The Ferries Wheel

I am finding that one of the perks of semi-retirement is the ability to get up and go whenever (or at least as often as the checking account and credit cards permit). As much as I love Indiana’s winter wonderland, the thought of white sand and azure seas also held a certain attraction. So the missus and I got up and went.

            After plowing through such weighty matters on this page over the last few weeks as Donald Trump’s hairstyle, and Bernie Sander’s lack of one, it was a nice change of pace to just kick back and appreciate “island time.”

            Initially, we stayed with some friends who have retired to Vieques Island, a speck of volcanic residue just off the coast of Puerto Rico’s main island. After careers of Midwestern respectability, our friends have gone native – pony tails, earrings, sandals, colorful shirts and tattered shorts—and that’s the guys. Still in the process of assimilation into the local culture, they refer to themselves as “Sorta Ricans,” which I thought was kind of cute.

            One of the friends in residence grew up in a farming family. You can take the farmer off the farm, but you can’t take the farm out of the farmer. When we arrived, nothing would do except a guided tour of his banana grove, his cashew tree (who knew they grew on trees?), and all the other sub-tropical flora within the compound. “You just stick a seed in the ground, and it grows,” he said in a hushed tone of rapturous awe.

            The first floor of the main house was built to Puerto Rican proportions. I am not. Should it ever be necessary to find samples of my DNA, feel free to scrape it off the underside of the ceiling beams.

            Until the late 1990s, there was a major U.S. Navy presence on the island. They used it for target practice for decades. Almost 20 years later, the cleanup continues. There are islets a few hundred yards out to sea with big signs advising folks to stay off. If you should go ashore despite the warnings, the billboards continue, “Don’t pick up anything suspicious—report it!”

            The beaches are as spectacular as the hard-baked unpaved trails leading to them are treacherous. Nothing less than a high-clearance Jeep is recommended. Bring extra pillows to sit on.

            What sets Vieques apart are the wild horses all over the place. Descended from a breed developed for plantation work by the Spanish, the term “wild” requires qualification. The local joke is that if you injure a horse, it has five owners. If the horse injures you, it has none. Teenagers don’t ask to borrow the family car. They put a crude rope bridle on a passing pony and trot off to wherever teenagers go on Vieques. High-end riders toss on a horse blanket first.

            After a couple of days decompressing, we headed to San Juan to join up with a group of friends escaping the blizzard that was shutting down the East Coast.

            Our hotel was a dowager in the heart of Old San Juan that had seen better days. It had one decrepit elevator that was just large enough for luggage and one passenger. After detailed instructions on operational quirks, and a signed release, we stuffed in the luggage and drew straws. The loser accompanied the luggage. Okay, the signed release is a bit of literary exaggeration, but my legal-trained mind tells me it wouldn’t be a bad idea.

            Around the corner we found a restaurant that claimed to be the birthplace of the Piña Colada (1963). The come-on was a “free” five-ounce sample. In a spirit of scientific inquiry, we all tried one—which, of course, led to a full-sized follow up, or maybe even two. For the few dollars more invested in the full-sized version, I think they actually added rum.

            Then the cruise. Once aboard the oversized city block passing itself off as a ship, we began to island hop, and the islands and the impressions began to get jumbled together (the unlimited beverage package didn’t help either).

            There was the optimism of the islanders. Almost all of the construction is cement block, and almost every first floor was crowned by a picket fence of reinforcing bars intended to serve as a foundation for a second floor—if they ever get around to adding it.

            There was Raoul the taxi driver on Barbados, a transplant from Brazil. Whatever goods or services you required, he had a brother, sister, uncle, or maiden aunt three times removed who could supply it— at a discount.

            There was my new BFF Benard the bartender, born in Kenya and raised in Dubai. His face lit up as he showed me the picture of his 3-year-old being raised back in Kenya by his mother. He also introduced me to a little frozen bit of heaven called a Mango Piña Colada.

OMG.

            There was Santina the server from Jamaica, who teamed up with Benard in delivering those little frozen bits of heaven to our table, and who, to my everlasting egalitarian embarrassment, insisted on referring to me as “Sir Kenneth.”

            There was Sharon (pronounced Sha-RONE, as in Ariel) the tour guide on St. Lucia who was so transparently proud of her country’s decision to invest heavily in education and a single-payer national health program. Ironically, that night I listened to Nancy Pelosi chastising Bernie Sanders for proposing something very similar, dismissing it as “not going to happen here.” (Last weekend, Bill Clinton took a similar shot. Makes you wonder. Watch this space.)

            There was the thrill of watching a KLM 747 passing a hundred feet directly above us and our fellow beach bums as it settled in for a landing at the airport on St. Maartens. Keep a close eye on your credit card, however. Within a day of that visit, we were allegedly buying shoes in Italy, train tickets in Germany, and who knows what else. So far the fraud tab is at about eight grand, and climbing. Happily, we are not responsible for the charges.

            We disembarked on Sunday, began the Monday of the Iowa caucus sitting on a bench in the beautiful and more-than-400-year-old Plaza de Armes in Old San Juan, and ended it in Indy just as the results were beginning to come in.

            It was good to get away from the political circus for a few days, but all good things must come to an end.

            Or maybe not. Did I mention the Mango Piña Coladas?      

Leave it to the wife to remind me that, from time to time, I need reminding.

                “You know, dear,” she said sweetly, “just because people differ with your politics does not necessarily mean they are all lemmings being led to the cliff by a wily politician. They may well be thinking individuals like yourself who, having thought about what is being said, agree with it, even if you don’t.”

                Then came the coup de grace: “Sometimes you liberals come across as know-it-alls looking down your noses at anyone who disagrees with you.”

                Ouch! And to think, I’ve lived with this closet counter-revolutionary for over 43 years and never once imagined she could ever think of me as nothing more than just another progressive blowhard.

                I tried to come up with an appropriately rapier-like bit of repartee to skewer her heretical observation, but (as is usually the case when she offers an opinion) the more I thought about it, darn it (not exactly the expletive that came to mind), she could be right!

                Let’s be honest, she is right.

                “Oh heck,” (again, not exactly the expletive that came to mind), I do sometimes operate on the premise that I’m right and you’re just too obstinate to accept the unassailable truth I am laying out for you. Breaking out in a cold sweat, it occurred to me that this makes me nothing more, and no better, than a mirror image of those I occasionally take to task. Okay, okay, I often take to task.

                So, in a sincere attempt to restore order and balance in the universe, let me say to the Trump-ites, the Cruz-ites, the Rubio-ites, the Carson-ites, the Christie-ites, and all the other “-ites” out there, you are not necessarily lemmings being led to a cliff by a wily politician. You may well be thinking individuals who, having carefully considered what is being said by your candidate of choice, have come the conclusion that they are right, and you are perfectly entitled to agree with them.

                There, I’ve said it.

                However, there are limits to all this sweetness and light.

                Be you progressive, liberal, conservative, evangelical, libertarian, know-nothing, or whatever, I think we can agree our differences should be based on fact, and not fiction.

                Fact: There are roughly 11 million undocumented aliens currently in the country illegally.

                Fiction: They are all – or even many — murderers and rapists.

                Facts can be used to support, or undermine, wildly different positions. That’s fair. Position 1: All 11 million need to be sent back to their country of origin and apply for legal admission to the United States. Position2: Realistically, 11 million is too many to deport, so what is needed is a legal path to citizenship for those who are here, and heightened border security for those who are not.

                You can have a debate on that.

                “They are all (or even many) murderers and rapists” adds nothing but a distraction that gets in the way of rational discussion.

                Our “facts” must be supported by evidence. To say “the earth is flat” or “the moon is made of green cheese” 15 times in one speech does not make the earth flat, nor the moon a cheese ball, no matter how much we want to believe it.

                Until shown otherwise, our default assessment of the candidates should be that each, in his or her own way, wants to do well by the United States, not harm it. Despite such good intent, to debate about whether their proposals actually help or harm is fair game.

                Argue facts with passion, but treat each other with compassion. The operative assumption, the birther brouhaha aside, is that we are all Americans. As evidenced by the nasty breakup of the Trump/Cruz bromance, name calling is counter-productive. It makes everyone look foolish, and cheapens the process of selecting the next leader of the free world.

                Those of us who have developed partisan points of view should remember that we have an obligation to our fellow citizens who have not. They should be treated with respect, because it is they who will decide the outcome of this election. It is unacceptable to flim-flam those you respect. Ditto for your candidate. If they do, perhaps you should reexamine your loyalties.

                If all of this sounds a bit “preachy,” I suppose it is. It is as hard for a liberal to go non-judgmental cold turkey as it would be for Rush Limbaugh to say something non-judgmental about Hillary, Bernie, or Martin. I think, however, that the stakes are worth the effort.  After all, we are charting our national course for the next several years. After the bands stop playing, the fireworks go dim, and the pundits scurry back to their respective think tanks, we will have to live with the result of this year’s campaigning. Let’s hope that result is based somewhat on substance, and not entirely on circus.

                For the record, I am still trying to come up with a zinger response to the wife, but the odds of doing so are not looking good. I haven’t won a battle of wits with her since before Jimmy Carter was president.

                Oh well, keep on truckin’.

We should all occasionally take a walk through a cemetery. It helps keep things in perspective.

            We live in an age of hyperbole. The best, the worse. The most, the least. The largest, the smallest. The brightest, the dimmest. The highest, the lowest. When we speak in extremes, it should come as no surprise that our penchant for the radical bleeds through to other aspects of our being, for example, our political opinions.

            In expressing our political likes and dislikes, moderation is increasingly taking a back seat to the intemperate.

            In their day, many now considered to be political giants were the targets of such hyperbolic distortions.

            Abraham Lincoln was considered by many — including members of his own cabinet — to be totally unqualified to be president. He was called “The Great Ape.” Walk through an older cemetery, and you’ll find in residence some of the folks who held that view. History has come to a different conclusion.

            To some, Franklin Roosevelt is the political giant who brought the country through the Great Depression. To others, he is a traitor to his class who put the country on the path to a socialist nanny-state. Take your pick. In the solitude of the graveyard, you will find proponents of all sides of the argument.

            The current occupant of the White House has been called the most incompetent president we have ever had. Seems a bit drastic an assessment, especially given the fact his tenure is not even concluded. Rest assured, however, in time, there will be sufficient resting places to accommodate both critics, and supporters.

            As the curtain comes up on 2016, we are faced with the spectacle of an election that will decide not only who will be the next president of the United States, but also the 435 members of the House of Representatives and roughly one-third of the 100 members of the Senate.

            Some have pointed out that this is serious business, which indeed it is, although a little levity from time to time helps maintain one’s sanity. Lighten up, buttercup. There is room for both.

            All indications are that it’s going to be a rough ride — made even more so by the sparsity of common ground between the contending points of view.

            On the one hand, it’s all the fault of an overreaching executive who refuses to compromise. On the other, it’s a do-nothing Congress whose majority has made a conscious decision to sabotage any proposal coming from the executive they consider almost a usurper.

            On these diametrically opposed bare bones will likely be hung campaigns of charge and counter-charge, harangue and bluster, alarms and calls to the barricades, vilification and exaggeration. Calm discussion displaced by unreasoning verbal hysteria.

                        The political divisions already so evident in our society could become further exacerbated as all sides try to drown out the others, hearing, but not listening. Talking, but not communicating.

            Occasionally take a walk through a cemetery. It helps keep things in perspective.

            Whatever our present passions and apparent lack of common ground, we all have a common final destination. Those who are already there had the same life-and-death passions, although the sound and fury of their days are, at most, only faint echoes in our own.

            In a relatively few years, wherever we find ourselves politically today will become irrelevant — for us personally at least.

            Whether we like it or not, we are on a journey together. It is depressing to think we must spend all our time at each other’s throats. Perhaps we need a little detente. Perhaps we should cut each other some slack. Perhaps while I disagree with your position fundamentally, I should respect your fundamental right to hold it. Perhaps you might reciprocate.

            We can argue our points, but we should keep in mind there is more that unites us as Americans than that which divides us into warring ideological tribes.

            Perhaps by turning down the heat, we can make more reasoned decisions. Perhaps if the candidates find their histrionics falling on deaf ears, they might rethink their strategies and figure out that if they want our vote, they had better treat members of the electorate as sentient adults and not emotional, and pliable, two-year-olds.

            Ironically, what is often taken as a description of unbridgeable division is actually a statement of the ultimate commonality we hold. As Rudyard Kipling put it, “East is east, and west is west and never the twain shall meet.” We rarely remember the rest of the line: “Till earth and sky stand presently at God’s great judgement seat.”

            In Kipling’s poem, there is a final coming together, a mutual respect, even between an English military officer and an Afghan horse thief. If mutual respect between such disparate human beings is possible in a poem, perhaps there is hope we can find it in our real lives.

            Have a nice election, Americans, and the best of luck to us all.

            In the meantime, occasionally take a walk through a cemetery,

            It helps keep things in perspective.

I checked under my bed for enemies this morning, but all I found were a couple of dust bunnies and a chew toy abandoned by the dog. I heaved a sigh of relief for having made it through the night alive, but I know it’s only a matter of time.

            After 9/11, and more recently, after Paris and San Bernardino, I knew there were people out there who would do me harm, given the chance, but I had no conception of the scope of the danger until I started following the debates between those nice Republicans running for president.

            I know now, thanks to the candidates, that the threats to my personal safety come in all shapes and sizes. I used to be just concerned and watchful, but now I am bordering on the hysterical. Being liberated from all rationality, not to mention reality, I am wallowing in fear with my fellow citizens–which seems to be where we are supposed to be if the candidates are to sweep in and save us.

            I have come to understand that terrorism is like Forrest Gump’s box of chocolates; you never know what you’re going to get, but in this case you know it isn’t going to be good. One morning soon, I am going to look under my bed and find a Mexican, or a Muslim, or someone from the government, or a liberal lurking in the dark recesses, ready to send my soul to perdition.

            I never used to be this afraid. I realize now it is my patriotic duty to be petrified.

            That nice Mr. Trump. He’s going to build me a wall to keep me safe. The walls built by Hadrian and the Chinese didn’t work out too well, but I have faith in The Donald. It will be a great wall. The best wall ever built. We’ll be surprised by just how wonderful a wall it is. As a bonus, the Mexicans are going to pay for it. Despite the fact they are all rapists and drug dealers, Mr. Trump says he has some good friends among them who will see that the job gets done. The Donald has good friends in the strangest places—including the Kremlin.

            What a guy!

            While Mr. Trump is protecting us from the hoards below our southern border, his good friend Ted Cruz will keep us safe from the radical Islamic jihadists. Poor Ted. Such sad eyes. Looks like a puppy whose bone has been repossessed by the pet store. Knows what to do though. Carpet bomb the camel jockeys until the sand glows. Of course, in a carpet bombing scenario, the bombs don’t distinguish between fighters and non-fighters, or between jihadists and non-combatant women and children. I don’t know how much collateral damage will be necessary before the ground achieves an acceptable level of iridescence, but as Napoleon put it, “you have to break eggs to make omelets.” I’m sure those among the world’s 1.6 billion Muslims who survive the chastisement will find that a comfort, and will forgive and forget the indiscriminate slaughter of the innocents within a generation or two, or maybe three, or maybe never. Maybe not. After all, they’re still miffed about the Crusades.

            Marco Rubio may look like an aging former boy band singer, but he is more than capable of handling debate chores with any liberal—just ask him. He has a big advantage over his fellow candidates in that he can talk so fast that you either feel rushed into voting for him, or rushed into buying a used car from him.

            If it’s a man from the government hiding under my bed, Rand Paul would be my obvious champion. After all, if elected, he wants a government so small you can’t see it. Odds are he would simply furlough the government guys and turn the presidency into a part-time gig. Consequently, there wouldn’t be any government for the guy to be from.

            Carly Fiorina will advance the public interest by standing on the sidelines assessing the situation, and opining that whatever the issue, or the question, the answer is she wants to take America back. Take it back from whom is never explained, but the code is easily understood by those in the know.

            Dr. Carson will look bemused. Jeb will look like he would rather be somewhere, anywhere, else.

            The balance of candidates will form a Greek chorus, sound ominous, and try to explain to the electorate what the heck is going on. From time to time, they will break out into patriotic airs with the survivors from the kiddie table singing backup, and with accompaniment by the Mormon Tabernacle Choir and/or the Boston Pops.

            Obviously I am stretching things a bit (okay, a lot), but I am doing so to make a point.

            All of these folks are trying to generate support for their respective candidacies. 

            It is far easier to generate support by appealing to emotion rather than to reason or logic. Emotion does not need to be convinced. It is predisposed to be convinced. The candidates know it, and what they are selling is intended to gin up emotions to a fever pitch for their own political benefit. Be afraid, be very afraid, but don’t despair, because I am here to keep you safe from all threats, real—or even imagined.

            Just because they are selling it doesn’t mean Americans should be buying it.

            Don’t get me wrong, there are those out there who would do us harm. We must take all steps necessary to protect the homeland. But those steps should not be taken because of fear or panic. Fear needs be controlled, not encouraged. Panic needs to be resisted, not embraced.

            Hopefully, someone will emerge as an adult in this presidential race, if not from this crop of hopefuls, then maybe from the other side of the political fence.

            These are challenging times. We need a president willing to meet the challenge, not exploit it for political advantage.

 “Going to a garden party”

For a change, let’s talk local.

Tip O’Neill, former Speaker of the House, Democrat stalwart, and friend of Ronald Reagan, is often quoted as having said, “All politics is local.” I don’t know about “all” politics, but I am convinced that the most important politics happens at the local level. You can talk mega-issues that dominate the discussion at the national level, but when you get right down to it, the politics that matter most to the quality of our everyday lives is whether or not the garbage gets picked up, the potholes get filled, the police can catch the bad guys, or the fire department can put out fires.

For years I have groused to my government students at Ivy Tech about the fact that the level of politics meaning the most to us on a daily basis is also the level that gets the least public participation. For example, a few weeks ago we had contested races for mayor and city council. By all accounts, it was hard fought. What was the turnout? About 25 percent of the registered voters in the city? Pathetic.

In the typical way of things, when local elections are over, local politics goes into hibernation until the next round of contests come around. The same familiar names appear on the ballot once again, and the proceedings, generally speaking, are as exciting as watching paint dry. Really pathetic.

This year I got an invitation to a holiday party sponsored by the local Democrat party. To be honest, I stopped going to these things a quarter century ago, but on a whim, I decided to come out of my academic shell and mix with the current crop of local activists on that side of the political fence.

Some things have changed. Democrats used to gather in local union halls, with the likes of John F. Kennedy and Walter Reuther (okay, time out, get out your Google machine, dial up “Walter Reuther”) smiling down from their pictures on the wall. There aren’t as many union halls as there were, so this soiree took place in an up-scale third floor condo in the near downtown—a space that a couple of years ago was derelict, and probably had been derelict since VJ Day (grab the Google machine again, dial up “VJ Day”).

Some things were pretty much the same. There were multiple petitions to sign to get state and national candidates on the ballot for next May’s primary. Since we’re talking about Democrats, the adult beverages were iced down in a tub just inside the front door. I got there about a half hour after the official start, so the buffet looked as though it had been attacked by a swarm of locusts. Democrats have healthy appetites, especially when the food is free.

Looking around, I saw several current city office holders, mayors and council members, all milling about, seeing and being seen. There was a guest who will be running for the United States Senate seat being vacated by Sen. Dan Coats. He did his basic five-minute “I am so glad to be in (fill in the blank)” stump speech, and then he continued circulating around the room.

I saw folks I worked with in a past life. No offense, but they were looking a little grayer around the edges, unlike myself, who hasn’t aged a day since William Jefferson Clinton was inaugurated. Too bad I can’t say the same for the portrait in the attic.

All in all, I was beginning to feel nostalgic, when I remembered a lyric from a Ricky Nelson song (Google machine alert, dial up “Ricky Nelson”): “But if memories were all I sang, I’d rather drive a truck.”

What was it that made this evening more than just a trip down memory lane?

There was new blood in the room!

There was a newly elected city councilman there. I was around for his baptism. There was a young woman who had put herself through undergrad, got her master’s, and will be announcing for county council in 2016, hoping to be the first female elected to that body. There were young adults with long hair, earrings, and pork pie hats. There were moms whose little kids were playing on the floor with their Star Wars figures.

There was life in that room. There was electricity.

Democrats, especially Howard County Democrats, are terminally optimistic. They have to be, because they regularly get spanked in county wide elections, particularly in presidential years when the county votes Republican up and down the ticket. I should know, I was among the spanked back in 1980. Ronald Reagan is not my friend.

But then I talked to one of the party officials, and he got to talking about what is already being put in place for 2016. I come from the “3X 5 index card in a steel file drawer” school of politics. This guy was talking about voter registration tactics, computers, tracking voters, social media, and tech-based strategies on the political cutting edge. Did I mention much of this technology is in place and being used locally today in preparation for 2016?

Don’t get me wrong, there was a recognition that winning county-wide races is an uphill climb in a Republican-dominated county, but there was a feeling in that room that it could be done.

I don’t know what my Republican friends are doing on their side of the local political divide, but be aware these aren’t your gran-pappies’ Democrats–and they intend to win.

Who knows how it will all turn out? One thing is certain, however. More competition in 2016 can only serve to benefit our community generally—and that is to the good.

As for myself, I went home humming a few bars of Ricky Nelson.

Much has been said about Muslim radicalization, and the threat it represents to our way of life. Perhaps it is time to consider the threat to our way of life posed by the radicalization of a significant percentage of non-Muslim Americans.

                We are being subjected to an ever increasing barrage of inflammatory rhetoric by Republicans chasing their party’s presidential nomination. Donald Trump is the current inflamer-in-chief, but he is not alone. Nothing appears to be out of bounds, nor has anything been out of bounds for the last eight years, which is what happens when all sense of propriety and civility are tossed out the window.

                But this isn’t yet another diatribe about Donald Trump, or any of the other GOP candidates. It’s about the thousands of Americans in audiences across the country who lap up the extremist claptrap spewed by The Donald and his ilk, and then clamor for more of the same. It is about those good salt of the earth Americans without whom The Donald would merely be a silly looking man with a suspect complexion and even more suspect hairdo baying at the moon in an empty auditorium—instead of being the leading candidate of his party for the most powerful position on the face of the earth—President of these United States.

                Overwhelmingly, these are good people. They grew up believing that if you worked hard you could earn your own little slice of the American pie. You didn’t need a fancy college degree to get ahead. A good set of hands and a willingness to work would be enough to see you through. There would be wages sufficient to live comfortably. If you gave your life to a company, at the end of your working career, there would be a defined benefit pension. Change, if there had to be change, would evolve gradually and give enough time to come to terms with it. They felt safe.  They were proud of their flag. They trusted the government it symbolized. Most importantly, they knew their place in society and it gave them a sense of place.

                Then, in a comparatively short span of years, the world, as they knew it, disappeared.

                As businesses consolidated and became multi-national, the bottom line became the only line. Company CEO’s claimed their only loyalty was to their shareholders to the exclusion of all others. Collective bargaining units were at first vilified and then de-certified. On the wages front, the race towards the bottom began. The jobs they felt were secure went away. Bankruptcy courts were used by the powerful to shed contractual obligations—especially employee benefits. The tax code became a playground wherein extravagantly paid specialists found new, esoteric, and technically legal, ways to pay fewer taxes than workers paid on their own salaries. Corporate headquarters migrated to a post office box in some out of the way place off shore to avoid the corporation paying their fair share back home in the United States. People were unsure of the new world order and their place in it. The “land of the free and home of the brave” became the land of the uncertain and the home of the afraid.

                Ominously, people began to suspect that their own government was complicit in bringing about their personal catastrophizes. Congress came to be seen as a client of the money men who funded re-election campaigns. Elected officials came to be seen as agents of special interests rather than representatives of the voters who elected them.

                It didn’t take long for the disaffected to be mined for political purposes. As far back as 1970, Vice President Spiro Agnew began to rail against the “nattering nabobs of negativity,” those intellectuals who had the audacity to question the will of the silent majority—as interpreted by the administration.

                And the disaffected ate it up.

                In the ensuing years, a succession of political and faith-based opportunists, primarily Republican, manipulated this segment of the population for their own ends. It wasn’t all that hard. Talk about an earlier simpler time. Suggest who was responsible for those good times going away.  Rev up the anger and the frustration, point the faithful in the general direction of a ballot box, and then wait for the predictable outcome. Do nothing beyond drumming up a new set of fears and promises for the next election. It worked time and again.

                But it does not appear to be working this time.

                It seems there is a growing suspicion among the disaffected that they have been “had.” Despite forty years of answering the call each election, nothing much has changed. Those that have, have. Those left out, remain left out.

                They are frustrated, and they are angry. They appear ready to turn against the political class that treated them as reliable patsies. They appear ready to radicalize, and it’s hard to blame them.

                This is where things get dangerous.

                On the one hand, you have a crop of Republican presidential candidates sitting on top of the polls who seem willing to sell whatever they believe the so-called base is willing to buy at the moment for short term political gain. You have a base that is willing to buy whatever is being sold by the candidates at any given time, so long as it feeds their need to lash out at the establishment they perceive as having failed them.

                Consequently, candidates can come out in support of religious tests for entry into this country. They can talk about registering members of a given religion in some kind of national registry. They can call for shutting down places of worship that they find offensive. They can call for penalizing individuals simply because of their place of origin.

                All of these tactics are illegal, unlawful, and unconstitutional. More importantly, they are not who we are as a people (we hope), and they do incalculable damage to how we are perceived in the rest of the world.

                To which the likely answer is, we are only talking about one religion, and we are at war with the radicals who use that religion as an excuse for their criminal acts, consequently, restrictions are justified as necessary measures to prosecute the “war.” It’s only common sense.” “Common Sense” comes to be seen as license to ignore considerations such as a Constitution or a Bill of Rights.

                Create tools legitimizing discrimination and repression in order to “keep us safe”  to assuage the fearful in the short term, and it is permissible to ignore the fact such tools can be used–and they will be used, and abused–in circumstances down the road never contemplated at the time of their creation.

                How much further are candidates willing to go to garner the support of a segment of the population that is increasingly volatile? At what point do the leaders become the led—and where will they be willing to be led in order to maintain their own relevancy?

                It is all very well to criticize the candidate for stepping over the line, but the candidate per se is not the issue. Candidates come and go. The real issue is the people listening to the candidate, and where they collectively are willing to go politically.

                These citizens have real grievances that need to be addressed. While it was inconvenient and unnecessary to address them when those aggrieved were more malleable, that is no longer the case. Their time has come. Should their concerns be shelved until the next election, the possibility exists that the anger, frustration, and fear of the disaffected will transition into nihilism, and that represents a grave danger to the continuation of the republic itself.

It’s a question of balance, and the danger lurking should balance be lost.

I have never been a fan of John Boehner. Maybe it was jealousy over his perpetual tan. More likely it had to do with what I perceived to be his seeming knee-jerk negativity. If it came from 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, John could be relied upon to vent his opposition immediately in apocalyptic sound bites—even if the idea originally came from his own party. He was just too predictable.

However, the circumstances surrounding his recent demise as Speaker of the House are forcing me to reassess the gentleman from Ohio.

When I hear his colleagues from both sides of the aisle in the House say John Boehner is a good man, who honored the institution, and tried to move the people’s business ahead, well, heck, they know him better than I do. Maybe I should cut him some slack.

When I listen to the kind of folks in his own party who are reveling in his departure, I am even more convinced a little reconsideration is in order.

By all accounts, Boehner’s apostasy had to do moving legislation along over the objections of the Tea Party wing of his own caucus—sometimes going as far as (gasp) soliciting Democrat votes to do so. Just imagine – actually joining with the opposition to conduct the business of governing.

Unimaginable. Unforgiveable.

Don’t get me wrong. John Boehner is not a closet liberal. He is a rock ribbed conservative who could proudly share the stage with a Barry Goldwater or a Ronald Reagan, but he apparently drew the line at being a party to bringing down the legislative branch in flames—and for this reluctance, he was so vilified and harried that he felt he had no choice not only to step down from the speaker’s chair, but from out of the chamber itself. He has become a victim of the current Republican brand of conservatism beginning to eat its own.

This development is troubling. It means that there is a significant minority in the Republican caucus who would rather see our government fail than proceed in any manner other than their own no-compromise, take-no-prisoners, scorched-earth game plan. They have not hesitated hollow out the center of their own party, leaving their far right brand of orthodoxy in total control. If they can peddle their agenda effectively, it is their aim to eventually take total control of the Republic itself.

If this were to come to pass, it would be a betrayal of a basic premise of the Constitution itself—unity without uniformity.

The Constitution contemplates hearing many different voices, all competing for acceptance in the marketplace of ideas—but, nevertheless, all with a common commitment to making this government work—not advocating, however veiled the threat, to blow it up in the hope that something better and more to their liking will arise out of the ashes.

Unity without uniformity.

The document that came out of the Philadelphia convention in 1787 is one big balancing act hammered out not by angels, but by political factions representing deeply divided interests—small states versus large states, North versus South, strong central government versus weak central government, elites versus the common man.

There was a recognition that it was impossible to come up with a political testament that would please everybody entirely, so the Framers settled for a system that at least allowed contending factions to co-exist.

They settled not for the perfect, but for the possible.

(Is anyone paying attention?)

The genius was to encourage, through the establishment of various branches of government and the concept of checks and balances, the creation of a tension between competing political poles—the ying and yang of political thought. We need a John Boehner, just as we need a Nancy Pelosi. We need a Mitch McConnell as much as we need an Elizabeth Warren. The willingness to engage in political discourse is critical. As the extremes make their case, a more moderate middle rounds off the sharp edges, which allows for an accommodation wherein government can function—like a metal ball suspended between two magnets. Destroy one of the magnets—or refuse to engage in the discourse—and the whole construct collapses.

How all of this will turn out is up in the air. We have experienced periods of divisive politics before—even a civil war—and we have muddled through. This should give us hope, but not comfort.  Historically, democracies or republics have not been successful. Starved of input by a public more interested in other things, they typically fall prey to interests who may represent themselves as being patriotic, but are essentially anti-democratic, assuming being democratic infers being open to a lively interchange of ideas and a give and take among those elected to represent the public at large.

As 2016 approaches, it is incumbent upon us to pay attention to what is being said, and what is being advocated as a right path for the future. There is danger here. Should we fail to do so, and should we put into power those who believe the only right path is their own, we run the risk of Lincoln’s nightmare coming true—that this government of the people, by the people, and for the people shall perish from the face of the earth.

So long, John Boehner. Happy trails.

Donald Trump? Really? Is this the best we can do? Is our national political process so bankrupt that bombast can pass as rational political discourse, and a huckster can pass as a serious contender for the presidential chair previously occupied by the likes of George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Abraham Lincoln, Franklin Delano Roosevelt, or even Ronald Reagan?

Make no mistake, this wheeler-dealer real estate tycoon cum reality show personality, this builder of thousand-mile fences, deporter of multi-millions, and amender of the Constitution, stands a fair to middling chance to become the next nominee of his party, and perhaps, elected leader of this republic.

How has this descent into lunacy come to pass?

Take a look in the mirror.

Donald Trump, or someone like him, exists because he represents what a significant percentage of us yearn for—a plain-talking knight in shining armor  who offers simple black-and-white solutions to complex problems, problems that we find to be overly vexing and would prefer not to have to think about too much or in detail.

Donald Trump, or someone like him, exists because he is outrageous and eminently quotable,  perfect for filling air time in our 24/7 news cycle.

Donald Trump, or someone like him, exists because Barack Obama is president.

Excuse me? That sounds a bit far-fetched.

Really?

Even before he took office, the national Republican establishment made the conscious decision that this particular president would get no cooperation, no victories—even at the cost of national gridlock—all designed to ensure that this particular president with the funny name would only have one term.

And yes, the new president could have played things better than he did, albeit there is little evidence to suggest that another approach would have yielded different results.

To cover their tracks, the Republican establishment encouraged the birth of what would become the Tea Party to serve as an attack dog from whose excesses they could plausibly distance themselves.

To their horror, the attack dog turned on its creators and took over the party of Lincoln and Reagan, to the extent that neither Lincoln nor Reagan would be ideologically pure enough to be acceptable to the new political order.

In the process, since the original puppet masters thought they could distance themselves from their attack dogs, the dogs were enabled to do or say whatever craziness came to mind so long as it contributed to the greater good of vilifying the incumbent president of the United States. All of which was duly reported with various degrees of fairness and balance.

And then, despite their best efforts, the devil’s spawn was re-elected. The fact that this re-election reflected the will of a majority of the American electorate meant nothing to the faithful.

Their demand to “take back their country” ramped up into even more strident levels of sound and fury. Take back their country to what, or to when, or for whom?

The key to the nomination for any current Republican candidate is to figure out a way to answer those three questions and successfully package the product as something new, and fresh, and above all, different.

Enter Donald Trump—not a politician, but one heck of a salesman. A shark among little fish.

In place of thought-through policies, he has sound bites—but, based on many national polls, those sound bites speak to what many in the Republican base want to hear, and more importantly, in some instances, they speak to the aspirations of many beyond that base.

Could Donald Trump, or someone like him, be successful as a president? Who knows? The facts would argue against it, but as a friend recently told me, “facts don’t mean anything anymore.”

If it does come to pass, and ends badly, we elected him. Look in the mirror.

To paraphrase an old cartoon character, “we have met the enemy, and he is us.”

Truer words were never spoken.