Wednesday, November 27, 2019

PBA

I was playing some music the other day. I don’t usually do this in the middle of the day because music for me is not a suitable background for reading or, especially, writing, but rather something I have to fully attend to. But this day I had decided that I wanted to hear a piece that I had first delved deeply into in college—the Eroica Symphony by Beethoven. It’s his third symphony and a pathbreaker, one I learned intimately in a freshman music-appreciation course, and hence came to love. So I searched it out on youtube and found what seemed to be a decent rendering by Daniel Barenboim leading a BBC orchestra. Though he took the first movement a bit too slow for my taste, the rest was splendid. And then came the surprise. When I heard the third movement, it brought me to tears. I don’t mean that in a figurative sense. I mean real tears; I was bawling. And when I got over that, some parts of the fourth movement did the same thing: tears, real crying. In the course of listening, I noticed another Beethoven piece I thought I’d also like to hear: the Sonata Pathetique (#8 in C minor). This is one that I also knew well, having practiced and learned to play it moderately well. It was first played for me by a cousin, and my brother also played it, especially the lovely, slow second movement. So I found a rendering by Valentina Lisitsa, a pianist I’d never before heard of, and it was equally gorgeous. She is a wondrous artist, with flawless technique and expressiveness. But that isn’t the real point. Once again, I cried like a baby. Especially during that luscious, slow second movement. My emotions were simply out of control. And I could perhaps see why that movement might affect me, since it brought back memories of my older brother who died some years ago. 
            Now, I have been moved to tears by music before. I used to sing with the Berkeley Community Chorus, and near the end of my stint with them, we sang the Bach B-Minor Mass, one of the most transcendent pieces of music ever written. I loved doing it, but sometimes, even in rehearsal, I found myself focusing not on my bass part exclusively but on the other parts, all of them, sopranos soaring at the top, with tenors and altos beautifully complementing them—the whole of the profound, intricate interweaving of voices. And at such times, I found that the sound of all those voices soaring in counterpoint together was so stirring that I couldn’t sing my part. The emotional involvement in what I was hearing was so great that I choked up and tears came to my eyes. So I know what emotional involvement in music feels like. But this was different. This was not just being choked up and unable to sing. This was deep racking and grimacing sobs—and I knew not whether it was joy or pain or regret.   
            Actually, I have experienced this sudden upwelling before—recently. When I was in the hospital not long ago, I found that when I tried to explain to visitors that some nurse or therapist had been particularly comforting or solicitous for my care, I would get so choked up that I could not speak. Several times I was racked with that same kind of sobbing that went on for long minutes, and I would have to stop relating whatever event it was. Sometimes I would try to explain what was happening, but would usually have to stop that too, and then apologize for the strange outburst. And when I had to say goodbye to my therapists at CPMC, I was again struck dumb with tearful emotion. At other times I had outbursts of laughter that seemed out of proportion to the stimulus, embarrassingly strange laughter that I’d never had before. Those who have worked with stroke patients—I had had a stroke in August—reassured me that these outbursts were a kind of side effect stemming from what they called the ‘emotional lability’ following a stroke. I accepted that explanation at the time, but after my music-listening episode, I searched online for more specific information about the phenomenon. 
It’s called PBA, which stands for Pseudobulbar Affect. The word ‘bulbar’ itself means what it sounds like: a bulb-shaped organ, specifically the medulla oblongata portion of the brain. And the bulbar area of the brain is said to be “composed of the cerebellum, medulla and pons.” Further explanation on Wikipedia notes that “the bulbar region is made up of the brain stem minus the midbrain and plus the cerebellum…and is responsible for many involuntary functions that keep us alive.” That means that the pseudobulbar affect (PBA) has something to do with brain injury, often from stroke, but also affecting patients with other brain debilities such as Alzheimer’s or Parkinson’s. PBA is said to be characterized by “episodes of sudden uncontrollable and inappropriate laughing or crying.” Of course, that’s not exactly what I have—responding emotionally to music is not always inappropriate—but it pretty much describes my situation in general. Especially the involuntary part. 
So now, I had the explanation I sought. My stroke(s) were located in the left pons area of my brain, right above the medulla, as it happens. It affected mostly my motor functions, mainly my left arm and left leg, both of which were, and still are partly disabled. The function of both is coming back with lots of rehabilitation therapy, but I’ve still got a long way to go. I’m prepared for that. What I was not prepared for was the emotional stuff. My emotions have usually been held mostly in check, consistent with our emotionally-constrained culture. Big boys don’t cry. Or laugh inappropriately. And certainly not in response to the kindness of strangers, or to music. But since my stroke, I have been doing all of that. And it’s not clear to me if this is a good thing or a bad thing. 
            Perhaps I don’t need to know whether it’s good or bad. Perhaps I don’t even need to know when I’m going to get over this affect, or whether I’ll get over it at all. This makes me think of Jill Bolte Taylor, the Harvard neuroscientist who, at age 37, had a massive stroke and lost most of her cerebral and muscular functions. So severe was her disability that it took her a full eight years of intense rehab to fully recover. But recover she did, and then wrote a best-selling book, My Stroke of Insight, in which she recounted the details of her stroke and recovery, and her gratitude for what the stroke revealed and did for her. As she put it in a recent interview,

It took away all my stress circuitry. Who doesn’t want that? My left-brain emotional system went offline, and with that went all my negative judgment. It took away all my emotional baggage from the first 30 years of my life. And it set me on a new path of possibilities. (cited from www.thecut.com, 9/25/19 interview by Erica Schwiegershausen.)

In her book, Bolte Taylor is even more specific about how her stroke changed her:

I shifted from the doing-consciousness of my left brain to the being-consciousness of my right brain. I morphed from feeling small and isolated to feeling enormous and expansive…All I could perceive was right here, right now, and it was beautiful (68).

I also think of Homer’s Odyssey and Iliad and how Homer repeatedly sings of the Greek heroes like Odysseus as yielding to the relief of shedding hot tears. It is clear that for the ancient Greeks, there was nothing unmanly about this. Rather than indicating weakness, tears are treated as natural to men, even men at war, as a natural part of the male domain of passionate emotion. 
            So perhaps this side effect of stroke is not so shameful or embarrassing after all. Perhaps it is serving to clear away the stroke victim’s “stress circuitry” and opening up some more ancient circuits in the brain that have been covered over by cultural inhibition. Perhaps music and the kindness and love of strangers is meant to be met with emotion. Whether it is or not may not be the issue in any case. For that is what is happening to this stroke survivor, and so far, he seems none the worse for it. 

Lawrence DiStasi

Wednesday, November 20, 2019

Can We Save Ourselves?

Not much gives me cause for hope these days. What with the paralysis in our political systems exacerbated now by impeachment hearings, the growing authoritarianism/fascism in governments around the globe, the environmental threats including most prominently global warming and species extinction, and the still-present threat of nuclear annihilation, we humans seem to be on a path to catastrophe, chaos, and general collapse. But recently, I have been made aware of some thinkers and movements that do give me hope that perhaps humanity can, in fact, deal with these problems and move to a more sustainable level. These thinkers—most prominently for me, Daniel Schmactenberger—are actually probing deeply into what humans need to do economically, politically, psychologically and spiritually, to save ourselves and our institutions from annihilation. To put it in the way that Schmactenberger does, we need to move out of our current ways of thinking and organization—in short, our civilization—to a wholly new phase that does not lead to self-termination. We need a fundamental and complete phase shift. Partial solutions, half measures like voting new people into office in Washington, for example, or short-term coups, simply won’t do. Because the same systems, the same dynamics that are causing humans to move swiftly towards self-termination, will remain in place.
            That phrase that I used—self-termination—is one that I find particularly vibrant, and it is one Schmactenberger uses a lot. By it he means that the peculiarly human gifts that have allowed us to exponentially increase our killing power, say, from simple clubs to arrows to guns to now nuclear weapons, have allowed us to not just out-gun our enemies and predatory animals, but to so decimate our natural prey both on land and in the air and in the oceans that we are well on the way to destroying the fauna and flora that we utterly depend on to survive. We have become capable of clearing away the trees and forests that supply a good portion of the oxygen we need to breathe. We have already destroyed the fish many of us need to nourish ourselves. We have tried to replace these with fish farms, as we have replaced natural game animals with domesticated herds, but the nutritional value of both is inferior, not to mention the waste problems they generate. The same is true of our agriculture, with its use of monocrops and artificial fertilizers that strip and decimate the soil and poison our water supply and us. The side-effects, or externalities that derive from these industrial practices add another unsolved problem: driven mainly by petroleum power, they add to the CO2 that is now generally agreed to be driving the most intractable problem of all—human-caused climate change. 
            What Schmactenberger and others analyze are the deep substrates upon which all these insults to the natural world depend. It is not just that industrialized farming or fishing or resource extraction are wasteful and short-sighted. It is that they, like the move to systems of destruction such as nuclear weapons, are the natural, inevitable outcome of ways of thinking and acting that have been with us for millennia. These ways are summarized by the words Schmactenberger repeatedly uses: rivalrous dynamics; open- rather than closed-loop systems; reliance on complicated rather than complex systems; capitalism and the madness of constant growth that it demands on a finite planet; and the regarding of the individual self as totally independent rather than an integral part of a planetary and universal whole. All these and more need to be changed or phase-shifted to a new level if we are to survive.
            Take the arms race. As Schmactenberger points out, a lion does not, via evolution, improve its killing capacity in isolation. As it gets bigger and faster, the gazelle that is its prey also gets faster, so that the system stays in rough balance. The lion does not kill so many gazelles that its species starves. It is not self-terminating. But humans, with our big brains, accelerate change faster than evolution allows. And so we have wiped out whole species like the bison or the carrier pigeon or cod because of our ability to invent technologies with which bison or pigeon or cod could not respond via evolution. The same is true in countless areas. With our capitalist value system, we are faced with the situation where a live whale is worth nothing to most humans, whereas a dead whale is worth millions. So are tons of dead tuna, or cod, or salmon. And so the incentive is to hunt and catch as many as possible (and with factory ships, this is a lot) because if we don’t, some other nation with equally lethal ships, will. Ditto with forests. Ditto with anything you can name. Rivalrous dynamics dictate that our side must be bigger and faster and more ruthless, because if we aren’t, we’ll be wiped out by our rivalrous neighbors. And so we have the insane situation of mutually-assured destruction, where we have far more nuclear weapons at the ready than we need to wipe out all Russian or Chinese cities, while at the same time, they feel the need to have equivalent arsenals because if they don’t, they risk being overwhelmed by ours. All on hair trigger alert and susceptible to the whims or mistakes of some zealot in charge. And it is almost guaranteed that it will be a defective in charge because the system favors the rise of sociopaths as leaders—not just in government but in corporations as well. They, sociopaths, are the only ones with enough disregard for their fellow humans and the planet to be able to make the “tough” decisions. To be willing to tolerate deadly “externalities” like mutually-assured destruction, like global warming. 
            So what Schmactenberger and others are trying to figure out is whether, or how we can get to a planet where the opposite of these things can prevail. Must prevail—before we self terminate. Humans must somehow come up with societies, that is, and economies and political systems that foster selves that are not incentivized to be narcissistic and sociopathic, but rather to be aware of our connection to the whole—including all the bacteria that we depend on, without which we are literally nothing. Humans who are not driven by rivalrous dynamics to always beat the other guy and win, but who act in concert with others and do what makes sense on its own; what helps the community of all others, or at least no longer ignores them. This would involve creating systems that are not complicated so much as complex—like the systems that nature evolves.  Consider this one difference that Schmactenberger highlights—the difference between complicated and complex. A forest in its natural state is complex. Trees have immense root systems that keep them in contact not only with the soil nutrients and bacteria and fungi that keep them healthy, but often with each other to ward off invading insects. The forest system is amazingly complex. By contrast, a house built by humans is complicated—containing a foundation, siding, windows, roofing, a complicated support system of rafters and electrical wiring and plumbing and so on. But if a fire destroys much of the forest, it eventually grows back. It reconstitutes itself. Its complexity contains within it the seeds for its renewal. A house, by contrast, if burned down by the same fire, does notgrow back. It is only complicated. Once destroyed, its stays destroyed and another must be totally rebuilt by an outside entity, a human. What those anticipating the phase shift look to is making more of our systems complex. Making them more like natural systems. Following nature. Making our world more self-sustaining like the natural world.
            This is where closed loops come in. Most of our human-created systems now are open-loop systems. We just forge ahead with no concern for the externalities like the waste and pollution they produce. If hog farms produce tons and tons of manure that eventually flows into nearby rivers and pollutes them, so be it. That polluting waste is simply an externality that doesn’t have to be accounted for. If my manufacturing process produces tons of plastic packaging waste that eventually ends up in the Pacific Ocean vortex, so be it; it’s an externality that someone else has to pay for or solve. And if the transportation system that the whole world is induced to use ends up not only producing tons of tires and metal and plastic that cannot be disposed of, and along the way billions of tons of CO2 as air pollution that leads to global warming, so be it. It’s not my problem as an oil company or car manufacturer and in fact I will try every trick I can think of to prevent people from becoming aware of it. This is open loop—the open loop that allows capitalist systems to thrive. 
            What Schmactenberger is calling for is a phase shift, and soon, to closed-loop systems. Systems that pattern themselves after nature, where nothing is wasted; where that which is destroyed or discarded is useful, usually as food, for something else. Nature seems not to produce undigestible or unusable waste. Everything is constantly recycled to be used by some other creature or organism. Nothing is wasted in complex systems. And natural systems are amazingly complex; that is what keeps them in balance. Dead matter is useful—as fertilizer or as food for the countless beings that form part of the great system that is life. That is what humans must strive for in designing systems for the next great phase shift that Schmactenberger sees coming. Or must come if we humans are not to self terminate. 
            Is such a phase shift possible? Elements of it have already started to emerge. And that word, emerge or emergence, again is a constant in Schmactenberger’s arguments. It is a deep biological/philosophical principle that states thatemergence occurs when an entity has or develops properties that its parts do not have on their own. These properties emerge only when the parts interact in a wider whole, that is, when the parts act together for the good of the whole. It is like the cells in a human body: alone, they each act to preserve and advance their own survival. But when they come together as a body, they act their part as organs or T-cells to sustain the larger body of which they are a part, even at the risk of their own demise. And importantly, Schmactenberger notes, with no conflict between their individual function to survive and their overall bodily function to preserve the whole. In addition, there would be no way to predict that overall bodily function from observing the individual cells functioning on their own. Just as one could not predict the emergence of a butterfly from observation of the caterpillar from which it eventually emerges. And presumably, just as one could not predict the phase shift that Schmactenberger sees emerging right now from the perilous situation that we humans now find ourselves in. And yet, if the human endeavor is to survive, it or something like it has to emerge. Whether enough humans and cultures can be induced to join such a movement that goes against so many allegedly ingrained human instincts is arguable. But the incentive to do so is as great as anything has ever been: to emerge and survive, or to proceed to self-termination. Is there any real choice?

Lawrence DiStasi

Friday, November 8, 2019

Ukraine Extortion


To hear Drumpf and his Repugnant allies tell it, the holdup of military aid to Ukraine was just a normal part of the diplomatic effort to get rid of any chance of corruption in that country. The holdup, they insist, had nothing to do with trying to get leverage on possible 2020 rival Joe Biden and/or to invalidate the Mueller investigation by blaming the 2016 election interference on a Ukraine plot. But if we look at the timeline of the aid and its eventual release on September 11, 2019, the story becomes more damning. This is very important, but most news outlets simply stay with the events closely surrounding the July 25 phone call from Trump to Ukraine President Zelensky. That misses the deep issue. 
            What’s really key is to go back and focus on when exactly, the U.S Congress authorized desperately-needed military aid of about $400 million for Ukraine. This aid was for military equipment to stave off the Russian-backed forces trying to bite off another chunk of Ukraine in its eastern province. If we look at the record, as outlined by an important article in Lawfare (10/16/19), we see this:
On Feb. 15, Congress appropriated $445.7 million to the State Department to assist Ukraine (see here, § 7046(a)(2)), which included the $141 million at issue here. In a joint explanatory statement (page 65 of Division F, for interested readers), Congress broke down the $445.7 million in funding, which included (among other initiatives) $115 million in foreign military financing; $2.9 million in military training; and $45 million in international narcotics control, law enforcement and anti-terrorism funding.
Look at that date again. Congress authorized $445.7 million on Feb. 15, 2019. Yet that aid was not released to Ukraine until September 11. This in spite of the fact that the Trump administration twice notified Congress—on February 28, 2019 and again on May 23, 2019—that it was going to release the aid. It thereafter has struggled mightily to explain why the authorized aid was withheld for so long. That’s because top officials in both the Defense Dept. and the State Dept. sent letters to Congress authorizing the release of the aid—in the first case in May certifying that Ukraine was making good progress in the fight against corruption, and in the second in June with the Pentagon announcing that a large grant was being released to Ukraine for training, equipment and advisory efforts. These notices were undergirded by a May 23 letter from John Rood, defense undersecretary for policy who wrote:
“On behalf of the secretary of defense, and in coordination with the secretary of state, I have certified that the government of Ukraine has taken substantial actions to make defense institutional reforms for the purpose of decreasing corruption.” (www.militarytimes.com.)  
            So Congress had authorized the $450 million, and both the State Dept and the Pentagon had approved dispersal of the funds; but still they were not released. Now the law says that the OMB in the White House has to approve these funds and can take up to 45 days to review them.  But it is only supposed to ensure that the funding lasts for the required time and is spent appropriately. It is not supposed to alter or amend the purposes for which the money is to be spent without formally notifying the Congress in accord with procedures, and must adhere to the 45-day limit. The Trump White House most decidedly did not. In this case, in fact, the White House OMB held up the funds, not just for a few weeks, or 45 days, but for several months (until Sept 11), and then only released them under the duress of the impeachment hearings.   
            The White House, of course has several explanations (aside from the extortion of President Zelensky) for the withholding of the funds. One of them came from Mick Mulvaney, the White House chief of staff and director of the OMB. He told leaders at State and Defense in mid-July that the president wanted the aid withheld because he was concerned about the ‘necessity’ for the aid (even though Ukraine is fighting for its very life and depends on the U.S aid to do it). Note the timing here: the order to withhold the aid came before that notorious July 25 phone call, and the president himself ordered the delay. This means that the plan to extort the president of Ukraine was already in place well before the president made his recorded demands by phone. Other evidence makes this even more telling. Ambassador William Taylor’s testimony, for one, makes clear that the aid money to Ukraine (and the promise of a meeting) had long been conditioned on their complying with President Trump’s wishes to investigate Joe Biden’s son, Hunter:
 “That was my clear understanding, security assistance money would not come until the President  [of Ukraine] committed to pursue the investigation.”

Taylor then affirmed that this demand, plus the demand to investigate the 2016 election interference by Ukraine (not Russia) met the definition of a “quid pro quo.” He also affirmed that it was Rudy Giuliani’s idea to get the Ukrainians to investigate Burisma Holdings, the company on whose board Hunter Biden served. He said the idea was to get President Zelensky to publicly announce these investigations so as to put him into a “box” that would force him to comply. Taylor’s testimony contradicted EU Ambassador Gordon Sondland’s earlier testimony that there was no “quid pro quo,” after which the ambassador then revised his testimony to agree that, in fact, there was a “quid pro quo.” He agreed that the pressure on Ukraine was “improper” and “insidious” and that it probably violated the law. 
            There is much more to this nefarious case, including the politically-calculated firing of veteran ambassador to Ukraine, Marie Jovanovich, but it is all coming out in public hearings. The bottom line remains: the President of the United States held up for months desperately-needed aid to a U.S. ally in order to 1) damage the election prospects of his presumptive rival, Joe Biden; and 2) to impel a bogus investigation into a supposed Ukrainian plot to affect the 2016 election, thus invalidating the hated Mueller investigation. Both of these bogus Ukraine investigations were meant to serve not the nation he is sworn to serve, but his own political (and criminal) purposes. This is a textbook definition of extortion and of the “high crimes and misdemeanors” that the Constitutional remedy of impeachment was written for. QED.

Lawrence DiStasi

Friday, October 18, 2019

Why We Don't Like Him

Someone on Quora asked “Why do some British people not like Donald Trump?” Nate White, an articulate and witty writer from England wrote the following response:

A few things spring to mind.

Trump lacks certain qualities which the British traditionally esteem.
For instance, he has no class, no charm, no coolness, no credibility, no compassion, no wit, no warmth, no wisdom, no subtlety, no sensitivity, no self-awareness, no humility, no honour and no grace – all qualities, funnily enough, with which his predecessor Mr. Obama was generously blessed.
So for us, the stark contrast does rather throw Trump’s limitations into embarrassingly sharp relief.

Plus, we like a laugh. And while Trump may be laughable, he has never once said anything wry, witty or even faintly amusing – not once, ever.
I don’t say that rhetorically, I mean it quite literally: not once, not ever. And that fact is particularly disturbing to the British sensibility – for us, to lack humour is almost inhuman.

But with Trump, it’s a fact. He doesn’t even seem to understand what a joke is – his idea of a joke is a crass comment, an illiterate insult, a casual act of cruelty.

Trump is a troll. And like all trolls, he is never funny and he never laughs; he only crows or jeers.

And scarily, he doesn’t just talk in crude, witless insults – he actually thinks in them. His mind is a simple bot-like algorithm of petty prejudices and knee-jerk nastiness.

There is never any under-layer of irony, complexity, nuance or depth. It’s all surface.

Some Americans might see this as refreshingly upfront.

Well, we don’t. We see it as having no inner world, no soul.

And in Britain we traditionally side with David, not Goliath. All our heroes are plucky underdogs: Robin Hood, Dick Whittington, Oliver Twist.
Trump is neither plucky, nor an underdog. He is the exact opposite of that.
He’s not even a spoiled rich-boy, or a greedy fat-cat.

He’s more a fat white slug. A Jabba the Hutt of privilege.
And worse, he is that most unforgivable of all things to the British: a bully.
That is, except when he is among bullies; then he suddenly transforms into a snivelling sidekick instead.
There are unspoken rules to this stuff – the Queensberry rules of basic decency – and he breaks them all. He punches downwards – which a gentleman should, would, could never do – and every blow he aims is below the belt. He particularly likes to kick the vulnerable or voiceless – and he kicks them when they are down.
 So the fact that a significant minority – perhaps a third – of Americans look at what he does, listen to what he says, and then think ‘Yeah, he seems like my kind of guy’ is a matter of some confusion and no little distress to British people, given that:
• Americans are supposed to be nicer than us, and mostly are.
• You don’t need a particularly keen eye for detail to spot a few flaws in the man.

This last point is what especially confuses and dismays British people, and many other people too; his faults seem pretty bloody hard to miss.
After all, it’s impossible to read a single tweet, or hear him speak a sentence or two, without staring deep into the abyss. He turns being artless into an art form; he is a Picasso of pettiness; a Shakespeare of shit. His faults are fractal: even his flaws have flaws, and so on ad infinitum.
God knows there have always been stupid people in the world, and plenty of nasty people too. But rarely has stupidity been so nasty, or nastiness so stupid.

He makes Nixon look trustworthy and George W look smart.
In fact, if Frankenstein decided to make a monster assembled entirely from human flaws – he would make a Trump.

And a remorseful Doctor Frankenstein would clutch out big clumpfuls of hair and scream in anguish:
‘My God… what… have… I… created?
If being a twat was a TV show, Trump would be the boxed set.

from: “British writer pens the Best Description of Trump I’ve Read,” by Michael Stevenson, March 8, 2019 The Hobbledehoy.

Wednesday, October 9, 2019

Above the Law

The Trump administration’s latest ploy, in its letter to Congress on Tuesday, October 8, is a stunning document, in a month of stunning events. But this one takes the cake. That’s because what it says, in effect, is that the president, or this president* at least, is above the law. He cannot be legally indicted, because a sitting president cannot be, according to his Department of Justice’s OLC. And now his legal team is saying that he cannot be impeached either, because he is being denied due process. The Constitution, of course, doesn’t provide for due process in bringing impeachment charges by the House of Representatives, because the actual trial is held by the Senate. That’s where due process, if it’s relevant at all to impeachment (which is not a court of law but a political process), would come in. 
            But first, it’s important to remind ourselves what impeachment is, and isn’t. Article 1 Section 2 of the U.S. Constitution says that the House of Representatives “shall have the sole Power of Impeachment” and that “the Senate shall have the sole Power to try all Impeachments…[but] no person shall be convicted without the Concurrence of two-thirds of the Members present” (Article I, section 3.) That is all. In the Senate trial, a two-thirds vote of all members is needed to convict the person impeached by the House. In the actual impeachment proceedings, the House of Representatives charges an official by approving, by majority vote, Articles of impeachment (these articles must be gathered from an inquiry made beforehand). Representatives, called “managers,” act as prosecutors before the Senate in the trial. Senators listen to their evidence and witnesses, and then vote to convict or acquit.
            This whole process was adopted from English law. As the framers of our Constitution  saw it, 

this congressional power is a fundamental component of the constitutional system of “checks and balances.” Through the impeachment process, Congress charges and then tries an official of the federal government for “Treason, Bribery, or other high Crimes and Misdemeanors.” (www.Senate.gov).

The penalty for an impeached official is not any legal punishment, as in a regular courtroom trial, but solely removal from office. This clearly proves that impeachment is a political process, its sole aim being precisely to step in where the normal political process is seen to have erred by putting into office someone who abuses that office in some way. As noted above, it is part of the system of “checks and balances” that the framers saw as necessary to keep the three branches in balance. That is to say, impeachment is the means to keep any one branch from consolidating too much power. The Founders feared specifically that a president might assume, without those checks on his authority, the powers of a king or dictator. 
            Now we add to this the policy of the Justice Department, as made highly visible by Robert Mueller’s explanation of why he did not indict this president* for obstruction of justice, i.e., that a president cannot be legally indicted while in office because according to the Office of Legal Counsel (OLC):
The indictment or criminal prosecution of a sitting President would unconstitutionally undermine the capacity of the executive branch to perform its constitutionally assigned functions. (Vox.com, 7/24/19).
This means, in effect, that there is no way that a president can be held legally accountable for his actions. No matter how heinous (this president has boasted that he could shoot someone on 5thAvenue in New York and not be held accountable by his voters) these actions might be, a president cannot be legally held accountable while in office. As Richard Nixon famously said, “Well, when the president does it, that means that it is not illegal.” 
This is precisely why the impeachment process is so critical. If, as has plainly happened with the actions of president* Trump with respect to Ukraine, the president abuses the powers of his office (here, for personal gain), the constitutional remedy—the only remedy—is impeachment. The House of Representatives conducts an inquiry into the alleged abuse(s), and if it finds that some violation has occurred (this does NOT have to be a legal violation but only a violation of the conduct expected of a president), then it refers its finding to the full House for a vote. This is the vote to impeach. If a majority so votes, the matter goes to the Senate for a trial, with representatives serving as managers or prosecutors.
What Trump’s legal team is trying to do is throw a monkey wrench into this process by claiming that the president must be allowed to face (and, he hopes, intimidate) witnesses before the trial even begins. This is legal nonsense. They are saying that the House has no right to make inquiries necessary to buttress its impeachment process, and that therefore the White House team is refusing to comply with subpoenas or requests for documents or witnesses. This is to essentially say that the president, or this president* at least, cannot be impeached. Because, for another very important thing, it will illegally reverse the results of the 2016 election.
But that is precisely what impeachment is for: to remove from office an elected (or appointed) official who has demonstrated his unfitness for office—by committing “high crimes or misdemeanors.” More than that, the administration’s position would mean that a person—in this case president Trump—would be able to set himself above the law. He could not be held legally accountable. Neither could he be impeached. He would be, in effect, a king or a dictator. 
 If this perversion of all they stood for doesn’t make the Founding Fathers roll over in their graves, I don’t know what would. 
Lawrence DiStasi

Tuesday, October 1, 2019

American Eugenics

Being conversant with Italian-American history, I had heard of the Immigration Bill that in 1924 had cut off Italian immigration to the U.S. almost overnight. I had also heard of the ‘Know Nothings’ and of Madison Grant’s infamous screed, The Passing of the Great Race. But before reading Daniel Okrent’s superb study of these matters in The Guarded Gate, (Scribners: 2019), I had never guessed at the depth of the racial loathing and hatred, the panicked white supremacy that operated in the years leading up to 1924. Now, however, with this book, I and everyone else can see the long history of the movement that even now has been given new life by the presidency of Donald Trump. And see that much as Trump would like us to think of his movement as unprecedented, it has a long and sordid history in these United States, including the manipulation of so-called ‘science’ to serve racial bias.
            Okrent begins his story with a series of Boston Brahmins—chiefly Senator Henry Cabot Lodge—who were all horrified at the ‘race-mixing’ that was threatening to dilute the alleged purity of America’s Anglo-Saxon heritage. As early as 1891, Lodge introduced a law that would demand a literacy test of all immigrants to “sift the chaff from the wheat” (52). But his literacy provision failed, at least partly due to resistance from the steamship companies; they were doing a banner business shipping immigrants to America (it cost them $1.70 to ship an immigrant whom they charged $22.50 in fare, a handsome profit when they could squeeze 2000 of these wretched souls into steerage.) But Lodge’s failure wasn’t the end of it by a long shot. Such great icons as Teddy Roosevelt was also worried that whites were being out-reproduced by these immigrant hordes, and harangued Anglos to do their ‘reproductive duty’ (have lots of kids) rather than commit what he called ‘race suicide.’ And then came one Houston Stewart Chamberlain, who wrote a tome called The Foundations of the Nineteenth Century (1899), in which he popularized the term that would shortly become lethal—“Aryan.” He wrote, “Physically and mentally the Aryans are pre-eminent among all peoples; for that reason they are by right…the lords of the world” (90). He added that not only Dante, but Marco Polo, St. Francis of Assisi and Galileo were also Germanic. In that same year, William Z. Ripley in his The Races of Europe added his scholarly heft to this nonsense by categorizing Europeans into three basic groups he called ‘races’: Teutonic (tall, blond, blue-eyed), Alpines (shorter and darker), and Mediterraneans (slim and darker still). As to those Mediterraneans (such as the more than 2 million Italians who would immigrate by 1910), a Washington Post editorial writer would say in 1906 that 90% of them were “the degenerate spawn of Asiatics” who had invaded the Mediterranean years before, and were now coming to America to “cut throats, throw dynamite, and conduct labor riots and assassination” (99). Prior to that, in 1894, three Harvard graduates, Prescott Hall, Joe Lee, and Robert Ward, all Boston Brahmins, had formed the Immigration Restriction League (IRL). Taking their credo from Francis Galton and the American biologist Raymond Pierce, they subscribed to the “new science of eugenics”—a ‘science’ devoted to selectively breeding better men to “elevate the race by producing higher types” (117). Hall’s publication, Eugenics, Ethics and Immigration made their main case: eugenics should be applied to immigration because “wars and pestilences no longer eliminate the unfit as formerly” (118). Such a pity we no longer have those helpful plagues to weed out the unfit!
            When Charles Davenport took over the Cold Spring Harbor research facility, and managed to convince Mary Averell Harriman (the richest woman in America) to fund his institute, eugenics was well on its way to becoming mainstream ‘science’ in America. Davenport quickly opened the Eugenics Records Office, with the uncredentialled Harry Laughlin in charge. Laughlin proceeded to compile mountains of data on the genetic histories of the unfit—imbeciles, epileptics, the insane and the criminal—all assembled in a Trait Book to allegedly study inherited characteristics that should be eliminated. It was useless material, based on the erroneous idea that complex traits like memory or shiftlessness were determined by a single unit character or gene (science at this point had no good idea what the gene was). Still, this and other eugenics work played right into the hands of lawmakers seeking a basis for limiting immigration. Nations like England, Australia, and Canada soon imposed immigration restrictions, and in America, restrictions based on certain categories like anarchists, epileptics, polygamists, and lunatics were soon in place along with restrictions on people with syphilis or even ‘poor physique.’ Davenport himself was moving closer to a position favoring marriage restrictions (indeed, the 1907 Expatriation Act had mandated that any American woman who married a foreign national automatically lost her American citizenship thereby):
“Unless conditions change of themselves or are radically changed, the population of the U.S. will, on account of the great influx of blood from South-eastern Europe, rapidly become darker in pigmentation, smaller in stature, more mercurial, more attached to music and art, more given to crimes of larceny, kidnapping, assault, murder, rape and sex-immorality and less given to burglary, drunkenness and vagrancy than were the original English settlers!” (147). 

In short, Davenport feared that battalions of short, musical rapists (e.g. Italians) were poised to invade the United States and intermarry, displacing those good drunken Anglos. Nor was he alone; by 1912, seven American states had enacted laws calling for the involuntary sterilization of some wards of the state, particularly those convicted of sex crimes. 
            In 1913, Lodge tried the literacy test again but the legislation failed when President Taft vetoed it. But the momentum to restrict immigration picked up new steam when sociologist Edward Ross wrote in his book, The Old World and the New, that the Mediterranean people were “morally below the races of northern Europe” and furthermore that immigrants from southern Italy, especially Neapolitans, were “a degenerate class…infected with spiritual hookworm,” and displaying “a distressing frequency of low foreheads, open mouths, weak chins…and backless heads” (188). He concluded by noting that these immigrants promised “an unthinkable future: a mingled, degraded America” (189). But despite these warnings, literacy test legislation failed once again in February 1915, when President Wilson vetoed the bill and the House sustained his veto. 
            However, the most serious challenge to immigration from southern and eastern Europe was about to emerge. Madison Grant, famous for his conservation work as a protector of California’s redwoods, was also the creator of the Bronx zoo. This made him a savior of trees and animals, but when it came to actual people, real immigrants, he went off the rails. He it was who conjoined the two toxic elements of his time, eugenics and xenophobia, to produce the most toxic amalgam of all—scientific racism. He described what he called Nordics: “a race of soldiers, sailors, adventurers, and explorers, but above all, of rulers, organizers, and aristocrats” who dominated other races by right. As to the Mediterraneans, they might be great artists, but since Italy’s Nordic invaders had “absorbed the science, art, and literature of Rome,” it was they, not the Italians, who could be given credit for “the splendid century that we call the Renaissance.” Indeed, all that was of value in Italy, according to Grant, was due to those Nordic invaders: “Dante, Raphael, Titian, Michael Angelo, Leonardo da Vinci were all of Nordic type” (211). He even said that “Columbus, from his portraits and busts, whether authentic or not, was clearly Nordic” (208). The arrogance and stupidity of this drivel is breathtaking. And yet The Passing of the Great Race was published by Scribner’s, with the great Max Perkins as its editor, and touted as a pathbreaking book by an author it called a “scientist, savant, traveler, and trained observer exceptionally qualified for this work.” The Nation magazine praised Passing as embodying the “truths of racial evolution which as a whole is unanswerable.” Not all were fooled, however. The great Columbia anthropologist Franz Boas wrote a review in the New Republic titled “Inventing a Great Race” that pilloried Grant’s book as one built on “fallacies,” which it was. Its concept of heredity was “faulty,” wrote Boas, its evidence “haphazard” and its opinions “dangerous”—as the world was soon to learn. Nonetheless, with Grant’s book as support, the literacy test for immigrants was reintroduced in1916, and vetoed again by President Wilson; but this time Congress overrode the veto, and passed the literacy test in February of 1917.
            World War I intervened, but even that horror was used to support the need for eugenics-based immigration restrictions. Edward Ross, in preparing his eugenics text, lamented the war as an “immeasurable calamity that has befallen the white race,” because it had killed off “more than 2 million British and German soldiers” (230), the flower of Nordic manhood. And Grant assured his readers that the barbarous conduct of modern Germany was due not to Nordics but to a population that had been polluted by Alpine or Asiatic blood. Later, Lothrop Stoddard in his book The Rising Tide of Color, described World War I as “the white civil war” that threatened “race suicide” and “mongrelization.” The intelligence testing that was introduced during the war was likewise used to support restrictions. Testing immigrants at Ellis Island, Henry Goddard concluded that “the intelligence of the average ‘third class’ (steerage) immigrant is low, perhaps of the moron grade” (239). And it is dismaying to note that Margaret Sanger, the birth control pioneer, fully supported the eugenics movement. In a 1921 piece for Birth Control Review, she wrote: “the campaign for Birth Control is not merely of eugenic value, but is practically identical with the final aims of Eugenics” i.e. to breed a race of thoroughbreds (244-45). 
            By this time, eugenics was in full flower in America. Harry Laughlin, of the Eugenics Records Office, made a report to the Breeders Association about the ways to cut off the supply of human defectives and degenerates that included sterilization, a system of matings, polygamy, and euthanasia. His report’s central conclusion: “Society must look upon germ-plasm as belonging to society and not solely to the individual (i.e. immigrant) who carries it” (274). Sounds a bit like some of the more rabid right-to-lifers of our own day.
             By 1921, the movement to control ‘bad’ immigration was too strong to be stopped. In May of that year, President Harding signed an Emergency Immigration Act into law. It set immigration quotas for individual nations—based on the number of immigrants from that country already in the U.S. in 1910. No more than 3 per cent of those already here were allowed. This immediately cut immigration from Poland by 70 per cent, from Yugoslavia by 74 per cent, and from Italy by 82 per cent. By contrast, Great Britain’s quota numbered 77,342, but due to a lack of those seeking to immigrate, 35,00 slots were left unfilled. And still the restriction bandwagon rolled on. At the Second International Conference of Eugenics hosted by Fairfield Osborne on Sept. 22, 1921 at New York’s Natural History Museum (with Madison Grant as co-chair), Count Vacher de Lapouge, author of The Aryan and His Social Role, intoned, “America, I solemnly declare that it depends on you to save civilization and to produce a race of demigods!” (303). Not long after, President Harding signed a two-year extension of the 1921 Emergency Immigration Act. And still the hits kept coming, almost too numerous to mention. The NY Times Book Review featured a review of Charles Gould’s book, America: a Family Matter, with the title, “Failure of the Melting Pot;” and the redoubtable Harry Laughlin provided “data” for a Congressional hearing which asserte that Romanians were 41 per cent more likely than average Americans to be criminal; that Italians were 57 per cent more likely to be insane; and that Russian and Polish immigrants were twice as likely to be tubercular. Whereupon Kenneth Roberts, editor of The Saturday Evening Post, warned: “If America doesn’t keep out the queer, alien, mongrelized people of Southeastern Europe, her crop of citizens will eventually be dwarfed and mongrelized in return” (319). Shortly thereafter, Secretary of Labor James Davis told an audience in Pittsburgh that 6,346,856 immigrants were “inferior or very inferior” (320).
            With the heat against immigrants at the boiling point, new and stricter plans began to emerge. One John Trevor (a wealthy zealot) presented his National Origins quota plan. Quotas would be based on all immigrants with roots in in a given country. But Roy Garis of Vanderbilt University went him one better. In his plan, quotas were to be based not on the 1910 but on the 1890 census because—as the Saturday Evening Post put it—that was the year “Nordic immigration was still strong and the low-grade stuff hadn’t begun to come to us in volume” (320). For Italians, this meant that quotas were drastically reduced—from an allotment of 222,496 before the 1921 quotas to 45,159 in 1921, to 3,912 per year with the new law. Senator David Reed was quite satisfied; “I think” he said “the American people want us to discriminate” (331). But not everyone was so pleased. Herbert Jennings, professor of zoology and genetics told his colleagues that the true aim of these measures was “Nordic propaganda.” And Emanuel Celler, then a 34-year-old congressman from Brooklyn, called Laughlin’s study “a vicious report redolent with downright and deliberate fallacies” while Madison Grant’s work was “dogmatic piffle.” He condemned the restrictionists’ intent as “the rankest kind of discrimination…set up against Catholic and Jewish Europe” (340). But Celler’s was a lone voice. When the final vote was taken, the House passed the new bill 308-62; the Senate vote was equally decisive, voting 69-9 in favor. With that, the Immigration Restriction Act of 1924 became the law of the land, and in 1925, a mere 2,662 immigrants from Italy were allowed to enter the United States.
            The eugenics movement had not only contributed its vicious creed to the immigration debate. It had more direct effects as well. In 1927, the Supreme Court upheld Virginia’s sterilization law, with Justice Holmes writing with the majority his infamous opinion that “three generations of imbeciles is enough” (350). Due to that opinion, at least 60,000 people were sterilized by 1970. But the worm was beginning to turn. Saner minds were beginning to attack eugenics. H. L. Mencken in The American Mercury attacked eugenics as “a mingled mess of ill-grounded and uncritical sociology, economics, anthropology, and politics, full of emotional appeals to class prejudice, solemnly put forth as science” (351). And especially after Hitler came to power in Germany and praised America and its eugenicists as having inspired him, it became a little embarrassing to carry the eugenics banner. This was especially true after the 1946 Nuremburg Doctor’s trial, where several Nazi defendants actually used the Buck v. Bell decision in their defense, as well as Grant’s Passing of the Great Race and the 1924 Immigration Restriction Act. Nor did they just use the excuse that they were following orders; they said they were following Americans (392). Even so, Charles Davenport never publicly disavowed his ‘scientific racism;’ neither did Fairfield Osborne or Madison Grant or Harry Laughlin. But eventually, all were, one way or the other, publicly disgraced, as well they might be.
            As for the infamous law they helped to pass, it too was revoked, this time by another Johnson. In October 1965, President Lyndon Johnson, at the Statue of Liberty, signed into law a new Immigration and Nationality Act. Written by the same Emanuel Celler who had vainly protested the 1924 bill, it abolished national quotas—too late for many, but a victory for fairness and equity in immigration nonetheless. At least for a time. 

Lawrence DiStasi

Sunday, September 22, 2019

Stroke

I am waiting to go home. My son Gavin and I are sitting in my hospital room at Marin General Hospital for a wheelchair to wheel us down to the car after five days here for what appears to have been a mild stroke (some 795,00 people a year suffer a stroke, according to the Mayo clinic). But suddenly, I am woozy and dizzy and when Gavin sees me slumped in my chair, my eyes rolled back, he yells for help. He tells me much later that they called Code Blue, but all I remember is dozens of nurses and docs huddled around me and asking if I’m all right (which I’m clearly not) and then wheeling me downstairs rapidly for my second CT-scan. They want to check for blood on the brain, but find none. Still, my near-breakout is clearly over. I’m transferred downstairs to a unit that’s one step below ICU, to be watched carefully. Next morning first thing, I’m wheeled down for another hateful MRI (they had pushed to do it Thursday, but I refused). I endure the fierce machine-gun rattling of the MRI and the results show that my original stroke has ‘extended,’ meaning that now the affected area of my left pons is larger, with the result that I have now lost function on my right side: I can’t move my right arm or hand, and my right leg is floppy and no longer under my control. Where just a day earlier I was walking freely around the ward, now I can barely move with a walker. I’m here for another week at least.
            This all started a week before. I had done my usual routine on both Saturday the 10th of August and Sunday the 11th, noticing only some tiredness on Saturday and then, while watching the 49ers, that my speech, when I complained aloud about a play, sounded a bit slurred to me. I figured I’d go to the Bolinas clinic on Monday (why do these things always happen on weekends?) and be fine. Then next day I did my usual routine and cooked breakfast, but when I was typing, noticed more mistakes than usual. Hmm. And when I tried to write longhand, it was nearly impossible to control my pen. More hmm. At that point I still figured a Monday visit to the clinic would suffice, but, to be sure, I decided to call my sister Elaine in New York. I had hardly said two words when she said “Hold on; I’m calling Laura to have her come right over” (my sister-in-law lives next door). Before I knew it, Laura had arrived, heard me speak, (I thought she’d just drive me to Marin General, but my niece Amber wisely advised getting emergency help) and called 911. Within minutes, my tiny kitchen was bursting with several huge guys from the firehouse taking my blood pressure and vitals, and then three more EMT’s doing the same thing and urging me, despite the good signs I was exhibiting, to go to the emergency room. I didn’t think it was necessary, and resisted at first, but finally yielded to the consensus. 
            At Marin General’s emergency unit, it was the usual wait, and then a CT-scan. My son Gavin then arrived (he’d just gotten back to Berkeley from San Diego for son Nicolas’ soccer tournament and rushed over), and agreed that I should be admitted to be safe. I said ok, figuring I’d be out in a day or two, but my blood pressure kept hovering around 200 and the docs insisted they had to get it stabilized. I complained that my soaring BP was mainly ‘white coat syndrome’ but they argued that that can maybe account for a few points, but not this much. So, under protest, I stayed. Walked around the ward freely; squeezed every doc’s hand to demonstrate strength in my limbs; admired some of my nurses and the therapists for their empathy and dedication. And was relieved when, with more meds than I’ve ever taken, my BP went down to 122 and I was discharged the Thursday after I arrived. Hallelujah.
            Then Code Blue and calamity. My right side was gone. Almost no function in the right leg or the right arm, with fingers mostly paralyzed, and swallowing difficult, strange. My speech was also more slurred though, thankfully, my cognitive function (such as it is) remained mostly intact so I could generally express what I wanted to say. It was the motor functions on my right side that had mainly been compromised. And I only learned later that my stroke (the extension that caused the damage) was not ischemic (caused by a blood clot as the initial one seemed to be), but rather hemorrhagic—caused by leakage of blood in the brain. The only positive thing about this is that those brain cells, as I now understand it, don’t die from lack of oxygen, but are knocked out temporarily by the accumulated blood, which has to drain out. They then have to heal from what doctors call ‘bruising’. It takes time, but they can come back. 
            So there I was in the hospital for another week, while the docs tried desperately to stabilize my BP. This has taken me way beyond my usual pattern of minimal use of drugs. Right now I could be a drug commercial. I’m taking high doses of losartan and metropolol (which I’m used to in low doses) and at least two more drugs for blood pressure (now pretty well controlled by the way)—hydralazine and chlorthalidone. In addition, I’m on Plavix as a blood thinner, and Lipitor for cholesterol (I’ve never had a problem with the latter, but it can apparently be an added risk factor for stroke.) I’m also taking my usual aspirin, and Miralax to keep me regular, and Melatonin at night to help me sleep, and a diuretic to reduce the edema in my feet. Whew. How long this regime will last is anybody’s guess but for now I’m accepting it for the simple reason that I will do just about anything now to avoid further damage to my brain. 
            After a week and some helpful physical therapy, the docs told me that I was ready for intensive rehab. We were given three choices for sites, and we chose CPMC (California Pacific Medical Center), even though its location in San Francisco might represent some access problems for my son in Berkeley. But it seemed the oldest and best, and it is. I was driven there in another ambulance on Friday, the 23rd of August, and taken up to my room,  a private room with spectacular views of the city (not that any of that mattered at the time). I met Eliano, a big, muscular nurse’s assistant who became my good friend. He was one of several workers there who provided yeoman service way above and beyond the call of duty: all three of my therapists, about whom more later, and some exceptional nurses—Tina, who fixed my impacted self in the early days when I was painfully constipated; Manny, the best night nurse I encountered, and with whom I shared some medical humor; Tryva, an always helpful nurse who has to drive from her East Bay home at 4:30 in the am to get to work; Chrystyn, who always made me laugh while she took care of every need; Helen, who tended to me as if I were her own Asian father ; and Patrick, who emigrated from the Phillipines at 19, but whose English was so perfect because, he told me, everyone there knows English—it’s our second language (thank you, American imperialism.) Angels of mercy, all. 
            Then there are the therapists—the heart of the place. I was assigned three: Holli, my occupational therapist; Jen, my physical therapist; and John, my speech therapist. They were all first-rate, though that doesn’t really express it. More than doctors, who are usually perfunctory when they drop in briefly to see that you’re alive and breathing, these therapists give you hour-long sessions where they push you to engage muscles and patterns that you’ve never given a thought to and think will never work again. Try walking these stairs. Are you sure? Today, you’ll take a shower; yes, you can get dressed yourself afterwards. With only one arm? Yes, you can do it. But I can’t. Don’t say ‘can’t’; it discourages the brain; say ‘not yet.’ Try balancing on this riser. Are you kidding? You can do it; the muscles remember how; you just have to get the brain firing again. So today, you’re going to cook yourself lunch—don’t you often have a fried egg and avocado sandwich? Yes, but. Ok, here’s the egg; what are you going to do first?  (My brother and sisters came to visit that day and saw me finishing up, incredulous that I was actually cooking my own meal!) And on and on through the most elemental re-learning: how to put on socks; how to put on a t-shirt with one hand; how to stand with a wobbly, out-of-control leg; how to swallow pills without choking because it takes seventeen different movements to swallow. Who knew? Who knew moving one’s fingers to simply grasp a spoon took so many muscles and tendons, and a trained brain controlling them all? Only someone who suddenly loses the ability that babies master. I could easily have yielded to despair: how the fuck am I going to re-learn all this? But Holli and Jen and John were there nearly every day to insist that I could and I was, a little bit each day; up to and including, towards the end, actually making an outside trip into the community and down a steep San Francisco hill to visit a café, order tea and pastry, and sit there like a real person, enjoying it. To describe each tiny victory would be tedious. But what I really want to convey is the special dedication of each of my therapists and all three collectively. It wasn’t just that they were competent, which they were. It’s that they gave more of themselves than anyone, I, had any right to expect. You can feel it. They’re not just doing a job; they’re connecting on some level that’s hard to describe but is clearly there. And at the end, one feels—I felt—a personal bond to each of them that I won’t soon forget. Little bodhisattvas they are, doing work that saves the world. And that work includes telling you—me—that it’s time to leave; you’re ready. But I’m not ready; my son’s not ready; we need a couple more days so I can get stronger and he and my daughter-in-law can get my room prepared. Nope. You’re ready now; any more time here can only feed dependency. And they were right; and we left on Friday the 6th of September as scheduled, and I have been at my son’s, cozy as can be in the sick room they set up (we’ve always called it ‘the sick room’—my mother convalesced here, as did my brother Edmond, and my wife and Gavin and now me) in their Berkeley home ever since. 
             I could tell you more—about the home therapists I have now, about how I can now cook my usual oatmeal for breakfast; about how we went out for dinner last night for exceptional Chinese and that I was able to button my regular pants myself which I absolutely could not do when I went to the café—but I won’t. What I will do is try to convey what this all means. For one thing, it means that I am now forced to be slow and patient for the first time in my life. It’s not just slowing down either, as when it takes me four or five minutes to get my compression socks on or my shoes, when before it was a matter of seconds. Or when I have to make five trips back and forth to the table when I’m preparing cold cereal because I have to get the dish to the table first, then get Tracy’s help to open the package of cereal, then more help to open the plastic container of cantaloupe, then slice it and carry it separately to the table, then go to the frig and get the quart of milk and carry it to the table, then get my wheat germ out of the freezer and also to the table, then realize I don’t have the sharp knife to cut the cantaloupe and the banana, or the spoon to eat with so I have to get up again to get those (I only have one lame arm to use--which in itself is a great leap forward--because the other one holds my cane), then put it all in the bowl with the four almonds I also put in, and finally, take a bite and settle in. No it’s not just that. 
It’s that my sense of who I am has had to be drastically altered. I’m not the quick one who could do anything in seconds or minutes (when I was young, I took pride in being able to play Chopin’s Minute Waltz in just about a minute), the fastest learner in the west. I’m slow now, and people have to wait for me to make my slow, halting, cane-aided way across the room or down the stairs. They have to help me, and I’ve always hated asking for help for I was the one who could. But not anymore. Now I’m the one who can’t…yet. I’m the one wo has to ask my granddaughter to cut open a package of chips, or my grandson to open the damn container of sauce, and on and on. And at one time, it would’ve been humiliating. But not anymore. Now it’s the current me. Now I’m among the ‘differently abled.’ And that, perforce, evokes a different image or ‘self model,’ as Thomas Metzinger puts it. 
But it’s more than that, something more fundamental still. We are all addicted to the illusion that we are independent, all under the spell of the notion that to be a real human being, we must strive, from almost the moment we take our first steps, to be self-sufficient. “I can do it myself. I don’t need any help.” And we are encouraged in this by our parents, our teachers, our western culture. ‘The measure of a man is the extent to which he can support himself with no help from anyone or anything.’ Just as the measure of a people or a nation is the degree to which they are self-sustaining and self-sufficient: “We are beholden to no one.” By contrast, to be dependent—on others, on charity, on the state—is to be diminished in both the eyes of others and of oneself. But is this alleged independence, this total self-sufficiency ever the case? Even where one attains that American ideal, the absolute freedom of the billionaire? Or is it our great and sustaining, and ultimately damaging delusion?
I am reminded of an article that appeared in my alumni magazine not long ago. It was written by one of the great athletes to come out of the college, a world-class skier, mountain climber, trek leader. Until one day he was doing some heli-skiing I think it was, and he crashed, nearly killing himself. After agonizing recovery, he ended up a paraplegic, confined to a wheelchair. He spent a couple of terrible years depressed, but then began giving talks about what was still possible, and along the way came up with a term which still haunts me: he said of people with all their functions intact, people we call ‘normal,’ the temporarily abled. In other words, those who still have the full use of their bodies and minds will have them, do have them only temporarily. Age, or sickness, or accident are sure to intervene to show them just how temporary their ‘able-ness’ really is. And even before that, every single healthy person on this planet, no matter how healthy at any given moment, is, from the beginning, utterly dependent upon the functioning of billions of creatures—in the soil, in our guts, in our cells, in the trees and plants and creatures that sustain us, and without which we could not survive for even one second. And that doesn’t even get to the countless people in our lives who make us possible. This is so for everyone, without exception. 
In light of this, is it not an illusion to think otherwise? Is it not the greatest delusion to think of our normal healthy selves as self-sufficient, as beholden to no one or no thing? I have to admit this is pretty much what I have been striving for. I have lived alone for much of the past thirty years. I have pursued a writing career that has become more and more independent—to the point that I can now design my own books, which are written on my own computer with most research done on that same computer, and now even the printing done via print-on-demand publishers who can print however many or few books I need without my ever having to get out of my chair. Self-sufficient with my own imprint, in almost every way. But then along came a little thing called a stroke, and suddenly I can’t tie my own shoes. Can’t cut my fingernails, or trim my mustache. Struggle to put on my pants or socks, or climb stairs with the ease of my two-year-old grandson—suddenly dependent on “the kindness of strangers,” as Blanche Dubois puts it. And astonishingly, I have been able to see this as not some catastrophe that has ‘disabled’ me (though it has done that), but rather as something that was inevitable, and in some quirky way, just. To see that contrary to what I’ve always liked to think, I have not been exceptional so much as ‘temporarily abled.’ Living the great human delusion that somehow, I could escape the great denouement. But none of us can, and more, none of us, even from the beginning, ever has. We are all entangled in what Mahayana Buddhists call the “net of Indra”—all of us connected by invisible strands to all else—and I mean all else, from the meanest bacterium to the grandest rainforest. All jewels in the net of being we are, reflecting and reflective of all else so that whatever happens to one of us ultimately happens to us all. Always. And now, this has been demonstrated for me in the most immediate, powerful way; and strangely, I am, if not fully content, at least ready to stay open to whatever follows. 
For what else could one, unable to tie his shoelaces, do? Or be? Even if it’s only temporary.

Lawrence DiStasi