Well, the gentlemen in Washington have done it again.
We are treated to televised announcements by Harry Reid and Mitch McConnell telling us that ‘the system works.’ Once again, we hear that politics is the art of compromise, that each side got less than they wanted, but all it was possible to get.
Here’s what I understand has been done:
1. Congress has raised the debt ceiling by something like 3 trillion dollars. Which means that the national debt can swell from 14 trillion to about 17 trillion without bumping up against the statutory maximum.
2. Congress has committed to ‘spending cuts’ also known as ‘deficit reduction’ of something over 2 trillion dollars.
3. About three quarters of those spending cuts are yet to be identified. A committee of 12 legislators will be appointed to come in with recommendations on the subject.
As I understand it, the new debt ceiling should last until about March of 2013. So the federal government now has its credit limit boosted high enough so that it can continue to borrow money to live on for about another year and a half.
Isn’t that wonderful news?
We get to spend an additional 3 trillion dollars we don’t have, provided, of course, that we can agree on not spending 2 trillion we already have agreed to spend.
Our elected representatives have decided to postpone taking any steps toward fiscal responsibility for another eighteen months. Then, of course, we will get to do it all over again. With a new Congress and either a new or a renewed executive office.
When will we Americans begin to realize that it doesn’t make any difference who wins the elections as long as the system is broken?
Our two hundred year old constitution simply does not address the question of fiscal integrity. Our forefathers apparently assumed that the elected representatives of the people would not borrow more than necessary. And would provide for timely repayment of our debts.
Silly fellows.
Didn’t they know that voters have a tendency to vote themselves rich? Weren’t they aware that democracies throughout history have lasted less than 200 years because they go broke ?
Frankly, it’s hard for me to understand how a nation can go broke when it has the power to coin money and issue currency.
If counterfeiters can get rich printing hundred dollar bills, why can’t the federal government?
I looked at the annual reports of the U.S. mint and the Bureau of Engraving and Printing. Last year the mint turned in a piddling profit of $405.8 million. The B.E.P. was worse. It made only $43,428,000.
Of course, the Bureau has a problem in that it has only one customer, the Federal Reserve Bank. The Bureau of Engraving and Printing is part of the United States Department of Treasury. It cranks out about 6 billion greenbacks every year, which it sells to the Fed for a little less than ten cents apiece.
Can’t make a lot of money selling hundred dollar bills for ten cents apiece, now can you?
Maybe it’s time for the people of the United States to realize that our government is in the business of manufacturing currency.
Our Constitution should require that we manufacture enough every year to pay the debts of the government. We should never run a deficit. We should never have to borrow money.
Wouldn’t that cause inflation?
Only if we spend too much. And if we do, the consequences will be immediate. We will pay the price of our own profligacy.
Not our children and grandchildren.
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Sunday, July 31, 2011
LOAVES AND FISHES
A miracle is defined as a suspension of the laws of nature; an event which is inexplicable, contrary to the understanding of mankind.
In short, miracles are impossible.
Magicians do tricks. Legerdemain is the art of making things appear impossible. But it’s all a matter of appearance.
Miracles are rare and usually controversial. Skeptics will always insist there is a logical explanation.
Bottom line is, you either believe in miracles or you don’t.
I do.
This morning at Mass, the reading was the story of the loaves and fishes. A little boy comes up with five loaves of bread and two fishes and Jesus feeds five thousand people. With twelve baskets full of left overs.
A miracle?
You bet. I’ve seen what 32 relatives can do to turkey, mashed potatoes, dressing, and a boat load of fixings. Before the pumpkin pie and ice cream.
Still, I never hear that story without trying to visualize that vast historic picnic. Were the apostles going around with baskets which mysteriously refilled every time a loaf of bread was removed? Were the two fishes a momma fish and a daddy fish who quickly generated vast edible progeny?
I always come back to the picture of a little boy offering to share his entire supply of food because so many people were hungry.
What kind of a schmuck would take a bite of the kid’s fish and keep his own stash of food for later on?
Is it possible that the true miracle that day was the change of human hearts from selfishness to generosity, from hoarding to sharing, from thinking about me to caring about others?
A suspension of human nature? Inexplicable? Contrary to the general understanding of the way people act?
I’d say so.
The experts on Madison Avenue will tell you that everybody always acts in their own self interest. What’s in it for me? That’s behavioral science. Anything else has to be a miracle.
For over two thousand years, Christianity has brought to this planet the miracle of charity. People caring for people. The word ‘charity’ comes from the Latin ‘caritas’ meaning love.
How many soup kitchens, how many hospitals, how many shelters and schools and homes for the aged have been spawned by a single, simple act of charity, of caring, of love?
And how many billions upon billions of one-on-one acts of generosity and kindness have oiled the machinery of human society?
Questions which bring me to the politics of the day.
I hear our President demanding that the rich be taxed to pay entitlements for the have-nots.
That’s not the way it works, Mr. O.
Does anyone suppose that the Apostles muscled their way through the crowd, snatching lunch baskets and doling out goodies?
Not hardly.
The relationship between a giver and a receiver is one marked by caring and gratitude. It forms a bond between the haves and the have-nots. We and they become all of us.
Not so with the nanny state. When I hand my wallet to the guy with a gun to my head, it’s not a miracle.
It’s robbery.
In short, miracles are impossible.
Magicians do tricks. Legerdemain is the art of making things appear impossible. But it’s all a matter of appearance.
Miracles are rare and usually controversial. Skeptics will always insist there is a logical explanation.
Bottom line is, you either believe in miracles or you don’t.
I do.
This morning at Mass, the reading was the story of the loaves and fishes. A little boy comes up with five loaves of bread and two fishes and Jesus feeds five thousand people. With twelve baskets full of left overs.
A miracle?
You bet. I’ve seen what 32 relatives can do to turkey, mashed potatoes, dressing, and a boat load of fixings. Before the pumpkin pie and ice cream.
Still, I never hear that story without trying to visualize that vast historic picnic. Were the apostles going around with baskets which mysteriously refilled every time a loaf of bread was removed? Were the two fishes a momma fish and a daddy fish who quickly generated vast edible progeny?
I always come back to the picture of a little boy offering to share his entire supply of food because so many people were hungry.
What kind of a schmuck would take a bite of the kid’s fish and keep his own stash of food for later on?
Is it possible that the true miracle that day was the change of human hearts from selfishness to generosity, from hoarding to sharing, from thinking about me to caring about others?
A suspension of human nature? Inexplicable? Contrary to the general understanding of the way people act?
I’d say so.
The experts on Madison Avenue will tell you that everybody always acts in their own self interest. What’s in it for me? That’s behavioral science. Anything else has to be a miracle.
For over two thousand years, Christianity has brought to this planet the miracle of charity. People caring for people. The word ‘charity’ comes from the Latin ‘caritas’ meaning love.
How many soup kitchens, how many hospitals, how many shelters and schools and homes for the aged have been spawned by a single, simple act of charity, of caring, of love?
And how many billions upon billions of one-on-one acts of generosity and kindness have oiled the machinery of human society?
Questions which bring me to the politics of the day.
I hear our President demanding that the rich be taxed to pay entitlements for the have-nots.
That’s not the way it works, Mr. O.
Does anyone suppose that the Apostles muscled their way through the crowd, snatching lunch baskets and doling out goodies?
Not hardly.
The relationship between a giver and a receiver is one marked by caring and gratitude. It forms a bond between the haves and the have-nots. We and they become all of us.
Not so with the nanny state. When I hand my wallet to the guy with a gun to my head, it’s not a miracle.
It’s robbery.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
THE CAMEL'S NOSE
Several friends have forwarded emails detailing the growth and influence of Arabs in Michigan.
The City of Dearborn, located just west of Detroit in Wayne County hosts the largest Arabic population of any city in the United States.
When I was a Circuit Judge back in the early 1960’s I campaigned in Dearborn. It was a city of about 110,000. Orville Hubbard was the mayor. He was best known for sending birthday cards to all the voters and for trying to keep black folks from moving into his town.
There were a lot of Lebanese Christians living there in those days.
In recent years, immigrants from Iraq, Yemen and Palestine have swelled the Arab numbers. They are mostly Muslim.
Dearborn is the home of the Islamic Center of America, the largest Mosque in the United States.
There have been a few ugly incidents in Dearborn lately. In June, Quran-burning pastor Terry Jones and some of his followers held a rally in Dearborn and stirred up quite a bru-ha-ha. He wore a tee shirt emblazoned with the message, “Everything I need to know about Islam I learned on 9-11.”
In 2009 Dearborn police arrested Christian evangelists who were trying to talk to people attending the Dearborn International Arab Festival. Videos showed that the police acted without good cause and even the ACLU came to the defense of the Christians.
Asserting that the camel has his nose in the tent, one email has a link to the web site of the Michigan Department of Human Services which provided a Food Assistance Date Change Letter written in Arabic. The purpose of the letter was to tell people getting food stamps that their stamps would arrive a day later.
The letter was also available in English and Spanish.
The email went on to claim that a phone number at the Department features a recording which prompts callers to “dial three for Arabic.”
A great many Americans are put off by recorded phone messages that begin with “dial one for English.”
But I sense that the real gripe here is that so many Arabs are getting food stamps in Michigan that it is necessary for the Department of Human Services to communicate with them in their native tongue.
After all, there are Poles in Hamtramck, Hungarians in Del Ray and Dutch in Grand Rapids. Don’t some of them get food stamps too?
Probably. But not enough of them who are poor or haven’t learned English.
Or be fortunate enough to have a kinsman serving as the Director of the Department of Human Services.
Ismael Ahmed was born in Brooklyn, New York in 1947. He came to Detroit, Michigan with his family when he was 6 years old. After high school, he journeyed to Vietnam and Korea and came back to the United States and became active in the United Auto Workers union to put himself through the University of Michigan-Dearborn. After graduation, he began helping out his neighborhood and his community and in 1973, Ahmed co-founded the Arab Community Center for Economic and Social Services (ACCESS). He was appointed executive director in 1983 and was responsible for overall operations of the organization as well as the executive administration of the Arab American National Museum. The largest Arab-American human services organization in the United States, ACCESS has affiliates in 11 states and offers more than 90 programs with more than 900,000 client contacts annually.
In September, 2007, Governor Jennifer Granholm appointed Ismael Ahmed Director of the Michigan Department of Human Services, which administers the federal food stamp program.
Mr. Ahmed is now the Assistant Provost at the Dearborn Campus of the University of Michigan.
The new Governor, Republican Rick Snyder, has appointed former Chief Justice Maura Corrigan as Director of Human Services.
Maybe now the letters will be written in Gaelic.
The City of Dearborn, located just west of Detroit in Wayne County hosts the largest Arabic population of any city in the United States.
When I was a Circuit Judge back in the early 1960’s I campaigned in Dearborn. It was a city of about 110,000. Orville Hubbard was the mayor. He was best known for sending birthday cards to all the voters and for trying to keep black folks from moving into his town.
There were a lot of Lebanese Christians living there in those days.
In recent years, immigrants from Iraq, Yemen and Palestine have swelled the Arab numbers. They are mostly Muslim.
Dearborn is the home of the Islamic Center of America, the largest Mosque in the United States.
There have been a few ugly incidents in Dearborn lately. In June, Quran-burning pastor Terry Jones and some of his followers held a rally in Dearborn and stirred up quite a bru-ha-ha. He wore a tee shirt emblazoned with the message, “Everything I need to know about Islam I learned on 9-11.”
In 2009 Dearborn police arrested Christian evangelists who were trying to talk to people attending the Dearborn International Arab Festival. Videos showed that the police acted without good cause and even the ACLU came to the defense of the Christians.
Asserting that the camel has his nose in the tent, one email has a link to the web site of the Michigan Department of Human Services which provided a Food Assistance Date Change Letter written in Arabic. The purpose of the letter was to tell people getting food stamps that their stamps would arrive a day later.
The letter was also available in English and Spanish.
The email went on to claim that a phone number at the Department features a recording which prompts callers to “dial three for Arabic.”
A great many Americans are put off by recorded phone messages that begin with “dial one for English.”
But I sense that the real gripe here is that so many Arabs are getting food stamps in Michigan that it is necessary for the Department of Human Services to communicate with them in their native tongue.
After all, there are Poles in Hamtramck, Hungarians in Del Ray and Dutch in Grand Rapids. Don’t some of them get food stamps too?
Probably. But not enough of them who are poor or haven’t learned English.
Or be fortunate enough to have a kinsman serving as the Director of the Department of Human Services.
Ismael Ahmed was born in Brooklyn, New York in 1947. He came to Detroit, Michigan with his family when he was 6 years old. After high school, he journeyed to Vietnam and Korea and came back to the United States and became active in the United Auto Workers union to put himself through the University of Michigan-Dearborn. After graduation, he began helping out his neighborhood and his community and in 1973, Ahmed co-founded the Arab Community Center for Economic and Social Services (ACCESS). He was appointed executive director in 1983 and was responsible for overall operations of the organization as well as the executive administration of the Arab American National Museum. The largest Arab-American human services organization in the United States, ACCESS has affiliates in 11 states and offers more than 90 programs with more than 900,000 client contacts annually.
In September, 2007, Governor Jennifer Granholm appointed Ismael Ahmed Director of the Michigan Department of Human Services, which administers the federal food stamp program.
Mr. Ahmed is now the Assistant Provost at the Dearborn Campus of the University of Michigan.
The new Governor, Republican Rick Snyder, has appointed former Chief Justice Maura Corrigan as Director of Human Services.
Maybe now the letters will be written in Gaelic.
Sunday, July 17, 2011
TWO KINDS OF PEOPLE
In the 1972 film, “The Candidate,” Robert Redford plays a political novice named Bill McKay who runs for the United States Senate in California.
McKay’s standard stump speech strikes a populist note as he appeals to voters of every kind and condition.
At one point, riding in a taxi, exhausted from the grueling campaign, McKay does a parody of his campaign speech which is quite hilarious, addressing the young and old, rich and poor, black and white, republicans and democrats, men and women, smart and dumb, good and bad.
It is, I suppose, in the nature of politics that everything comes down to two choices. Yes or no. Up or down. Yea or nay. Ying or yang.
As we begin to wallow in the 2012 presidential election cycle, it strikes me that America is truly divided into two kinds of people. The good guys and the bad guys.
The good guys are the citizens who care about their city, state and country. They listen to the news. They talk about the government. Argue about it. Worry about it. They know about our past. They care about our future.
The bad guys are the residents who are indifferent, ignorant, passive, uninvolved. They are like a herd of cattle, who go where the cowboys chase them. If they stampede out of control, they can do a lot of damage. Most of the time, they just eat the grass and moo.
The good guys accept the responsibility of self-government.
The bad guys respond to the manipulation of their bosses.
The good guys vote.
The bad guys don’t vote.
There are about 130 million good guys in America.
There are about 100 million bad guys.
I got to thinking about this because of an on-going debate over the way we elect the President of the United States.
Most folks think that the President should be the person who receives the most votes in the Presidential election. Our Constitution, however, provides that the President is elected by a group of electors who are chosen in each state.
Forty-eight states tell their electors to vote for the candidate who wins in their state. Winner take all. If a candidate wins in California by only a few hundred votes, he or she gets all 55 of California’s electoral votes.
And the size of the voter turn out makes no difference. If 95% of the adult population of Missouri turns out to vote, Missouri gets 11 electoral votes. If only 35% of the voters in Tennessee go to the polls, Tennessee still gets 11 electoral votes.
That’s because the electoral college is based on population. It makes no distinction between good guys and bad guys.
In 1969, the Bayh-Celler amendment, abolishing the electoral college, was passed in the House of Representatives by a vote of 339 to 70. In the Senate, the vote was 54 in favor and 36 against, so it failed to pass by a two-thirds majority.
Now there is a new effort being made. It doesn’t amend the U.S. Constitution. It doesn’t abolish the electoral college. It simply asks each state to give their electoral votes to the candidate who gets the most votes nation-wide.
Last Friday, the legislature of the State of California adopted the National Popular Vote Plan. It’s now on Governor Jerry Brown’s desk.
Eight others have already agreed to the plan. Illinois, Maryland, Massachusetts, Washington, Vermont, Hawaii, New Jersey and the District of Columbia have a total of 77 electoral votes.
With California’s 55 electoral votes, the National Popular Vote movement will have almost half of the 270 votes needed to change the system.
It’s time for the wanna-bes who are courting Iowa and New Hampshire to step up and take a stand in favor of the good guys.
McKay’s standard stump speech strikes a populist note as he appeals to voters of every kind and condition.
At one point, riding in a taxi, exhausted from the grueling campaign, McKay does a parody of his campaign speech which is quite hilarious, addressing the young and old, rich and poor, black and white, republicans and democrats, men and women, smart and dumb, good and bad.
It is, I suppose, in the nature of politics that everything comes down to two choices. Yes or no. Up or down. Yea or nay. Ying or yang.
As we begin to wallow in the 2012 presidential election cycle, it strikes me that America is truly divided into two kinds of people. The good guys and the bad guys.
The good guys are the citizens who care about their city, state and country. They listen to the news. They talk about the government. Argue about it. Worry about it. They know about our past. They care about our future.
The bad guys are the residents who are indifferent, ignorant, passive, uninvolved. They are like a herd of cattle, who go where the cowboys chase them. If they stampede out of control, they can do a lot of damage. Most of the time, they just eat the grass and moo.
The good guys accept the responsibility of self-government.
The bad guys respond to the manipulation of their bosses.
The good guys vote.
The bad guys don’t vote.
There are about 130 million good guys in America.
There are about 100 million bad guys.
I got to thinking about this because of an on-going debate over the way we elect the President of the United States.
Most folks think that the President should be the person who receives the most votes in the Presidential election. Our Constitution, however, provides that the President is elected by a group of electors who are chosen in each state.
Forty-eight states tell their electors to vote for the candidate who wins in their state. Winner take all. If a candidate wins in California by only a few hundred votes, he or she gets all 55 of California’s electoral votes.
And the size of the voter turn out makes no difference. If 95% of the adult population of Missouri turns out to vote, Missouri gets 11 electoral votes. If only 35% of the voters in Tennessee go to the polls, Tennessee still gets 11 electoral votes.
That’s because the electoral college is based on population. It makes no distinction between good guys and bad guys.
In 1969, the Bayh-Celler amendment, abolishing the electoral college, was passed in the House of Representatives by a vote of 339 to 70. In the Senate, the vote was 54 in favor and 36 against, so it failed to pass by a two-thirds majority.
Now there is a new effort being made. It doesn’t amend the U.S. Constitution. It doesn’t abolish the electoral college. It simply asks each state to give their electoral votes to the candidate who gets the most votes nation-wide.
Last Friday, the legislature of the State of California adopted the National Popular Vote Plan. It’s now on Governor Jerry Brown’s desk.
Eight others have already agreed to the plan. Illinois, Maryland, Massachusetts, Washington, Vermont, Hawaii, New Jersey and the District of Columbia have a total of 77 electoral votes.
With California’s 55 electoral votes, the National Popular Vote movement will have almost half of the 270 votes needed to change the system.
It’s time for the wanna-bes who are courting Iowa and New Hampshire to step up and take a stand in favor of the good guys.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
CASEY ANTHONY
Folks ask me what I think of the Casey Anthony trial.
I was, after all, both a trial and appellate judge. I ought to know something about the system of criminal justice. I ought to have a definitive opinion. Everyone else does.
Candidly, I didn’t pay much attention to the Casey Anthony trial. Maybe I’m he only one who didn’t.
Even so, it was hard not to notice. Fox News had a former judge assigned full time to attend and report on the case. All the networks were abuzz with Casey Anthony stories. There were reporters and analysts and replays ad nauseam.
I always wonder why some cases get blown up in the media and others don’t. Lorena Bobbitt. Now there’s a case that everyone talked about. I suppose there has to be something truly bizarre about a case before the media puts it on the front page.
Like a mother whose child is missing for a month who never calls the police.
Admittedly, Casey Anthony comes off as about the most despicable villain imaginable. A pathological liar. A selfish, self-centered, tramp, who seemed willing even to throw her family under the bus to save her own hide.
Indeed if the issue in the criminal trial were simply whether Casey Anthony was a bad person, the verdict would have been quick and guilty.
But of course, it wasn’t. We’re talking here about a court of law where the issue of guilt or innocence is determined according to rules of evidence that are designed to discover the truth without the corrupting influences of emotion, passion, prejudice or presumption.
Or media hype. Or Internet gossip.
That’s why the jury was sequestered. No TV. No radio. No newspapers. No access to the din of commentary and conjecture which inundated the rest of us.
Still, it is true that criminal trials are open to the public. The community has a right to know that those who violate the law are brought to the bar of justice. The accused has the right to a public trial as well. Nothing is more poisonous to liberty that a secret inquisition.
Courtroom doors have always been open. In the days of Abraham Lincoln, when judges and lawyers rode the circuit, people would flock to the courthouses and listen to the witnesses and the arguments of counsel.
It was, in the days before television and reality shows, a common form of entertainment. Trial lawyers were celebrities, and their jury speeches and trial strategies provided rich sources of conversation – and gossip - wherever people gathered.
Nothing has changed.
The Casey Anthony case was high drama. Suspense. Winners and losers. Everything the minions of television knock themselves out trying to invent and offer to the public.
Was it an important case? I don’t think so. Not in any legal sense. Indeed, I wager you can go down to the criminal courts building in any big city in America on any Monday morning and listen to testimony as gut retching and titillating as anything you heard in the Casey Anthony trial.
Celebrity is an ephemeral thing. Andy Warhol once predicted that everyone will be world famous for fifteen minutes. Someone will ghost write Casey Anthony’s story and her book will outsell the Bible for three or four days. Twenty years from now, no one will know who Casey Anthony is or was.
Forty years ago, I was making speeches urging that television cameras be permitted in our courtrooms. At the time, I was considered a maverick, a dreamer, an upstart bent on destroying the dignity of American courtrooms. Judges and lawyers would grandstand. Witnesses would clam up. Juries would object.
As it turned out, I was on the side of the inevitable. For all the foolishness and distraction that TV coverage may involve, I still believe it is the right thing to do. If criminal trials are to be public, and virtually everyone agrees they should be, it makes no sense to limit the audience to the few dozen seats in the courtroom.
Even in the age of television, there is still, I suppose, a lot of competition for seats in the courtroom, but now the folks on the outside are not limited to second hand accounts of what is happening.
Just about everyone in America has an opinion about the guilt or innocence of Casey Anthony. I think that is a good thing. The people have watched their system at work. They have seen a solemn judge, fiery lawyers, a sullen defendant, jurors of every disposition and behavior, and a parade of witnesses to be believed or debunked.
When the trial began, Casey Anthony was presumed innocent. The jury has acquitted her, so the presumption still stands. But an acquittal is not absolution. Juries do not forgive sins.
Wrongdoing doesn’t sit well in the human heart. Eventually, somehow, some way, some day the price will be paid. Ask O.J.
I was, after all, both a trial and appellate judge. I ought to know something about the system of criminal justice. I ought to have a definitive opinion. Everyone else does.
Candidly, I didn’t pay much attention to the Casey Anthony trial. Maybe I’m he only one who didn’t.
Even so, it was hard not to notice. Fox News had a former judge assigned full time to attend and report on the case. All the networks were abuzz with Casey Anthony stories. There were reporters and analysts and replays ad nauseam.
I always wonder why some cases get blown up in the media and others don’t. Lorena Bobbitt. Now there’s a case that everyone talked about. I suppose there has to be something truly bizarre about a case before the media puts it on the front page.
Like a mother whose child is missing for a month who never calls the police.
Admittedly, Casey Anthony comes off as about the most despicable villain imaginable. A pathological liar. A selfish, self-centered, tramp, who seemed willing even to throw her family under the bus to save her own hide.
Indeed if the issue in the criminal trial were simply whether Casey Anthony was a bad person, the verdict would have been quick and guilty.
But of course, it wasn’t. We’re talking here about a court of law where the issue of guilt or innocence is determined according to rules of evidence that are designed to discover the truth without the corrupting influences of emotion, passion, prejudice or presumption.
Or media hype. Or Internet gossip.
That’s why the jury was sequestered. No TV. No radio. No newspapers. No access to the din of commentary and conjecture which inundated the rest of us.
Still, it is true that criminal trials are open to the public. The community has a right to know that those who violate the law are brought to the bar of justice. The accused has the right to a public trial as well. Nothing is more poisonous to liberty that a secret inquisition.
Courtroom doors have always been open. In the days of Abraham Lincoln, when judges and lawyers rode the circuit, people would flock to the courthouses and listen to the witnesses and the arguments of counsel.
It was, in the days before television and reality shows, a common form of entertainment. Trial lawyers were celebrities, and their jury speeches and trial strategies provided rich sources of conversation – and gossip - wherever people gathered.
Nothing has changed.
The Casey Anthony case was high drama. Suspense. Winners and losers. Everything the minions of television knock themselves out trying to invent and offer to the public.
Was it an important case? I don’t think so. Not in any legal sense. Indeed, I wager you can go down to the criminal courts building in any big city in America on any Monday morning and listen to testimony as gut retching and titillating as anything you heard in the Casey Anthony trial.
Celebrity is an ephemeral thing. Andy Warhol once predicted that everyone will be world famous for fifteen minutes. Someone will ghost write Casey Anthony’s story and her book will outsell the Bible for three or four days. Twenty years from now, no one will know who Casey Anthony is or was.
Forty years ago, I was making speeches urging that television cameras be permitted in our courtrooms. At the time, I was considered a maverick, a dreamer, an upstart bent on destroying the dignity of American courtrooms. Judges and lawyers would grandstand. Witnesses would clam up. Juries would object.
As it turned out, I was on the side of the inevitable. For all the foolishness and distraction that TV coverage may involve, I still believe it is the right thing to do. If criminal trials are to be public, and virtually everyone agrees they should be, it makes no sense to limit the audience to the few dozen seats in the courtroom.
Even in the age of television, there is still, I suppose, a lot of competition for seats in the courtroom, but now the folks on the outside are not limited to second hand accounts of what is happening.
Just about everyone in America has an opinion about the guilt or innocence of Casey Anthony. I think that is a good thing. The people have watched their system at work. They have seen a solemn judge, fiery lawyers, a sullen defendant, jurors of every disposition and behavior, and a parade of witnesses to be believed or debunked.
When the trial began, Casey Anthony was presumed innocent. The jury has acquitted her, so the presumption still stands. But an acquittal is not absolution. Juries do not forgive sins.
Wrongdoing doesn’t sit well in the human heart. Eventually, somehow, some way, some day the price will be paid. Ask O.J.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
EULOGY FOR A FIGHTER
JEANNETTE BRENNAN; June 28, 1902 to November 27, 1992
On the bottom shelf of the bookcase in the corner of my office at Cooley Law School in Lansing, there are five big volumes of speeches I have given, going all the way back to 1945.
But I’ve never given a eulogy before. So I really don’t know how to do this. I really don’t know what I am supposed to say.
Certainly, I want to say ‘Thank you’.
For myself, for Sally and Ray and Mary, and on behalf of mother, too, I want all of you who are with us here this morning to know how much we appreciate, and how much she appreciates, your thoughtfulness in coming here to help celebrate the sacrifice of the Mass and to help celebrate a lifetime of sacrifice and devotion to Church and family.
You honor us by your presence. You comfort us by your prayers and your concern.
Thumbing through a file of mother’s letters last night, I found one dated in 1977, shortly after Terry’s death.
It was one of those explanatory epistles I have received from my mother. The kind she used to write after we had had a good old fashioned nose to nose confrontational dialogue.
The gist of her complaint on that occasion was that I didn’t think of her as a person. I thought of her only as my mother.
Well, I got to thinking that maybe this morning I wouldn’t talk about my mother. I’d just talk to you about a person named Jeannette.
She was born in 1902.
Detroit, Michigan was then about the size of Lansing today. There was no television. No radio. No automobiles. Telephones were rare. Electricity was a novelty. Think of a kitchen without electricity. No microwave. No toaster. No refrigerator.
Her father, John Emmett Sullivan, was a lawyer. He was a good man. Loved his family. But he was not particularly successful. He moved his office a number of times, and seemed always to be waiting for that one big case or client that would enable him to do all the things he wanted to do for his family.
They lived in a rented house in Rosary Parish, in what is now known as the Cass Corridor.
Once, when she was nine years old, the gas was cut off because her father couldn’t pay the bill. There was no heat. There was no light. Sitting on the cold, dark stairway --- she remembered --- eavesdropping on her parents. And she never forgot the sense of shame and embarrassment she felt. And her determination never to suffer that kind of humiliation again. She would work. She would fight. She would never give up.
But she would never again sit in a cold, dark house.
Jeanette was a pretty girl. A good student. She had a flair for drama. And writing. In our time, she would certainly have gone to college. In 1918, she couldn’t even finish high school.
Her father died when she was still in grammar school. Her mother took in boarders to make ends meet.
At 16, she enrolled in a secretarial course at T.B. I., The Business Institute. She did well. Finished the course in record time, and was promptly hired by the school.
Before long, she found a job at Ford Motor Company, and when her older sister, Adele, was married, Jeannette became the principal breadwinner in the household, supporting her mother, her sister Gertrude, and her younger brother, Emmett.
The early 1020’s were good years for Jeannette. She progressed at Ford; became personal secretary to Mr. Gregory, a top executive who handled all of Henry Ford’s real estate holdings.
She was popular. Dated college men. Attended dances at the University of Detroit. And football games. It was then that she met and was courted by Joe Brennan, a young car salesman from the east side.
They fell in love, and during an engagement that lasted nearly two years, they made careful plans to buy a home. She wanted the security of a home. Their own house.
Joe Brennan shared the dream, and in 1925 they bought a two bedroom bungalow on a muddy lane called Elmira Street way out on the west end of town.
And so, on a Wednesday morning, they were married. She wore a suit. It was a small, family affair. They went to Boston on their honeymoon. When they returned, Joe found out that he had lost his job at Studebaker Motor Care Company.
Hang on Jeannette. Dig in, Jeannette. Work hard. Say your prayers.
Soon enough, Joe had another job. It took nearly half of his salary at the Secretary of State’s office to make the monthly payment on the land contract. But they never missed.
In August of 1926, Terry was born. Thirty-three months after, I came along. In October of that year, the stock market crashed, and America began to decline into the deepest, most devastating economic depression in its history.
Now the cute, petite, wavy haired secretary became the total wife and mother.
Through trial and error and the inventions of necessity, she learned to cook, to sew and to launder. She had no washing machine, not even the old fashioned kind that slopped clothes back and forth. She had one of those bumpy scrub boards to rub the clothes on, and a hand operated wringer that attached to the side of the washtub.
There were no automatic hot water heaters; no thermostats. Once, when she left the tank on too long, steam spewed out of the hot water hose and scalded her arms and neck. There was no 911 emergency number to call. You just screamed and screamed until neighbors rushed over to help with fumbling hands and home remedies.
There was no Blue Cross in those days either. When scarlet fever caught a child in its grip, you were quarantined for weeks. Locked in the house alone with a sick little boy, waving at your husband on the sidewalk. Throwing kisses to the younger boy who didn’t understand why he couldn’t go inside and hug his mama.
Hold on, Jeannette. Keep fighting, Jeannette. Never give up, Jeannette.
In 1933, Sally was born. In 1934, they lost the house. They had never missed a payment on their land contract with the builder. Unfortunately, the builder wasn’t making his payments to the bank. One day, the bank hung a notice on the front door.
So much for the security of home ownership.
In 1935, they bought the house on Morley Avenue. Three bedrooms and one bathroom on a 35 foot lot. To Jeannette, it was a castle. In 1937, Raymond, like his sister, Sally, was delivered at home.
In those days a big evening’s entertainment consisted of renting a 500 piece picture puzzle from the drugstore for a nickel, and working late into the night to watch a mountain waterfall take shape on the dining room table.
By the end of the decade, things were beginning to look brighter. Joe got a new job at Chevrolet. They even gave him a car to drive. The other car was left at home, and now at last, Jeannette could learn how to drive.
Then suddenly, while the family rode down West Chicago Boulevard on a Sunday morning trip to visit Grandma Brennan, the words “Pearl Harbor” blared from the radio and once again life was reduced to a struggle for survival.
Chevrolet stopped making passenger cars. Joe was let go. He was 41 and eligible for the draft. Terry would soon be old enough to fight. Maybe even little Tommy.
Hold on, Jeannette. Keep working, Jeannette. Keep praying.
Her husband got a job at McCord’s where they stamped out helmets for the army. The din on the factory floor was incessant. Every night he came home with a headache. There was gas rationing. There was meat rationing. Shoes were rationed. Somehow, she made do. Patch up. Fix up. Clean up. Hand me down.
In 1943, she had another baby. Mary was no accident. She was an affirmation of life. Of love. Of hope in a future that couldn’t be seen. Of determination to fight on. And to win.
When Terry went in the navy, she began to write. She wrote letters. She wrote poems. She wrote about the news. She wrote about the family. She gave witness to her deep and abiding Catholic faith. She gave advice and encouragement. Her words were the glue that held the family together.
When the war ended, Jeannette’s life seemed finally to be fulfilled. Her husband embarked on a new and successful career in banking. Her children went to college. Got married. Had grandchildren.
She and Joe even realized that ultimate dream of building a cottage at Rondeau Park. Now the little brown eyed girl from Cass Avenue could breathe easy. Now there was security. Laughter. A time for resting. A time for enjoying.
And then in 1958, Joe Brennan died.
Once again, she was alone. Once more, she dug down and clutched to that tenacious self reliance, the unbending personal pride that wouldn’t admit to vulnerability. That would never be overcome by misfortune.
And so her 33 years of married life were followed by 34 years of widowhood.
Competing with people half her age, she learned to support herself. She managed the modest estate of her husband’s life insurance skillfully and prudently. She reared a teen aged daughter.
And she stood like a rock of support for her married children, guiding them through troubles and tears. She kept the family together with tough love.
She survived complicated surgery. A brain aneurism. The death of her oldest son. Not as a stoic victim, but as an undaunted, scrappy fighter. Always thankful for blessings received. Always hopeful for a better day.
Hold on, Jeanntte. Keep going, Jeanntte. Keep praying. Keep working. Keep fighting. Never give up.
In the end, she outlasted her beloved Ford Mustang and the neighborhood Red Lobster. She outlived all her friends; the Tenbushes, the Gumbletons, the Drolshagens and the Garveys. And she gave us all a new respect for cheese whiz and leftovers.
She was feisty and opinionated. Full of love and brimming with romance. A heart full of girlish imagination and beautiful, fanciful dreams was never completely overcome by a head full of numbers and practical rules for living.
She was the Scarlet O’Hara of the rust belt. The Katherine Hepburn of the Altar Sodality.
Jeannette Brennan was my mother. She was also my friend.
I knew her as a person. I knew her as an old lady who was still part young woman and part little girl.
And I knew her as a fellow Christian, for whom, today, the words of Saint Paul to Timothy seem most fitting:
“As for me, I am already poured out in sacrifice, and the time of my deliverance is at hand. I have fought the good fight. I have finished the course. I have kept the faith. For the rest there is laid up for me a crown of justice, which the Lord, the just Judge, will give to me in that day. Yet not for me only, but also for those who love his coming.”
On the bottom shelf of the bookcase in the corner of my office at Cooley Law School in Lansing, there are five big volumes of speeches I have given, going all the way back to 1945.
But I’ve never given a eulogy before. So I really don’t know how to do this. I really don’t know what I am supposed to say.
Certainly, I want to say ‘Thank you’.
For myself, for Sally and Ray and Mary, and on behalf of mother, too, I want all of you who are with us here this morning to know how much we appreciate, and how much she appreciates, your thoughtfulness in coming here to help celebrate the sacrifice of the Mass and to help celebrate a lifetime of sacrifice and devotion to Church and family.
You honor us by your presence. You comfort us by your prayers and your concern.
Thumbing through a file of mother’s letters last night, I found one dated in 1977, shortly after Terry’s death.
It was one of those explanatory epistles I have received from my mother. The kind she used to write after we had had a good old fashioned nose to nose confrontational dialogue.
The gist of her complaint on that occasion was that I didn’t think of her as a person. I thought of her only as my mother.
Well, I got to thinking that maybe this morning I wouldn’t talk about my mother. I’d just talk to you about a person named Jeannette.
She was born in 1902.
Detroit, Michigan was then about the size of Lansing today. There was no television. No radio. No automobiles. Telephones were rare. Electricity was a novelty. Think of a kitchen without electricity. No microwave. No toaster. No refrigerator.
Her father, John Emmett Sullivan, was a lawyer. He was a good man. Loved his family. But he was not particularly successful. He moved his office a number of times, and seemed always to be waiting for that one big case or client that would enable him to do all the things he wanted to do for his family.
They lived in a rented house in Rosary Parish, in what is now known as the Cass Corridor.
Once, when she was nine years old, the gas was cut off because her father couldn’t pay the bill. There was no heat. There was no light. Sitting on the cold, dark stairway --- she remembered --- eavesdropping on her parents. And she never forgot the sense of shame and embarrassment she felt. And her determination never to suffer that kind of humiliation again. She would work. She would fight. She would never give up.
But she would never again sit in a cold, dark house.
Jeanette was a pretty girl. A good student. She had a flair for drama. And writing. In our time, she would certainly have gone to college. In 1918, she couldn’t even finish high school.
Her father died when she was still in grammar school. Her mother took in boarders to make ends meet.
At 16, she enrolled in a secretarial course at T.B. I., The Business Institute. She did well. Finished the course in record time, and was promptly hired by the school.
Before long, she found a job at Ford Motor Company, and when her older sister, Adele, was married, Jeannette became the principal breadwinner in the household, supporting her mother, her sister Gertrude, and her younger brother, Emmett.
The early 1020’s were good years for Jeannette. She progressed at Ford; became personal secretary to Mr. Gregory, a top executive who handled all of Henry Ford’s real estate holdings.
She was popular. Dated college men. Attended dances at the University of Detroit. And football games. It was then that she met and was courted by Joe Brennan, a young car salesman from the east side.
They fell in love, and during an engagement that lasted nearly two years, they made careful plans to buy a home. She wanted the security of a home. Their own house.
Joe Brennan shared the dream, and in 1925 they bought a two bedroom bungalow on a muddy lane called Elmira Street way out on the west end of town.
And so, on a Wednesday morning, they were married. She wore a suit. It was a small, family affair. They went to Boston on their honeymoon. When they returned, Joe found out that he had lost his job at Studebaker Motor Care Company.
Hang on Jeannette. Dig in, Jeannette. Work hard. Say your prayers.
Soon enough, Joe had another job. It took nearly half of his salary at the Secretary of State’s office to make the monthly payment on the land contract. But they never missed.
In August of 1926, Terry was born. Thirty-three months after, I came along. In October of that year, the stock market crashed, and America began to decline into the deepest, most devastating economic depression in its history.
Now the cute, petite, wavy haired secretary became the total wife and mother.
Through trial and error and the inventions of necessity, she learned to cook, to sew and to launder. She had no washing machine, not even the old fashioned kind that slopped clothes back and forth. She had one of those bumpy scrub boards to rub the clothes on, and a hand operated wringer that attached to the side of the washtub.
There were no automatic hot water heaters; no thermostats. Once, when she left the tank on too long, steam spewed out of the hot water hose and scalded her arms and neck. There was no 911 emergency number to call. You just screamed and screamed until neighbors rushed over to help with fumbling hands and home remedies.
There was no Blue Cross in those days either. When scarlet fever caught a child in its grip, you were quarantined for weeks. Locked in the house alone with a sick little boy, waving at your husband on the sidewalk. Throwing kisses to the younger boy who didn’t understand why he couldn’t go inside and hug his mama.
Hold on, Jeannette. Keep fighting, Jeannette. Never give up, Jeannette.
In 1933, Sally was born. In 1934, they lost the house. They had never missed a payment on their land contract with the builder. Unfortunately, the builder wasn’t making his payments to the bank. One day, the bank hung a notice on the front door.
So much for the security of home ownership.
In 1935, they bought the house on Morley Avenue. Three bedrooms and one bathroom on a 35 foot lot. To Jeannette, it was a castle. In 1937, Raymond, like his sister, Sally, was delivered at home.
In those days a big evening’s entertainment consisted of renting a 500 piece picture puzzle from the drugstore for a nickel, and working late into the night to watch a mountain waterfall take shape on the dining room table.
By the end of the decade, things were beginning to look brighter. Joe got a new job at Chevrolet. They even gave him a car to drive. The other car was left at home, and now at last, Jeannette could learn how to drive.
Then suddenly, while the family rode down West Chicago Boulevard on a Sunday morning trip to visit Grandma Brennan, the words “Pearl Harbor” blared from the radio and once again life was reduced to a struggle for survival.
Chevrolet stopped making passenger cars. Joe was let go. He was 41 and eligible for the draft. Terry would soon be old enough to fight. Maybe even little Tommy.
Hold on, Jeannette. Keep working, Jeannette. Keep praying.
Her husband got a job at McCord’s where they stamped out helmets for the army. The din on the factory floor was incessant. Every night he came home with a headache. There was gas rationing. There was meat rationing. Shoes were rationed. Somehow, she made do. Patch up. Fix up. Clean up. Hand me down.
In 1943, she had another baby. Mary was no accident. She was an affirmation of life. Of love. Of hope in a future that couldn’t be seen. Of determination to fight on. And to win.
When Terry went in the navy, she began to write. She wrote letters. She wrote poems. She wrote about the news. She wrote about the family. She gave witness to her deep and abiding Catholic faith. She gave advice and encouragement. Her words were the glue that held the family together.
When the war ended, Jeannette’s life seemed finally to be fulfilled. Her husband embarked on a new and successful career in banking. Her children went to college. Got married. Had grandchildren.
She and Joe even realized that ultimate dream of building a cottage at Rondeau Park. Now the little brown eyed girl from Cass Avenue could breathe easy. Now there was security. Laughter. A time for resting. A time for enjoying.
And then in 1958, Joe Brennan died.
Once again, she was alone. Once more, she dug down and clutched to that tenacious self reliance, the unbending personal pride that wouldn’t admit to vulnerability. That would never be overcome by misfortune.
And so her 33 years of married life were followed by 34 years of widowhood.
Competing with people half her age, she learned to support herself. She managed the modest estate of her husband’s life insurance skillfully and prudently. She reared a teen aged daughter.
And she stood like a rock of support for her married children, guiding them through troubles and tears. She kept the family together with tough love.
She survived complicated surgery. A brain aneurism. The death of her oldest son. Not as a stoic victim, but as an undaunted, scrappy fighter. Always thankful for blessings received. Always hopeful for a better day.
Hold on, Jeanntte. Keep going, Jeanntte. Keep praying. Keep working. Keep fighting. Never give up.
In the end, she outlasted her beloved Ford Mustang and the neighborhood Red Lobster. She outlived all her friends; the Tenbushes, the Gumbletons, the Drolshagens and the Garveys. And she gave us all a new respect for cheese whiz and leftovers.
She was feisty and opinionated. Full of love and brimming with romance. A heart full of girlish imagination and beautiful, fanciful dreams was never completely overcome by a head full of numbers and practical rules for living.
She was the Scarlet O’Hara of the rust belt. The Katherine Hepburn of the Altar Sodality.
Jeannette Brennan was my mother. She was also my friend.
I knew her as a person. I knew her as an old lady who was still part young woman and part little girl.
And I knew her as a fellow Christian, for whom, today, the words of Saint Paul to Timothy seem most fitting:
“As for me, I am already poured out in sacrifice, and the time of my deliverance is at hand. I have fought the good fight. I have finished the course. I have kept the faith. For the rest there is laid up for me a crown of justice, which the Lord, the just Judge, will give to me in that day. Yet not for me only, but also for those who love his coming.”
Monday, June 27, 2011
DON'T GET ME WRONG
I’m not saying that the New York Legislature did something it should not have done.
The people of the Empire State are guaranteed a Republican form of government by the United States Constitution. They are governed by a popularly elected legislature, and legislators always do what they think will get them reelected.
A republic is not the same as a democracy.
The people of New York were not asked to vote on same sex marriage. Maybe they would approve it, maybe they wouldn’t. But it doesn’t matter. In a republic, the elected representatives of the people make those decisions. In 2012, the people of New York will have a chance to replace anyone they think does not represent them well.
No doubt there will be some hotly contested elections in New York next year, with lots of shouting and name calling on both sides.
What there will not be is calm, intelligent, rational dialog among supporters and opponents of same sex marriage.
The vast majority of the people of New York are heterosexual. Indeed, the vast majority of human beings on this planet are attracted to members of the opposite sex. It is simple and substantially universal human nature.
Anthropologists tell us that every known human society has had some form of mating ritual or custom. Human beings are instinctively monogamous, and typically live in family units. It is the natural way to procreate, nurture, and educate children.
At the same time, homosexuals have been seen in many cultures for centuries. Sodomy was once called ‘the sin of the Greeks’ because of its prevalence in that ancient kingdom.
But the demand for same sex marriage, as a recognized legal relationship is something new. It is part and parcel of the effort to establish homosexual conduct as a legitimate and equally appropriate and acceptable way for human beings to live in society.
The ramifications of that change in our culture are considerable and have not been fully explored.
For example, our marriage laws forbid unions between persons within specified degrees of consanguinity. These laws are the product of human experience, and reflect the fact that the progeny of such unions are at risk of severe mental and physical affliction.
But same sex marriage will not produce natural offspring. Don’t the consanguinity restrictions become meaningless in those cases?
If the only test for the legitimacy of a sexual relationship is that the participants be consenting adults, what will be the logic for prohibiting unions between close relatives? Mother-daughter? Father-son? Brother-brother or sister-sister?
Indeed, what will be the logic in restricting marriage to unions between only two people? Why not three, four, five, or a dozen consenting adults?
When I ask those questions of proponents of same sex marriage, they look at me with perplexity . Their response is usually something like, “No one wants that. It would never happen.”
Forty years ago, they would have said the same thing about homosexual marriage.
The thing about our republic is that it is not a democracy. It is an aristocracy of the interested. The outcome of an election is not just a matter of taking a poll. Militant, vocal, committed minorities set the agenda and affect the outcome of our elections.
The prevailing public sentiment is always passive, permissive and timid. In the face of name calling, mob demonstrations, and media hype, the average citizen shrugs his shoulders and says something like, “Let them have what they want. It’s no skin off my nose.”
The opponents of same sex marriage in the New York legislature argued that it violates God’s law. They were shouted down as bible thumping radicals. They tried to show that homosexual unions would increase venereal disease, and they were scoffed at. Arguments based on natural law, history and tradition were likewise ignored.
The State of New York has a large homosexual population. They have effectively redefined the word ‘gay’ so that it no longer simply connotes light heartedness, and care free happiness. Especially in the big cities, there are gay bars, gay parades, gay publications, gay public officials.
If the majority of New Yorkers don’t approve, at least they don’t disapprove. Live and let live is the common sentiment.
What no one likes to talk about or think about in all of this are the long range consequences of a homosexual culture. The first and most obvious is a declining population.
Proponents will claim that lesbian women can have babies through artificial insemination, and that fatherless and motherless homes are commonplace due to divorce and illegitimacy.
And anyway, aren't we in danger of overpopulating the planet?
True enough of course, but are those things really good for society? No one really knows what kind of a nation we will become when and if the traditional American family is no longer the norm or even the ideal.
A people who are not reproducing themselves are a dying culture. In the long term, the planet will be populated by humans who have learned the lessons of history and who live in a stable, natural and nurturing environment.
We worry about global warming and about the impact of carbon emissions on our atmosphere. We fret about endangered species of plants and animals.
Perhaps it is time to ask ourselves if our culture is also in danger of pollution.
The people of the Empire State are guaranteed a Republican form of government by the United States Constitution. They are governed by a popularly elected legislature, and legislators always do what they think will get them reelected.
A republic is not the same as a democracy.
The people of New York were not asked to vote on same sex marriage. Maybe they would approve it, maybe they wouldn’t. But it doesn’t matter. In a republic, the elected representatives of the people make those decisions. In 2012, the people of New York will have a chance to replace anyone they think does not represent them well.
No doubt there will be some hotly contested elections in New York next year, with lots of shouting and name calling on both sides.
What there will not be is calm, intelligent, rational dialog among supporters and opponents of same sex marriage.
The vast majority of the people of New York are heterosexual. Indeed, the vast majority of human beings on this planet are attracted to members of the opposite sex. It is simple and substantially universal human nature.
Anthropologists tell us that every known human society has had some form of mating ritual or custom. Human beings are instinctively monogamous, and typically live in family units. It is the natural way to procreate, nurture, and educate children.
At the same time, homosexuals have been seen in many cultures for centuries. Sodomy was once called ‘the sin of the Greeks’ because of its prevalence in that ancient kingdom.
But the demand for same sex marriage, as a recognized legal relationship is something new. It is part and parcel of the effort to establish homosexual conduct as a legitimate and equally appropriate and acceptable way for human beings to live in society.
The ramifications of that change in our culture are considerable and have not been fully explored.
For example, our marriage laws forbid unions between persons within specified degrees of consanguinity. These laws are the product of human experience, and reflect the fact that the progeny of such unions are at risk of severe mental and physical affliction.
But same sex marriage will not produce natural offspring. Don’t the consanguinity restrictions become meaningless in those cases?
If the only test for the legitimacy of a sexual relationship is that the participants be consenting adults, what will be the logic for prohibiting unions between close relatives? Mother-daughter? Father-son? Brother-brother or sister-sister?
Indeed, what will be the logic in restricting marriage to unions between only two people? Why not three, four, five, or a dozen consenting adults?
When I ask those questions of proponents of same sex marriage, they look at me with perplexity . Their response is usually something like, “No one wants that. It would never happen.”
Forty years ago, they would have said the same thing about homosexual marriage.
The thing about our republic is that it is not a democracy. It is an aristocracy of the interested. The outcome of an election is not just a matter of taking a poll. Militant, vocal, committed minorities set the agenda and affect the outcome of our elections.
The prevailing public sentiment is always passive, permissive and timid. In the face of name calling, mob demonstrations, and media hype, the average citizen shrugs his shoulders and says something like, “Let them have what they want. It’s no skin off my nose.”
The opponents of same sex marriage in the New York legislature argued that it violates God’s law. They were shouted down as bible thumping radicals. They tried to show that homosexual unions would increase venereal disease, and they were scoffed at. Arguments based on natural law, history and tradition were likewise ignored.
The State of New York has a large homosexual population. They have effectively redefined the word ‘gay’ so that it no longer simply connotes light heartedness, and care free happiness. Especially in the big cities, there are gay bars, gay parades, gay publications, gay public officials.
If the majority of New Yorkers don’t approve, at least they don’t disapprove. Live and let live is the common sentiment.
What no one likes to talk about or think about in all of this are the long range consequences of a homosexual culture. The first and most obvious is a declining population.
Proponents will claim that lesbian women can have babies through artificial insemination, and that fatherless and motherless homes are commonplace due to divorce and illegitimacy.
And anyway, aren't we in danger of overpopulating the planet?
True enough of course, but are those things really good for society? No one really knows what kind of a nation we will become when and if the traditional American family is no longer the norm or even the ideal.
A people who are not reproducing themselves are a dying culture. In the long term, the planet will be populated by humans who have learned the lessons of history and who live in a stable, natural and nurturing environment.
We worry about global warming and about the impact of carbon emissions on our atmosphere. We fret about endangered species of plants and animals.
Perhaps it is time to ask ourselves if our culture is also in danger of pollution.
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