know, Poe (at age 26) married his thirteen year old cousin, Virginia Clemm. But what you didn't know was as a 21-year-old senior at Notre Dame, I began dating my first "true" love—a 16-year-old from the nearby town of Granger. Now in retrospect, I suppose dating a 16-year-old girl (she turned 17 two months into our relationship!) at age 21 wasn't exactly as much of a scandal as marrying your 13-year-old cousin, but being a senior at college and being seen around a Catholic campus with a high school sophomore (to add insult to injury, she lost a year when transferring and was thus six years behind me in school!) sometimes seemed like it. But, damn all those know-it-alls who "were older" and "far wiser" than we; "our love ... was stronger by far" than theirs, I thought, and like my poet and mentor, I was determined to make it work!

But before I go into how Poe and I (and me and Sue) failed, we should take a little time out to settle what seems to me a silly controversy. I, like most critics, seem to imply that "Annabel" is definitely about Poe's wife Virginia, while others say it is about his first—and last—love, Elmira Royster Shelton (Poe was reunited and engaged to his childhood sweetheart Elmira shortly before he died) and a third school says it is merely Poe's take on an old Navy tale about a girl named Annabel Lee which he heard when stationed in the Army. Quite frankly, I think all three are true; "Annabel" was the last thing Poe wrote before he died and actually did dedicate it to Shelton, and it would be difficult to believe Edgar didn't at least lift the title from that old tale, along with a few details. I know from my own writing that basing a story on a single person/situation is not the way it usually works; for example, Sue did not smoke or do drugs (that was someone else) — to Sue the party itself was the drug. But it would be equally ridiculous to not attribute the main body of Edgar's poem, which says "she was a child," "my wife and my bride" to whom "the wind came ... chilling and killing" to Poe's child-bride who died of tuberculosis, just as it would be silly to say my two poems were not about Sue because of a few details that didn't fit. But now, back to our story ...

Not that my break-up from Sue was as dramatic (or deadly) as Poe's from Virginia, but the feelings at first were very similar. Notice that in the stanzas of the true romantic poets, you are not going to find much stuff about paying the bills, following their stocks, or taking out the garbage. These poems generally revolve solely around the two lovers, with some cool nature scenes in the background for good measure. Still, because such poets don't really fall back on these material things in relationships, when the poets do fall, they fall hard. "Song of Sue" shares (although not as completely) "Annabel's" sense of melancholy, whereas "The Endless River" contains a few scenes of the type of desperate drinking Poe (and its author) did after the break-up. But it is at this point the two poets diverge. While Poe blames "the angels in heaven" and later "the demons down under" for his lover's death (and his own demise) O'Toole has the God of heaven delivering him (albeit in rather dramatic fashion) from his deep depression. "In the end, God was the only guy" (an awkward line for a situation I couldn't quite yet put into words) to show that, both from a maturity and different beliefs in God standpoint, this relationship could not last. And, despite an ending probably a bit too sentimental for O'Connor (at least I didn't conclude with "they lived happily ever after," Flannery!) "Endless River" did add hope to the message of "Song of Sue" by looking forward to new relationships with God's help. It also proved prophetic; Sue Wood did become quite successful in the business world, far more so than her former boyfriend. And Tom O'Toole did find a remarkable woman of deep faith, a faith so deep that she would love him through the lean times when his lack of worldly talents seemed to fail his family, at least financially. But that's another story—and poem!

Since nearly everyone in the history of the world has lost a love at some time or another, almost everybody can identify with "Annabel Lee" at some level, and as a fellow poet who also "lost" a young girl, I'd like to think my identification with the poem goes a little deeper than most. But although Poe knew woe, he did not know "who lived here." Hopefully, I can add to Poe's insights by showing those "much younger than myself ... who does."

"Shirley" She Must be a Prophet: My Jackson "Lottery" Reaction

noreply@blogger.com (Tom O'Toole) — Mon, 18 May 2009 14:55:00 +0000

Due to my CNN debut debacle, I sadly had to miss our last literary criticism class, along with the great "The Lottery" debate. Unable to join the discussion, I figured our final paper was my chance to "write now, or forever hold your peace." Of course, while "peace" is probably the last word most people would use to describe Shirley Jackson's short masterpiece, "prophecy" (of one of our society's greatest moral tragedies) may become one of "The Lottery's" greatest legacies, whether Jackson intended it to be or not.

Like war, the evil of human sacrifice has been with us since the beginning of time. However, unlike war, the destruction of innocent human beings, often performed for the purpose of appeasing the gods, has even from ancient times brought moral opposition, including when the Lord Himself stepped in to prevent Abraham from "offering up" his own son Issac (Genesis 22:1-18). Surely one might argue that in 1948, when Jackson published this disturbing short-story, human sacrifice (at least in civilized societies) was no longer taking place, so Shirley's tale must have been a metaphor for the shaft US women were getting in post-war America (especially in their loss of WWII jobs), or written to alert us to the fact that despite our defeat of Hitler, death was still the usual prospect for anyone in Russia or Yugoslavia who opposed the brutal dictatorships of Stalin or Tito. In other words, while Jackson's story no doubt made the short-story canon because it fulfilled all ten of Donald Hall's criteria for good literature, it would not have fulfilled "To Read Literature's" #2 statement of being "NOT predictable" if human sacrifice was still present in post-war America. But is it possible that Jackson foresaw a new "slaughter of the innocents" (Matt 2:16-18) whose seeds, while barely planted in 1948, took root in 1973, and came to fruition just this past weekend?

Although the word "abortion" was barely a whisper in 1948, there were those who predicted as soon as the Lambert Conference ruling in 1930, that its legal future was inevitable. When the Anglican Church became the first Christian denomination to allow artificial birth control at that conference, it was not just the Catholic Church but Church of England literary giants such as T.S. Elliot who voiced their opposition. "The world is trying the experiment of attempting to form a civilized, but non-Christian society," Elliot wrote in response to Lambert. "The experiment will fail ... but we must be patient in awaiting its collapse." This "non-Christian" society, complete with stoning one randomly selected villager for the sake of a bountiful harvest, is certainly alive and well in Jackson's little town. But it is the parallels between this town's attitude toward the lottery and our nation's current attitudes toward abortion that to me are most scary ...

While I was no doubt "freaked out" when I first read "The Lottery" as a teen, the pro-life question makes its message even more relevant to me today. Personally, my poem "The Blood of the Young Patriots" (a bit of a departure from "Stoned," wouldn't you say?) was my attempt to reconcile abortion with the post 9-11 patriotism of the country, but although it shares a surprise ending with Jackson's writing, it cannot capture her frightening subtlety. For example, while "Patriots" proclaims that his opponent accepts abortion, "Because these babies don't scream when their bodies fall," the villagers not only hear Mrs. Hutchinson's complaints, "It isn't fair, it isn't right," before the stoning, but hear her screams during the event. Pro-life activist Randall Terry picks up on this adult angle in his book A Humble Plea, where he uses the analogy of bishops (in Terry's eyes, the unborn's first line of defense) being murdered instead of babies. "Imagine your utter wretchedness," Terry says to the bishops, "if you were attacked and left for dead, and your 'pro-bishop' employee sees you but simply looks the other way, en route to her 'Bishop's Untimely Removal Pins' (BURP) meeting." Still, Jackson takes this analogy to an even higher level, for in her story, perhaps the ultimate victim of abortion is being silenced.

"It is a poverty," Mother Teresa warned, "to decide that a child must die so that you can live as you wish." This mentality is certainly at play in "The Lottery," where the few who have the strength to question its morality are drowned out out by the Old Man Warner faction and their old-boy "Lottery in June, corn be heavy soon" philosophy. And, like the kids in the story, where the "feeling of liberty sat uneasily on most of them," today's youths, many of whom acknowledge that abortion is murder, also accept it unquestionably, for since Roe v Wade became law thirty six years ago, legal abortion is all they have ever known. But in Jackson's story, devastation is even more dramatic because the exact reversal of Mother Teresa's "The greatest destroyer of peace today is abortion, for it is a war on the innocent child, murder by the mother herself," prophecy is complete, for not only is the mother, not her child, being murdered, her own child ("The children had stones already, and someone gave little Davy Hutchinson a few pebbles,") has a hand in it.

But as awful as this final image may be, the Jackson/abortion comparison wouldn't be complete without examining the cruel callousness of the husbands/fathers. Just as many, if not the majority, of young women have abortions not only because the counselor offers no "real" alternatives, but due to the fact that the baby's father is totally unsupportive and irresponsible, not only do Mr. Summers and Mr. Graves offer Tessie no other options, Mr. Hutchinson's opposition to his wife's objections are the most vile of all. "Shut up, Tessie," he silences her after the initial drawing, and later "forced the paper out of her hand" when the final pick has taken place, then "held it up and there was a stir in the crowd." While the recent story of Lacy Dodd, which I wrote about in my RenewAmerica commentary of the the Notre Dame/Obama invitation has a happy ending, the sad body of her tale of the unwed, pregnant college student (in this case at Notre Dame) is quite familar. Despite going alone to a women's clinic where abortion was the only realistic option, and dealing with an unsympathic boyfriend (a Notre Dame senior) who pressured her to make the abortion decision, telling Lacy that pro-life stuff was just "dining room talk ... when it's really you in the situation, it's different." In the end, Lacy did have the baby, but I wonder if her wonderful closing comment to Fr. Jenkins and President Obama, "Who draws support from your decision to honor President Obama—the young, pregnant Notre Dame woman sitting in that graduating class who wants desperately to keep her baby, or the Notre Dame man who believes that the Catholic teaching on the intrinsic evil of abortion is just dining-room talk" would not only have won applause from the modern pro-life faction but from Jackson herself.

In all honesty, it is probably impossible to say what Shirley thought about the abortion question. While we do know ( from Wikipedia) that when "The Lottery" first was published in the New Yorker, it created a firestorm of reader-response criticism; not only was the story banned in South Africa, hundreds cancelled their magazine subscriptions, and the thousands of letters she received were almost universally negative, including one from her own mother which stated, "Dad and I did not care for [it]. This gloomy kind of story is all you young people think about these days. Why don't you write something to cheer people up?" In addition, while the fact that death by (illegal) abortion went down dramatically fron 1940 (1407 deaths) to 1950 (263 deaths) may have made the procedure more attractive to the culturally elite, Regina G. Kunzel notes in her book Fallen Woman, Problem Girls that to the typical unwed mother of the day, abortion was not considered an option. Since "social workers [of that era] had distanced themselves from the rhetoric of womanly benevolence," wrote Kunzel, "it is ironic that new psychiatric understanding dictated the proper role of the social worker [in this situation] to be that of 'the good mother,'" (pg. 168). Meanwhile, although Jackson never denied the significance of names such as "Delacroix" (meaning "of the cross") or "Hutchinson" (Anne Hutchinson was accused of "witchery" and banned from Massachusetts in 1638) to its symbolism, she stated the purpose of the story was simply "to shock the readers with a graphic dramatization of the pointless violence and general inhumanity in their own lives." Still, the way the story came about suggests something quite different...

"I had written this story," said Shirley (see www.blitz21.com) "on a bright June morning when summer seemed to have come at last, with ... no heavenly signs that my morning's work was not just another story. It came to me when I was pushing my daughter up the hill in her stroller ... the hill was very steep and perhaps the efforts of the last 50 yards up the hill put an edge to the story." And so, while Jackson herself admits the strain of caring for her daughter had some bearing (at least on the tone) of the story, is it so far-fetched (from a psychoanalytic standpoint if nothing else) that Jackson's successful ascent of the hill with her daughter symbolized her uphill struggle back then to be taken seriously both as a female author and as a wife and mother? And, since Jackson was able to pass both tests with flying colors, could not "The Lottery" be her proof to her literary friends that, despite the trials each role entailed, the joy was far greater and thus abortion was not the answer?

After reading "The Blood of the Young Patriots" one day to a class at York, a courteous (and perhaps courageous, knowing the pro-choice slant of the administration) young woman gave a most insightful analysis of my poem. "The 9-11 victims of the terrorist attacks stuck in the buildings symbolize the babies in the womb that are about to be aborted, for both sets of victims are not only completely innocent, but are completely powerless to fight back." Of the countless critiques of "Patriots" I have received, this one remains the most poignant, not because it completely captured my intention (which it did) but because it did so by using a perfect analogy--one that had never occurred to me when I wrote it! Similarly, while Jackson may not have thought (at least consciously) about the abortion analogy when writing "The Lottery," the story is a perfect one not only to illuminate the modern pro-life stance, but to shock the opposition into seeing the real horror of their own pro-choice position.

POSTSCRIPT: Back in November of 2008, I caught on the Net (on a site dubbed "Real Catholic TV") a parable entitled "A Short Story." While its author, Michael Voris, admitted the parable was about the new Obama administration (and their pro-choice attitudes) I immediately thought about "The Lottery" when I first saw it ... even though I had not read the story since college! And so, although I re-read the story both for class and again for this paper, "A Short Story" no doubt deserves a lot of credit for its inspiration!

Focus on Francis: My Curious Conversation with Cardinal George

noreply@blogger.com (Tom O'Toole) — Thu, 14 May 2009 04:01:00 +0000

The following interview, deemed too controversial for several Catholic magazines, was conducted in October, 1998, shortly after George's arrival in Chicago. As I am going back to that fateful spot Friday, May 15th, this time to conduct a Notre Dame protest, I thought my "Focus on Francis" interview would be worth revisiting.

From everyone to whom much has been given, much will be required; and from the one to whom much has been entrusted, even more will be demanded (Luke 12:48).

The bishop is the steward of grace of the supreme priesthood especially in the Eucharist ... "sanctifying the Church by his example 'not as domineering over those in your charge but being examples to the flock' (1 Pet 5:3). He should not refuse to listen to his subjects whose welfare he promotes as his very own children ..." (Catechism of the Catholic Church #893, #896).

"Your interview with Cardinal George is set!" my wife exclaimed over the phone, her voice filled with emotion. It was seven months since we put in our magazine interview request with the Chicago Cardinal, and we were finally seeing the dream fulfilled—or so I thought. For as the interview unfolded, it became clear that the real dream was still a ways off, and it was up to his flock to fulfill it.

As we awaited our appointment with the successor of Cardinal Bernardin, I was surprised to find in George's waiting room only two magazines, both of dubious reputation. The coffee table contained a couple of issues of Commonweal, as well as the current issue of U.S. Catholic. Having had my fill of Commonweal for awhile (after reading the Aug. 14th issue's take on Truth entitled "Punishing Dissent," "The canons roar ... what John Paul II's Apostolic letters 'To Defend the Faith' and 'The Theological and Juridical Nature of Episcopal Conferences' mean and why they will be counterproductive ...") I instead picked up the U.S. Catholic to see if it had gotten any more orthodox since my last reading. A quick glance at the table of contents told me no, and after reading a U.S. Catholic article that contained a Protestant understanding of the Eucharist, I resolved to bring the issue up with George just as Mary McDonough, the Cardinal's communications director, ushered us in.

As Jeanette (my convert from Lutheranism wife who, in addition to being the perfect spouse, doubles as my photographer) observed the Cardinal and myself shake hands and then seat ourselves, she was struck by two things. First, instead of positioning himself behind his desk to answer questions, as most men of importance would, he pulled up a second chair in front of his desk and sat next to me. Conditioned to job interviews over the past eight years with an owner who not only sat behind an impressive desk, but in a chair that towered a foot and a half higher than the employee (hot) seat, I too noticed this as a refreshing touch. But the second thing, that George let her photograph him throughout the interview, at any angle she wanted, while just as rare, was a fact that only a photographer would appreciate—at least until the prints came out.

As soon as we got settled, I kidded the Cardinal about how long it took the interview to materialize, expecting a chuckle back from the man I wanted to regard as a friend. Instead, I found my comment, meant to break the ice, had run into an iceberg, and was returned with a rather cold response. A bit surprised, I plunged ahead, opening with a question about how his priestly vocation came about.

"My brother Bill, who recently was ordained a diocesan priest, told me he knew he had a vocation ever since the first grade, when he heard a visiting Franciscan talk about the religious life at our parochial school. Did you have a similar youthful experience, or did the call come later in life?"

"My first communion was an important moment for me. It was the first time I remember thinking seriously about my vocation. But no one is sure of a vocation at that age. God calls, but the Church discerns."

"I didn't mean to imply you were 100% sure in second grade—"

"You are not 100% sure until the bishop lays his hands on you and you are ordained."

Although I didn't quite see it (yet), a pattern was forming. Certainly, there was nothing wrong with Francis' last answer. It just struck me as a little hard-edged for such a simple (and innocent) question. Still believing that humor was the solution, I tried again.

"In many ways, you and your predecessor Cardinal Bernardin are a lot alike," I stated, as the Cardinal stared. "You both wear glasses and neither of you have a lot of hair." This time he did laugh! Asked to elaborate on how it felt to follow such a beloved figure, George stated, "It is a great strength to follow someone who was such a powerful witness to the faith, both in his courage when he was wrongfully accused [of sexual misconduct] and in his gracious acceptance of death as a 'friend.' I believe we have the same mission, but different priorities, different styles."

"On the one hand you have Cardinal Bernardin being criticized for projects such as Common Ground, because detractors say they give the impression to dissenting Catholics—and perhaps other Christians—that Church doctrine can be changed, while on the other, you have Catholics [including Bernardin] who are horrified when Bishop Fabian Bruskewitz tells Catholics in some of these same groups that Common Ground dialogued with—that they have thirty days to renounce these organizations and their teachings or be excommunicated. Who do you think was right?"

"I don't think Bernardin or Bruskewitz ever disagreed on [Church] doctrine," said George, treading delicately on the subject. "Cardinal Bernardin was clear about what he taught and believed, but also felt it painful to exclude people. Bruskewitz believed the same revealed Truth that Bernardin did, but because of his faith, he felt he had to draw the line for those under his authority. I don't think Cardinal Bernardin ever disagreed with Bruskewitz's right to draw the line, but on when and how he did it."

Cardinal George was careful to not reveal where he would "draw the line" in that scenario, but I did definitely find out his feelings on where to press for orthodoxy when I asked him about the sorry excuses for Catholic literature in his waiting room. And while I succeeded getting a definite stand on this question, he also did not laugh the remainder of the interview.

"The Catholic media often seems to be divided along political lines which I think is a mistake," I stated. "Liberal magazines emphasize social justice and political action, while conservative magazines talk mostly about Catholic sacramental and prayer life, and I think Catholics sometimes get the impression they have to choose one over the other, when both are necessary. For example, the one magazine in your waiting room always contains some good social justice articles, but in regard to the sacraments, you get commentary like this." At this point, I picked up the October issue of U.S. Catholic, to read its quote on the Eucharist verbatim. "It's insulting enough," the article declared, "that the institutional church believes it has an exclusive claim on the sacraments and won't allow other believers to join us in celebrating the one who died for all of us." Although some might have a hard time believing a cardinal as learned as George would be surprised to find such heterodox statements in this popular local "Catholic" magazine, his genuine ignorance was evidenced by the fact he reacted to the quote like he had just been punched in the gut.

"That's terrible. The person who wrote that has no understanding of what the Eucharist is about. The Eucharist is the sacrament of unity, and to let those who don't believe in the Real Presence receive, dishonors the Catholic doctrine of the one true Church."

Unfortunately, instead of being happy (or at least relieved) that someone had informed him that a heretical magazine, pretending to be Catholic, dominated the coffee table in his waiting room, where it could easily prey on the weak believer, George seemed to grow even more wary of me from that moment, as if I had either planted the periodical or was deliberately trying to dig up dirt. Hoping some of my own published writings would alleviate his fears, I talked about my personal love of the Eucharist, determined to turn the tide.

"I recently wrote an article for The Catholic Faith [magazine] on the importance of Perpetual Eucharistic Adoration Chapels, in which I also talked about the necessity of frequent communion. I started the article quoting from the Catechism of the Catholic Church which stated the Eucharist was the "source and summit of the Christian life," "the sum and summary of our faith—"

"That quote is actually from Lumen Gentium in Vatican II."

"Ah ... yes. The first quote is actually the Catholic Catechism quoting Vatican II. In any event, I read recently how the America bishops talked about canceling holy days of obligation in the United States when they fell on a Saturday or Sunday ... but in light of what the Church teaches ... wouldn't it be logical for a person to want to celebrate Mass and receive the Eucharist daily?"

"Yes, that would be logical ... but they shouldn't stop going on Sunday." George then went into a long explanation of why the Sunday Liturgy is of more primary importance than the weekday Mass, something I did not question. In fact, it almost seemed like George brought it up just so he appeared not to agree with me.

"Cardinal, you talk often about the need for Catholics to evangelize. Do you mean devout Catholics to evangelize uninformed or lukewarm Catholics, or also those in other Christian denominations and non-Christians as well?"

"Yes, I meant we should evangelize all people."

At this response I got excited again, because I figured I could draw on recent personal experiences. "Cardinal, I have a friend named Paul who was raised Catholic and attended Catholic high school with me, but since has left the Church and is now an Assemblies of God minister. In fact, his church, Lincoln Park Assembly, is not far from here. Do you know Lincoln Park well?"

"Ah ... somewhat," George said seemingly baffled by my line of inquiry.

"Well, his church is right there ... actually, they don't have a church building; they conduct their services in the Apollo Theatre." At this point I stopped for a second, for originally I had planned to ask the Cardinal to give my friend Paul a call, and welcome him to the neighborhood, but George's glare made me think the better of it. "Anyway, Paul's a great Christian and a good friend. We talk often about the faith, and recently he even started to agree with me on the Catholic theology of saints when I told Paul that if Christ really conquered death, then the saints aren't really separated from us, and we can be friends with them just as we are friends, and they can pray for us just like we pray for each other, or talk to them just like we talk—"

"But there is one big difference," George cut in.

"Yes?"

"With saints, we can manipulate the relationship. But with those on earth, there is a reality check."

"Reality check?"

"With the saints, the conversation can be one-sided. But if someone talks to me, I can talk back." Again the Cardinal's answer struck me as both perfectly correct, yet somewhat cynical. "Well, anyway, I've attended a couple of their services, and while Paul is a good preacher, as good as his talks are ... there's always something missing in them.

"Of course there is! He has lost the Eucharist!"

"Yes! Exactly!" Now I was getting somewhere, I thought. "You see, Paul loves the Bible and is very knowledgeable of it ..."

"But if you have just the Word, you have to rely too much on yourself, on your own interpretation. But the Eucharistic Christ never comes alone ... and you never go to Him alone. We go young and old, rich and poor together. The Eucharist is the total Christ."

"But the Eucharist should never be separated from the Word, right?"

"No, of course not."

"That's what I told Paul. Do you know the story of the [Eucharistic] miracle of Lanciano?"

"Yes," George replied, again puzzled.

"Well, I told him about the priest who doubted the Real Presence in the Eucharist, and how one day when he said the words of consecration, the host actually turned into flesh and the wine into blood—and that flesh and blood from back in the 700s is still preserved undeteriorated today. I asked Paul to guess what part of the body the flesh was. When I told him 'it was the heart,' he gasped. So I told him that maybe the Word was the mind of God, but the Eucharist was Jesus' heart— and when the Protestants separated the two, they separated God's mind from the heart." I stopped.

"Well, do you have a question for me?" George demanded.

"Just, I guess, whether or not that was a good explanation for a fundamentalist, the Bible being the mind of God and the Eucharist being His heart."

"The Eucharist is the whole Christ. It is Jesus' present body, blood."

"Soul and divinity," I chanted, softly joining in the stern, yet comforting refrain from Trent. "But was that at least a good way to explain the two?"

"I suppose it is a good analogy. But those are your words, not mine."

George's pointed disclaimer hung in the air and stung me, but there was nothing I could do but continue. "When you met with leaders of other denominations, how does it make you feel?" I wondered.

"On the one hand, you feel the joy of being in the presence of so many men and women that truly love Jesus, but on the other, it is painful because you realize firsthand the great separation between us."

"So since you know that they disagree with you, how then do you share the Faith? At Paul's church, I met a brilliant girl of sixteen, who as it turned out, also shared my love of writing poetry. We agreed to trade poems, but one of hers was a 26-page epic; a poem that depicted abuse, silence and despair. When darkness is so deep, it just seems like vague ecumenical Christian answers won't cut it ... so I gave her a book of poetry by St. John of the Cross, and then I talked about the peaceful silence of Eucharistic Adoration, but she seemed taken aback ... my advice was very Catholic ... maybe I shouldn't have shared it ..."

"Why shouldn't you share your faith? In that situation, I think it was something you had to do," George encouraged.

Vindicated, at least for the moment, I continued on my road to faith—sharing from the viewpoint of vocations. "Part of the difficulty in [my] everyday evangelizing stems from the difference in our vocations. Vocations to the priesthood or religious life have long been taught as 'the' vocation, in fact in many parishes I've been in, prayers of the faithful petitions for vocations are synonymous with 'religious vocations—'"

"Well, I know parishes that discourage religious vocations," George countered.

"True ... I suppose that is the modernist backlash to the traditional call for religious vocation ... but there was a kind of pervasive piety that taught if you really loved God, you would be religious, but if you couldn't hack it, you could at least save your soul in a Catholic marriage. In fact, many of the canonized saints wrote commentaries that stated religious life was the 'higher' vocation, and of course, most of the canonized saints were celibate religious—"

"Marriage is just as holy of a vocation as the religious life if it is your vocation," George offered.

"Then do you think this is partly because there are more books written by devout religious on how to achieve sanctity than by family men and women, and that more holy married Catholics need to write down their experiences so that others in their state have more practical guides to marriage perfection?"

"I think there is some truth to that, but married adults rarely have time to write their ideas down!" Well there is some truth to that I thought to myself as the Cardinal continued.

"The religious vocation on earth does more closely mirror the relationship we will have with God in heaven where 'they neither marry or are given to marriage' (Matt 23:30). Marriage ends in death. In heaven your union is with God alone. But you do bring what you were on earth to heaven, and that includes your relationships, especially your relationship with your spouse."

"So I won't be one with my wife in heaven?"

"Your path to heaven is mediated on earth by your spouse, while mine is mediated by the Church. You need to accumulate a certain amount of wealth to provide for your wife and children, but I do not. There is nothing worse than a rich celibate. They are merely ecclesiastic bachelors, and are great failures in their vocation."

Not being a theologian, I didn't really grasp the part about how married folks were no longer joined in heaven, but I did understand poverty from personal experience, so I pursued George's views on the question of (making) money.

"I recently wrote an article for Culture Wars which questioned the idea of Catholic capitalism—whether one can become wealthy through business and still remain a Catholic, especially if those working for you are poor."

"You need both the rich and poor in society. The rich are needed to provide jobs for the poor, and the poor are necessary because without them, the rich would not get into heaven," George answered without addressing the problem.

"But surely it is not right for a company to pay a family man merely what the market dictates if their salary is below a true living wage."

"It's not just the market," explained George. "It's also the law of the land. Our laws forbid a company from compensating a man according to his family situation, because they state that each individual, man or woman, just receive equal pay for equal work," George concluded, thinking the matter was settled.

"But this type of answer, often espoused by corporations, is not good enough," I countered. "If there are ways around it on one end, there must be ways around it on the other." As George listened, I explained how, in my retail job, a wholesaler is required by state law to sell goods to each retailer at the same price. So although the price is the same on invoice, the next day a salesman will often appear with a free case (or two) to make the deal sweeter for bigger retailers. "And there is nothing unlawful about giving an employee a Christmas bonus of $50 and another a bonus of, say, $5,000."

"No, I suppose not."

"So, isn't it really the employer's responsibility to see that his employees get a living wage?" The Cardinal, perhaps not prepared for an intellectual battle on this subject, appeared perturbed.

"Although the Church does teach that a worker is entitled to a just wage, it does not provide models as to how this should take place. Do you change the laws in our government? Do you change the economic structure of your company? Or should society provide the 'safety net' for families whose income isn't enough to meet their basic needs?"

"That's all fine, but I'm saying a Catholic owner of a company shouldn't be considered a Catholic if he owns several homes, when he has full-time employees who can't afford a place to live."

"Many Catholics would be shocked to hear you say that," George said, not yet tipping his hat as to whether he agreed with me or not.

"Well, it's true. Can you really call yourself a Catholic when you don't pay the people who work under you enough to live on?"

"Define what you mean by enough to live on."

"Not always having enough money to buy food, not always having enough money to buy clothes for your kids," my definition again coming from personal experience.

"Yes, those are necessary, but I still don't think a president of a large corporation can always be responsible for knowing individual employee needs."

"True, but in a mid-sized company, there is no excuse," I countered. "The owner should know his employees, and if the owner is a Catholic, he should be responsible for, say dropping a food basket off at a poor employee's house ... slipping him food vouchers, or a little cash in between checks."

"I think, in some small companies, that type of thing does happen," George sighed. "Perhaps it should happen more often," George stated finally succumbing on this point. But as Jeanette noted through the eye of her camera, each "defeat" left George's expression more determined, and each answer more defensive.

"John XXIII, when still a cardinal, would open up his office to the public each weekday morning for three hours, letting in any soul off the street who, for whatever reason, wished to talk to him. Although we live in a far different time and place, wouldn't that be a cool thing to do, perhaps on a limited scale?"

"Well, I certainly wouldn't have the time to talk to you if that policy was in place," came the cold reply.

I then asked him about his own disability (George's boyhood bout with polio has left him unable to walk witout pain) and how it helped him relate to others with similar plights. While his insightful answer ("My disability has made me more vulnerable ... sometimes it's a struggle to look upon it as a blessing rather than a curse ... I see that it's important to keep the disabled visible in the Church community so the affluent realize they are not lesser members, just because they can't do anything,") was undercut by the fact he was now trying to see my notebook, and read my notes. I tried to go on to a "safe" question. But even that proved anything but.

I next asked the Cardinal who he prayed for and while his answer, "I pray for the archdiocese, all its people and their welfare. I pray for the bishop and all the priests under my charge, and all those who minister to others. I pray for vocations to the priesthood and religious life, and for fidelity to my own vocation. And I pray for the specific needs of those who I meet in parishes or hospitals ..." was remarkably similar to Pope John Paul's answer to this question in Crossing the Threshold of Hope, the next one wasn't.

"I know many priests and bishops set aside a specific hour each day to pray, and do so in front of the Eucharist. In fact, I read that Cardinal Bernardin said his decision to do so, when he was already a bishop, was the turning point in his ministry. Do you set aside a specific time to pray each day, and is it in front of the Eucharist?"

"When I was in a community house [Missionary Oblate of Mary Immaculate] we used to have Eucharistic Adoration before dinner. But I'm far too busy during that time now, so I try to pray in the morning ..."

"You mean in church?"

"No, in my room."

"While you're getting ready for the day?"

"Yes."

"Do you have Eucharistic Adoration there?"

"No."

This, of course, was perhaps the one question the Cardinal least wanted asked and the answer I least wanted to receive, and now we both knew I had better end this interview ... quickly. I figured I'd rap things up with a light question, but at that point, even that backfired miserably.

"If you had one piece of advice to give the world's Catholics, what would it be?"

"That's such a broad question!" George said with annoyed amazement.

"Well, what if we limit it to American Catholics?" I said hopefully. George looked like he wanted to strangle me, but, perhaps due to the intercession of our patron saints, and guardian angels, thought the better of it.

"Know and live the faith," George finally stated looking relieved that it was over.

Jeanette and I said our thanks, and quickly got our things together. Still hopeful to salvage George's respect, I gave him a few copies of various Catholic articles I've written, and then picked up the copy of U.S. Catholic, which George commented on immediately.

"I was going to use it in my article," I told George who frowned.

"I'm sorry; I'll leave this copy here and just get a copy from the library," I told him.

"No that's okay," George sighed as he let me take it.

"They shouldn't call a magazine U.S. Catholic when it contains articles that aren't," I offered.

"They're probably just being controversial to sell copies," George replied half-heartedly.

"Yes ... well thanks again."

"Pray for me." We were almost out the door, and the suddenness (and sincerity) of his request caught us off guard.

"We will," I promised.

As we were exiting from the elevator to the street, an archdiocesan employee, a jovial man named Jim, was entering. Not recognizing us, he asked us our business in the building. "We just saw the Cardinal. I did a magazine interview with him."

"Really?" said Jim, perhaps aware of the rarity of the occasion.

"Yes, we had been waiting and praying for this for a long time," Jeanette added.

"Yes, well I have a saying about things like that. Be careful what you pray for ... you just might get it."

The prophetic nature of Jim's statement didn't hit me fully until we arrived home and found a message on our answering machine. It was the concerned voice of Mary McDonough. When I called her back I knew it must be urgent by the fact that Mary, not her answering machine, picked up the phone, something that rarely happened. "The Cardinal was concerned about the nature of your questions," Mary stated after a brief hello. "He wants to know what the focus of your article will be."

"I would have to go over my notes and actually start writing before I could tell you exactly, Mary. It certainly will touch on the Eucharist ... but it will touch on a lot of things. I suppose you could tell him the theme is a family man getting to spend an hour with the Cardinal."

Mary was not appeased. "You're writing the article for _____________________ . What other magazines have you written for?"

I started to name them, but then remembered I had given the Cardinal some of my articles personally. "Mary, I already gave Cardinal George copies of my stories. If he's concerned, tell him to read them. I'm sure that will give him a good idea of what I write, and what type of content my articles would include."

"Tom, the Cardinal is not going to have time to read any of your articles. He wants to know what issue his story will be in and wants a copy of the article before it goes to printing."

I was stunned. These were tactics of a police state, not the Chicago Archdiocese. "I don't know what issue it will be in, Mary. I'm not sure about getting you a copy beforehand. I'm sorry he didn't like the interview," I said softly.

"He didn't say he didn't like it, Tom. He was just concerened about the focus ..."

"Be careful what you pray for ..." I again remembered Jim's words, as I tried to put the interview in perspective the following day. I had gone there expecting an inspiring interview with an orthodox friend (as did the magazine!) and I was instead left with a complex series of confrontations to write about. I vaguely recalled reading an article entitled "Pastors Warn George about Abrasive Style" (National Catholic Reporter, November 21, 1997) but had then concluded the prelates who had nicknamed him "George the Corrector" were all liberals, and George was just doing his pastoral duty. But as I re-read it, I realized I went there a married man who loved the Church and all its teachings, and George corrected (if not silenced) me as well.

This was not going to be an easy article to write, I thought while driving home from my retail job. It was my only time to think about the article that day since I was heading to another job late that night, and my wife had called and asked me to take the kids out for fast food in the hour or so in between. But, as anyone with four children knows, such plans rarely go as smoothly in reality as they do in your head.

When I got home, I instead find one kid wants to go to the restaurant, another needs me to go to Osco and buy him school supplies, a third wants to stay home and study, while the fourth one wants ... "I don't have time for all these things," I yelled angrily. "I barely have time to take you to Wendy's!" But then my daughter started to cry, and her tears told me otherwise.

Well, we went out to that restaurant, got supplies at the drug store, brought a doggy bag home for my bookish son, and I still got to my other job with three minutes to spare. And after that job was over, I again started to think—and to realize Cardinal George and I were not that different after all. We are both too busy, running from one thing to another, not finding enough time to pray. Sure we both go to daily Mass (actually he presides and I attend) and we both try to sneak in a few prayers when we get up in the morning, but our lack of patience with our vocations proves it isn't enough. If Cardinal George is at a crossroads, a learned bishop and able administrator who, with an hour or so a day of Eucharistic Adoration, could also become a saintly priest, than so am I, a Catholic father and husband, struggling to make time for my family while making ends meet, who with a little more "focused" prayer in front of the tabernacle could not only write about the virtuous Catholic life (as George challenged) from a married perspective, but live it. Finally realizing what I needed, I pulled off the road and stopped at a Perpetual Eucharistic Adoration Chapel at a nearby parish, went in, and began to take the Cardinal's last words to me in earnest.

Postscript:

It was October 16th (ten days after the interview) and the morning radio led with the story of the 20th anniversary of John Paul II being elected pope ... and, of course, being in Chicago, they were asking Cardinal Francis George his thoughts on the subject.

"I didn't know Cardinal Wojtyla very well at the time, but I had talked to him briefly about his writings and how he was convinced, quite prophetically, that Marxism, because of its flaws, would eventually fail." Here the Cardinal paused, and then resumed. "I think the Pope is now convinced that the economic system in America is flawed and must someday fail too."

This last comment made me pause, and then it made me smile. While I could not be sure from that statement that George had taken my economic theories seriously, I became convinced at that moment that my prayer for him had been heard. And if one struggling writer's prayer had that much effect, think of what may happen if all this article's readers pray for Cardinal George too. Who knows—he may not only become a saint—but maybe even invite me back for another interview!

“True” Love: Gatsby’s Greatest Gaffe or Fitzgerald’s Fatal Flaw? A New Criticism View

noreply@blogger.com (Tom O'Toole) — Wed, 13 May 2009 01:20:00 +0000

After reading Tyson’s incisive chapter on New Criticism (as well as re-reading
Fitzgerald’s classic American novel), I must admit I thought the New Critic’s claim of “Single Best Interpretation” presumptuous, and their directive to stick entirely to the text at best implausible, and most likely impossible. Yet, surprisingly, after more than three quarters of a century since its writing (as well as more than a quarter of a century since my last Gatsby reading), the enchantment of the tale remained so strong that I almost felt the title character himself “stretching out his arms toward” me through the ages and pages, imploring this “old sport” to at least give it the ol’ college try. So without further adieu, I offer Jay and you this thesis; that the main (male) characters of The Great Gatsby are so busy pursuing the fountain of youth that they missed the eternal maxim which states that in order to find True Love, one must also learn to love Truth.

Although the novel’s main men (Jay Gatsby, Nick Carraway, and Tom Buchanan) all seem to be stuck in some spot in their not so distant youths, they all seek to reclaim a slightly different stage from their glory days. While Nick waxed about his “vivid memories … coming back west from prep school” (Chapter IX, pg.183), and Gatsby gabbed incessantly about “repeating the past” of “five years before” (116,117; ch. VI) when Daisy became not only Jay’s girl, but his holy “grail” (156; ch. VIII). Tom is described as drifting “forever seeking … the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game” (10; ch.I). Still, Buchanan’s “cruel body” (11; ch. I) and “simple mind” (131; ch.VII), which he uses to physically dominate the women (Daisy’s bruised knuckle (ch.I), Myrtle’s broken nose (ch.II)), and intimidate the men; “Don’t think my opinion is final … just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are” (11; ch.I), seems to put Tom more in the Jr. High schoolyard bully category. But if these dominating descriptions offer little hope for Tom’s growth, Carraway’s “cardinal virtue” (64; ch.III) of honesty and Gatsby’s unwavering devotion to Daisy (every chapter!) appear to offer promise for our two heroes’ development, if not happiness. Instead, the exact opposite happens, as all true love is lost, and lies and violence triumph.

Indeed, an initial surface reading of Gatsby might lead the reader to conclude the novel rewards dishonesty and brute force and dismisses faithfulness and truth, based on the fact the book ends with Tom’s life-and handshake- (188; ch. IX) intact, but Nick left with the “foul dust” (6; ch. I) of disillusionment and Gatsby dead. However, upon further review, it is not Nick or Jay’s love of truth or true love that spells their demise, but their lack of it. While Nick does appear to be above board as to his past or the basic facts of his life, his blatant stereotyping of the bit characters in his life (“I laughed aloud as … the three modish negroes rolled … the yolks of their eyeballs toward us …” (73; ch. IV), “I had … the desperate suggestion that they help me … when the demoniac Finn brought it in …” (92: ch.5) ) not to mention his caricature of the “tiny eyed … flat-nosed Jew” Wolfschiem (73; ch. IV), betrays not only a profound racial prejudice but a total inability to perceive a person as he or she really is. Similarly, Gatsby may be totally true to Daisy, but his failing to bring this devotion up to date no doubt stems from his almost total dishonestly about the other facets of his life, most notably his line of work.

What my politically incorrect college professor once dubbed “the dark side” of the Protestant work ethic; that is, so long as you’re a devoted husband and good provider you are allowed to do whatever the hell you have to in your profession to maintain that status, could easily have been coined with Gatsby in mind. Not only does a Jekyll/Hyde (or his case, Gatsby/Gatz), from old sport to “looked like he killed a man” (142; ch.VII) personality transformation occur in our hero nearly every time the subject is changed from pleasure to business, any Jay/James attempt at honesty simultaneously goes out the window as well. And nowhere in the novel is this dichotomy more prevalent than the novel’s “True Love” turning point, the Chapter VII Gatsby/Buchanan standoff.

After some initial small talk, the G-B confrontation really begins with Tom accusing Gatsby of causing a “row … in my house” (136; ch. VII), as the reader quickly realizes that no less than Daisy’s hand is at stake. The encounter has the feeling of a prize fight, and the imagery Fitzgerald uses (“Gatsby sprang to his feet,” “the words seemed to bite physically into Gatsby,” “Tom’s words suddenly leaned down over” him) does nothing to discourage this. Notice that in the beginning, when Gatsby’s devotion was being compared to Tom‘s unfaithfulness, Gatsby spoke “earnestly” while Tom “groped unsuccessfully” as Jay clearly won the early rounds. In the middle section, Gatsby went for the knockout, but since his left hook that Daisy “never loved Tom” wasn’t entirely true he only connected with a glancing blow against his opponent, and thus that segment must be scored a split decision. However, in the later rounds, Tom’s tactical decision to concentrate on Gatsby’s “true” weakness; namely his ruthless (and almost totally dishonest) business dealings, clearly turn the tide. For although Gatsby initially answered the charges politely, Tom’s repeated blows returned that “unfamiliar yet recognizable look” to Gatsby’s face, and the fight (and Daisy) was lost when Jay turned to Daisy and began “denying everything, defending his name against accusations that had not been made.” Daisy had no doubt heard this tune before, and in the end she rejected Gatsby not because he was too different from Tom, but because he was too much the same, remaining with a man with whom she was not happy, but not unhappy (152), instead of one who dreamed of “sacredness”(153) but inspired terror.

In a way he didn’t realize, Nick was on the right track (pun intended!) with his longing for the joy that his “Christmas time” return home from prep school, and the renewal “of old acquaintances” (183; ch. IX) brought him. The problem with this longing is that, at thirty, Nick (and Gatsby) should be the one inspiring memories for children, not longing to be one, not caught up in his own “holiday gayeties,” but intent on bringing the true meaning of Christmas to others. Throughout history, successful societies have all realized the paradox that the normal way for couples to grow up yet stay young is to have and raise children, a fact that seems to escape the pampered inhabitants of East and West Egg. While it’s true that Daisy isn’t exactly the Hallmark Channel mother, Nick does nothing to encourage Mrs. Buchanan’s motherhood instincts, saying blasé-ly of the babe, “I suppose she talks, and-eats, and everything” (21; ch. I). Still, to Daisy’s credit, having realized Tom is pretty much out of the fatherhood picture (note not only Daisy’s quote, “She was less than an hour old and Tom was God knows where,” but the ironic Chapter VII scene where he walks back into the room exactly when his daughter walks out), her groping comment to Pammy (as Daisy turns to Gatsby), “How do you like mother’s friends?” is no doubt delivered in hopes that Jay will show paternal interest. But Gatsby, still clinging to the Daisy of five years ago, instead “kept looking at the child with surprise … (as if) … he hadn’t really believed in its existence before” (123; ch.VII), therefore blowing a beautiful chance to strengthen his bond with his beloved.

Also, while there is certainly a lot of religious imagery in Gatsby, practically none of it is designed to inspire us to embrace the Faith. All the talk about Gatsby as “a son of God … about his Father’s business” (104; ch. VI), “his mind … like the mind of God” (117), merely seems to promote Gatz/Gatsby as a sort of secular savior, with Jay’s mansion (“I stared at Gatsby’s enormous house like Kant at his church steeple.” (93; ch. VI) “On Sunday morning while church bells rang … its mistress returned to Gatsby’s house” (65; ch. IV) serving as his house of worship. But unlike Gatsby, whose “Bootlegger’s Messiah” persona is borne out of a “ferociously indifferent” two week stint at “the small Lutheran college of St. Olaf” (105; Ch. VI) and is put to rest with a rather forgettable eulogy (unless you think “Blessed are the dead that the rain falls on,” is inspiring) by a Lutheran rent-a-minister, there is one solid family man in the story whose Faith is genuine, and who provides a powerful if brief counterpoint to negligent parenting and religious cynicism that permeates the story.

Although Michaelis, the only consistently compassionate character in the novel, brings comfort only to Wilson, his advice could have just as easily applied to Caraway or Gatsby. Trying to calm Wilson down after the horrible death of George’s wife, he first asks if he “ever had any children” (165; ch.VIII), for he realizes from experience that the way for George to not be overcome by grief is to get him to concentrate on someone close to him who also might be grieving-and really need his help. Then, after realizing George is childless, Michaelis quickly shifts the discussion to religion (ironically, considering Gatsby’s faith encounters as well as Tom’s “Catholic lie” to Myrtle (38; ch. II), suggests a priest, not a minister!), trying everything in his power to get Wilson to seek God’s solace. For the simple Michaelis knows that when Christ talks about being “born again” or “becoming like little children,” it does not mean to remain in that childish stage that characterizes the main characters, but to grow in faith while still maintaining the child-like innocence that allows a soul to remain “young at heart”-surely that romantic state of being Gatsby was searching for in his eternal longing for “the single green light” (16; ch. I). True, any interpretation relying heavily on a minor character, not to mention a Christian critique, when Fitzgerald himself was not exactly religious, is going way against the grain. But when a New Critic notices the word “Church” urgently proclaimed no less than six times in two short paragraphs, he can rightly say the text itself is striking back at our illustrious author’s intent.

.....................................................................................................................

You would think the New Critics would have learned their lesson from the Protestant Reformation, which Luther started by shouting “Sola Scriptura!” (although the Bible itself urged its followers to adhere to both the text and tradition)-only to get pissed off that men soon found his interpretation wanting and started their own (over 25,000 at last count) churches too, including “Christian” sects where everything is subjective, (subjective reader-response theory, anyone?) that even deny Christ! While Luther-or Lois Tyson (whose brilliant NC Gatsby essay first breaks the “text only” rule when she refers to Fitzgerald’s biographical love of Keats in the second sentence of her article!) would have to admit that staying solely in the text is literally impossible, attempting to can still be valuable. As far as Tyson’s interpretation (where interestingly, she states as fact, not opinion) that Gatsby “tells us that unfulfilled longing is universal and inevitable,” I can only counter with the famous quote by the forth century theologian (and reformed Gatsby-esque playboy) Augustine, “The soul is restless until it rests in You.” But I cannot claim my test for “True Love” is the best unless the reader sees through me that He is the best way to stay “young at heart.”

The Fight to be “Flannery”: A Good (Catholic) Woman (Writer) is Hard to Find

noreply@blogger.com (Tom O'Toole) — Tue, 12 May 2009 21:17:00 +0000

“Well, if [the Eucharist] is just a symbol, to hell with it.”
--Flannery O’Connor, when discussing Catholicism with writer Mary McCarthy

The above quote, blurted out at a dinner party with fellow writers McCarthy (a fallen away Catholic), Robert Lowell, and their two spouses, seems to perfectly sum up both O’Connor’s strong attachment to her faith and her irreverent (and often hilarious) way of expressing that devotion. Still, although the above statement is one of Flannery’s most popular quotes, it’s interesting to discover that really no critic, whether Christian or agnostic, has actually examined O’Connor’s fiction in regard to this “symbol.” In fact, when another noted Southern woman writer, Eudora Welty, took time off for her own fiction to teach college literature, and “reached a particularly dense and symbolic section of one of O’Connor’s stories, she would sigh and ask, ‘Is there a Catholic in the class?’” Well, there is a Catholic in your class, and, starting with "A Good Man is Hard to Find" and proceeding with some of O’Connor’s other famous short stories, this critic intends to do just that.

But before we proceed with her stories and an examination of the Eucharistic symbol itself, let’s take a look at a sample of the general criticism that O’Connor was up against. On the one side were non-believing critics like Philip Wylie, who claimed that “a Catholic, if he is devout … sold on the authority of his Church, is also brain-washed, whether he realizes it or not.” Of course, Wylie deserves the double whammy, for he does not even change the male pronoun when referring to O’Connor, but unfortunately, Flannery also had many (church-going) women critics--most notably those who wanted something that would uplift a soul after a hard day's work--something O’Connor’s fiction was decidedly not suited for. “I am to give a talk,” O’Connor wrote in a letter to University of Notre Dame professor John Lynch, “on the dizzying subject--‘What Is a Wholesome Novel?’ I intend to tell them that the reason they find nothing but obscenity in modern fiction is because that is all they know how to recognize.” Simply put, O’Connor couldn’t, in good faith, write classic sappy religious fiction, because she believed sentimentality was really the flipside of pornography. The latter, she wrote, “leaves off the connection of sex with its hard purposes, disconnects it from its meaning in life and makes it simply an experience for its own sake,” while the former “is a skipping of our slow participation … in Christ’s death to … a mock state of innocence.” Thus O’Connor could never please critics at either end of the spectrum, for neither side could grasp the Catholic concept of a symbol that was real.

But then, what exactly was this symbol, and why did it so captivate O’Connor? To get a better understanding of what the Eucharist (about which O’Connor, commenting on her famous quote, said, “It is the center of existence for me; all the rest of life is expendable,”) is about, we should turn to the writings of St. Thomas Aquinas, a philosopher that O’Connor (who called herself a “hillbilly Thomist”) read every night for twenty minutes before she went to bed. To Aquinas, the Eucharist was “the perfect art,” for it was the only art that was exactly what it represented. Thus, although it was still a symbol, since the bread and wine did not (usually!) turn into Christ’s flesh and blood during the consecration, it somehow really becomes Jesus, and a devout Catholic believes that he (or she) receives Christ’s essence (His Grace, His Knowledge, His Love) when receiving the Eucharist. So to Thomas (and Flannery), while other art, whether words, picture, or performance, may, if it’s inspired, capture a part of a person, it pales in comparison to the Eucharist, which becomes Christ completely, “body, blood, soul and divinity,” at least according to the Catechism. Commenting on the opening quote, O‘Connor later concluded, “That was all the defense I was capable of then, and I realize now that was all I will ever say about it, outside of a story.” But where exactly are the Eucharistic images in her fiction, and how did these images succeed in capturing Christ--or Flannery?

"A Good Man Is Hard to Find" is probably the most popular of O’Connor’s short stories, and thus brings out all the critics’ usual suspects. Time Magazine’s 1955 summary, “Another talented Southern lady whose work is highly unladylike … Her instruments are a brutal irony, a slam-bang humor and a style of writing as balefully direct as a death sentence,” caught most of the surface goodies but missed all the spiritual depth, while Andre Bleikasten’s atheistic expounding, “In a world both frozen and frantic, God is the intruder … the divine primarily experienced as an intolerable invasion of privacy … O’Connor’s religious experience comes pretty close to Freud’s definition: a variant of obsessional neurosis,” saw a surface spirituality but mistook it for his own mental illness. Still, the most bizarre interpretation (not to mention the one that most got O’Connor’s goat) came from a college English professor who wrote, “I am writing as spokesman for three members of our department and some ninety university students in three classes who for a week now have been discussing your story, ‘A Good Man Is Hard to Find.’ We have debated at length several interpretations … in general we believe that Bailey … identifies with The Misfit … imagines his appearance and … plays two roles in the imaginary second half of the story. But we cannot determine at what point reality fades into illusion or dream. We are convinced we are missing something important that you intended … we will all be grateful if you will give us further comments about your intention.” Well, if you know even a little bit about O’Connor, you can only “imagine” her reply: “The interpretation of your ninety students and three teachers is about as far from my intentions as it could get. If it were a legitimate interpretation, the story would be little more than a trick, and its interest would be simply for abnormal psychology. I am not interested in abnormal psychology … where feeling for a story is absent, theory will not supply it. My tone is not meant to be obnoxious. I am in a state of shock.”

Since it’s quite evident from the above passage that Ms. O’Connor had no patience for psychoanalytic criticism, and thought deconstructive critics more destructive than her fictional criminals, we will turn our attention back to the more religious criticism to see if we can get back on track. Two excellent contrasting views of the spiritual message in "A Good Man Is Hard to Find" are supplied by literary critic Steven C. Band,y and English professor at Temple University, Miles Orwell. Bandy (literally) plays the devil’s advocate: “Much criticism of the story takes a sentimental view of the grandmother largely because she is a grandmother … her role as a grace-bringer is largely received, largely because the author said so.” Analyzing the two main characters, Bandy continues, “There is a fierce internal coherence to the character of the grandmother, and it has nothing to do with forgiveness.” As for The Misfit, “His inability to believe has destroyed his humanity. His nihilism is complete … to insist on this moment of mutual revelation that the grandmother is transformed into the agent of God’s grace is to do serious violence to the story.”

On the other hand, Orvell takes Flannery’s analysis of the endgame in "AGMIHTF" to heart. “I don’t want to equate The Misfit with the devil,” said O’Connor. “I prefer to think that … the old lady’s gesture, like the mustard seed, will grow to be a great crow-filled dream in his heart … and will … turn him into the prophet he was meant to become.” Acknowledging that she is far from perfect, Orwell then states, “The grandmother is the only one in the family who expresses care; her personality moves outward toward others … and it is precisely this outward expression of care that will trigger The Misfit’s cold rage.” Thus to Orwell, “The old lady’s gesture, like Christ’s, throws everything off balance, and … The Misfit’s own act, that of shooting the woman, is conceived by him … as a reestablishment of the particular order of his own world.”

I believe Orwell’s view of the story has much merit to it, even hinting at the Eucharistic images in this tale. Miles describes the plantation house the grandmother had the family search for thusly; “What is barely concealed beneath the literal description of the mansion is its symbolic equivalence to a heavenly mansion, and the addition of the secret panel suggests its mysterious containment of the treasures of the past.” To the devout Catholic, this “heavenly mansion” is the Catholic Church, and this “secret panel” can be seen as the tabernacle, the sacred box where the consecrated hosts are stored 24/7. Not only does this perpetual Presence of Christ make a Catholic Church into a profoundly different space than any other place on earth for the believer, it sheds new light on The Misfit’s cryptic comment, “She would have been a good woman if it had been someone to shoot her every minute of her life.” For this Presence, combined with the fact that the Mass is being offered (and the Host is being consecrated) somewhere in the world every minute of the day, stands as a reminder of Christ’s continual offering of Himself--and a martyrdom the grandmother now shares in.

"Good Country People" is one of O’Connor’s more under-rated stories, but to me its Eucharistic allusions are every bit as profound. No doubt partly biographical, "GCP" stars the cynical Helga (formerly named Grace) who has a Ph.D., a wooden leg, and lives on a farm with her mother. Bored, she hopes to seduce a wide-eyed young Bible salesman named Pointer, only to have the tables turned as Pointer (which is also an assumed name) turns out to be a con man and steals her wooden leg, yelling as he goes to the helpless female atheist, “You ain’t so smart. I been believing in nothing since I was born!” While most critics of "GCP" rightly focus on this comic turn of events (“She has learned a little more, now, about what it means to believe in ‘nothing’”) I think the Eucharistic symbolism (in this case Helga’s artificial leg) is crucial. At first, the Bible, which to most Protestants is the leading sacramental, seems the symbolic focus, but when Pointer’s Good Book is filled with whiskey, pornography, and rubbers, our attention quickly turns elsewhere. Pointer’s statement about Hulga’s artificial leg, “It’s what makes you different,” shows he knows it is the most sacramental part of her--which makes his theft of it (to add to his collection which includes another conquest’s glass eye) all the more devastating--and humorous.

It also brings to mind two opposing facets of Eucharistic history. The first, the miracle of Lanciano, involved a priest who doubted the Real Presence--only to watch the bread and wine turn into actual flesh and blood as he consecrated them that fateful day. The flesh (still preserved after 1200 years) was tested during O’Connor’s lifetime, and was found to be that of a human heart--making the false leg and eye theft all the more interesting. Secondly, it brings to mind that, even though a lot of Catholics don’t believe in the “Real Presence,” a lot of demons do (James 2:19). This is why, despite the abundance of Bibles and black cats, the consecrated Host is the preferred object of art for the black mass as well.

While many critics are quick to point out that both "The Artificial Nigger" and "The Displaced Person" deal with the problem of prejudice, they don’t really grasp the sacramental solution. After tackling the question of whether or not O’Connor was racist (based on the fact Flannery made some questionable remarks about blacks in her private letters) Baylor University English professor, Ralph C. Wood, absolves the author, claiming that "TAN" “works a miracle … by inverting a racist symbol into an emblem of antiracial redemption.” While this grace (“They could both feel it dissolving their differences like an act of mercy”) may have been temporary, the fact that this lawn ornament was so weather-beaten (“It was not possible to tell if [it] were meant to be young or old,”) gave the symbol a universal, or “catholic,” connotation.

Meanwhile, the racist as well as Catholic overtones in "The Displaced Person" are also quite evident. Unusual in the fact that "TDP" is one of the few O’Connor stories where several main characters are Catholic, Flannery once again starts with the racial dilemma and concluded with a Eucharistic solution. Although Mrs. McIntyre’s heavy prejudice against blacks is present throughout the story, it is Mr. Guizac’s mistaken belief that a black man can marry a white woman in the deep South that turns him from a “miracle” into a “monster.” Sister Kathleen Feeley is quite perceptive when she states “TDP” suggests man’s alienation from his true country--the supernatural realm … for to Mrs. McIntyre, ‘Christ is just another D.P.’” Noting “Only art can make such ‘terrible’ fiction beautiful,” she comments on the peacock/Transfiguration analogy in the story, but leaves the Eucharistic symbol alone. Of course, there is the actual Eucharistic reference; the priest “was slipping something into the crushed man’s mouth,” the final host a man receives in the Sacrament of the Sick. However, the story’s Eucharistic analogy, that of a martyr “crushed” and “broken,” goes back to the early second century and a saint named Ignatius of Antioch. “I am God's wheat,” wrote the soon to be martyred Ignatius, “and I shall be ground by the teeth of beasts, that I may become the pure bread of Christ.” Receiving Christ in the Eucharist, as powerful as it was, was one thing, but to be allowed to become Eucharist with Christ through martyrdom was quite another.

"Parker’s Back" is one of O’Connor’s final short stories, and thus the Eucharistic symbolism is even more evident. For in this story, we have an artistic form of Christ that, while not actually inside Parker’s body, is embedded into it, which is surely the next closest thing. Indeed, Richard Giannone, English professor at Fordham University, comes so close to the Eucharistic interpretation you can almost taste it; “Since Christianity is a material religion in proclaiming that the Word is made flesh, O’Connor finds no impediment to showing how Parker’s transcendence inheres in his body. Parker’s yearning to feel the activity of God in his flesh confesses the basic Christian hope.” Sadly, Parker has married a “Christian” (O’Connor made it clear she sided with Parker, commenting “The tattoos were not the heresy. Sarah Ruth was the heretic--the notion that you can worship in pure spirit”) who not only renounced Catholic art, but all Christian art, even the basic Protestant churches with the tall white steeples. Unbeknownst to her, Sara Ruth reenacted the Catholic Station of the Cross called “The Scourging at the Pillar” when she beats the image of Our Savior engraved in her husband’s back into a bloody pulp. Ironically, the Eucharistic Host is both the most powerful and the plainest form of Christian art--so plain that even Sara, with even a molecule of open-mindedness, should have been able to accept it.

And so, while a great majority of critics agree that O’Connor successfully defended the faith by depicting what it is not, we are still left with the question as to whether or not her Eucharistic imagery inspired readers to the Real thing. Or, more specifically, why didn’t Flannery just write about the Eucharist instead of alluding to it? One of her final letters, to Sister Mariella Gable, summarized her fictional quest by stating, “I’ve reached the point [in writing] where I can’t do again what I know I can do well, and the larger things I need to do now, I doubt my capacity for doing,” allows one to speculate that she would have attempted Catholic humor if she had only lived longer, but it also recalls the words of her hero Aquinas, who, after seeing a vision of God while praying before the Eucharist, stopped writing altogether, saying to those who wanted him to at least finish his Summa Theologica, “Compared to what I have seen, my writing is so much straw.” And yet, as an eternal fan of Flannery‘s, I’d like to think there’s another possibility …

While all the saints loved to laugh, they all seemed to have trouble putting the Lord’s own laughter into words. Thomas Merton, the prolific Catholic monk-mystic spoke of this dilemma when he said that O’Connor’s writing was “So funny you dared not laugh too loud for fear of demons.” Still, I think the question was best answered by Catholic convert G.K. Chesterton, in the conclusion of his classic apologetic Orthodoxy: “Joy, the small publicity of the pagan, is the gigantic secret of the Christian. Christ’s pathos was natural, and … He never concealed His tears, never hid His anger. Yet He hid something …There was some one thing that was too great for God to show us when He walked our earth; and I have sometimes fancied it was His mirth.” So either Chesterton was right, or the Gospel writers, like Flannery, were too in awe of their Savior to capture His humor. When I go to heaven, I hope I have the honor to ask O’Connor if ... but that’s a far too sentimental sentiment to end an O’Connor commentary with! So how’s this; if there is a heaven, the first thing I’ll do is get the lowdown from the Lord and Flannery on whether Real Faith can also be funny. And if there’s not a heaven--then to hell with it!