Prelude to the McCain Memo

Frankly, I am sick of having to cajole and threaten my liberal friends into not voting for John McCain. Interestingly, while about 99% of my friends are very liberal, it is only guys who I have to persuade not to run over to the McCain camp – perhaps they are more susceptible to the uber-masculine war heroism, or perhaps it’s just that my female friends are more aware that McCain has spent decades voting in support of efforts to overturn Roe v.Wade. Regardless, every once in a while a person whose opinions I respect – a person who is not functionally illiterate, who has all of his chromosomes intact and who does not ever say things like “sure I believe in gun control: I control my gun, you control yours!” – will tell me that he “likes” John McCain.

This would be fine, if they meant “He seems like a nice guy. Sure would be great to sit and have a Budweiser with old John McC and ask him about ‘Nam and find out if there were ever any sort of love/hate forbidden fruit sexual tension sparks between him and Pelosi.” Because while to me he doesn’t seem like a nice guy, he certainly does seem like an interesting character, and having a brewsky with him would probably be a nice way to spend an afternoon. And for real, the man fell out of a plane into a lake, sat in a prison cell for years, and when he was offered his freedom refused it unless all the other POWs would also be released. Clearly he has balls of steel and one can only imagine the stories that he would tell once you plied him with your charms and perhaps a couple of whiskey sodas.

But like I said, this isn’t what they mean. They say, haltingly and with flushed cheeks, “You know, I kind of like John McCain.” I scowl disapprovingly, but think maybe I have misunderstood, and employ my best 6th grade girl disambiguation technique: “What, you like him? Or do you like him like him?” And of course, they like him like him, for which read they like him electorally. And I am forced to use the only powers of persuasion I have at my disposal. First I tell them – in case they have missed it, or I was wrong about the wholeness of their chromosomal structure – that McCain is a conservative Republican. He uses this label himself. He is not a moderate. And as a liberal Democrat, I don’t think it’s unreasonable to dismiss someone (as a Presidential candidate, not as a human being) out of hand for this reason.

I wait for it to sink in. I wonder if I should give some background information, possibly the definitions of the words “conservative,” “liberal,” “Democrat,” and “Republican.” I search blank eyes for a glimmer of comprehension or at least a twinkle of cognitive dissonance. I get nothing.

I change tactics. “If you vote for John McCain in 2008 I will never speak to you again.” Disappointingly, this tactic rarely meets with success. I revert.

“There are stances that go along with being a conservative Republican. You know? Attitudes about war, about reproductive rights, about the place of religion in public policy, about the role of corporate money in public policy, about social services, about Medicaid and Social Security, about public housing, about the drug war, about education, about gun control, about environmental regulations, about privacy rights, about the allocation of funds between all of these things…” I wait. There it is: “well, like, what specifically? I mean, what specifically does he say on these things that you don’t think I would agree with?”

By this time, I am fumbling for concrete examples. There are two reasons for this. First, these conversations inevitably take place at bars late at night, and when John McCain’s name is first mentioned, I inevitably order a shot to take the edge off. The longer the conversation goes on, the more alcohol is imbibed (in fairness to me, both parties are partaking of the discourse-ruining booze), hindering my ability to recall salient details, bolstering my sense of indignation, and further empinkening my pinko-commie sensibilities with each passing moment. Second, the combination of alcohol and irritation has by this point raised my blood pressure to catastrophically high levels and I fear that actually repeating verbatim his support for the troop surge, I might actually give myself an aneurism. And so I excuse myself, promising to compile a thorough but non-exhaustive memo detailing the reasons that McCain is not their man for 2008. And now, booze-free (one would have to hope – it is 1:20 pm on a Thursday) in the cold fluorescent light of day, I am setting out to create the McCain Memo… stay tuned.

Hell hath no fury like a warmonger scorned

I grew up sure of the fact that the United States had never lost a war. Revolutionary, Civil, Spanish-American, of 1812, WWI, WWII – we rocked the house in all of these venues. My certainty of our ability to win all wars all the time was largely due to the fact that in every American History class I ever took – from 5th grade through the end of highschool – we started with the founding fathers, moved chronologically forward and always ran out of time in the school year before learning anything about Vietnam. Then when I was 9 or 10 there was the Gulf War, in which we were treated to several weeks of American military dominance played out on network news in glowing green nightvision camera images of palm trees and domed buildings silhouetted by bombs. And, inevitably, we won.

And whatever else I think about war in general and the Iraq War in particular, I like this story: that we always win. That it is even our birthright to always win, because our Constitution is the best, and our governmental framework with the separation of church and state and the no taxation without representation and the freedom of the press and religion is also the best, and our Emancipation Proclamation manifest destiny liberation of concentration camps history is also the best, and all of this bestness entitles us to win. Everything. Every time. And while I am now able to analyze current affairs with a bit more sophistication than I could at age 9, I still have this feeling. And so, no matter how much I hate and resent the fact that we are now involved in a war that was entered into under a series of false pretenses and which continues to ruin our country’s international credibility and which has depleted our army’s resources and ballooned our national debt, I was still a little riled to hear Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid say, “This war is lost.”

That kind of talks stings even those of us who hate the war, because even though we hate the war, we like the story about being eternal, deserving, benevolent, winning winners.

And so it should come as no suprise that Reid was called “disrespectful and hate filled,” suffers from “foot in mouth disease,” and of course he has “turned his back on the troops” and “emboldened the enemy.” Republican House member and 2008 presidential hopeful Duncan Hunter has even called for Reid to step down as Majority Leader as a result of the comment.

This reaction is understandable, but let’s take a moment to think it through logically and not allow our bruised egos to shape our reactions, shall we, gentle readers? First, let’s look at the whole quote. Soundbites are tasty, but context is so much more nutritious.

“I believe myself that the secretary of state, secretary of defense and — you have to make your own decisions as to what the president knows — (know) this war is lost and the surge is not accomplishing anything as indicated by the extreme violence in Iraq yesterday,”

So, he thinks the war is lost. In the same speech, he also said this:

“In short, there is no evidence that the escalation is working – and it should come as no surprise, because, as General Petraeus has said, the ultimate solution in Iraq is a political one, not a military one.

And General Abizaid said, ‘It is easy for the Iraqis to rely upon to us do this work. I believe that more American forces prevent the Iraqis from doing more, from taking more responsibility for their own future.’

Prior to this troop surge, President Bush had called for three surges – and each time they failed. Yet, despite this writing on the wall, he sent even more troops to battle — and asked again for our patience.

It has now been three months, and despite the President’s happy talk, no progress has been made. The time for patience is long past.”

This sucks! For the last couple of years I have been hoping that my thoughts about the war would be proven wrong, that Iraq would become a happy democracy and the troops would come home, having won the war and the hearts and minds and everything. But hold on, what sucks isn’t what Harry Reid said, it’s the situation that he was talking about. Is it really unpatriotic and hateful to point out that things have gone terribly wrong? Or is it unpatriotic and hateful to cause things to go terribly wrong, watch things go terribly wrong, and all the while sit back and assure yourself and others that “we are winning in Iraq ” (The National Review, May 2005), “the insurgency is in its last throes” (Cheney, June 2005), or that “We’re winning, and we will win” (GW Bush, March 2006)?

It certainly does suck to hear, in such clear language, that Senator Reid thinks the war is lost. But years and years of pretending to have won and to be winning have not worked. It might be time to stop stroking our national ego and coddling our collective sense of patriotism and say, “Wow. This has been a disaster. What the fuck are we going to do now?” It’s not fun. It’s not heartwarming. But it’s true, and that’s a nice change in our political discourse, and a good place to start.

I’m back (III) or: How Not to Apply to Graduate School

Willie Nelson: Mammas, don’t let your babies grow up to be cowboys.
Me: Also, don’t let them grow up to be massively indecisive and frightened of educational commitment.

Another thing I have done during my vacation from the internet is hear from graduate schools. To catch you up on my career direction or lack thereof, here is the story: Last year I decided (sort of, in a very wishy-washy way) to apply to law school. I was never very enthusiastic about the prospect except when I was watching the West Wing and imagining myself to be a female Toby Ziegler. The thing is, I watched the West Wing a lot, so I was pretty excited about law school a lot of the time. Meanwhile, I also really like writing and was taking some great writing classes at NYU for fun. So I thought, hey, what the heck, I’ll throw my hat in the ring and apply to Journalism School and an MFA Writing program as well. Why not? (Children: I’ll tell you why not – you ought to know what field you want to go into before you start writing heartfelt admissions essays about how it is your lifelong dream to be an attorney, and a writer, and a journalist. That’s why.)

It turns out that MFA programs and Journalism Schools pretty much uniformly require applicants to take the GRE. Having just spent several months preparing for the LSAT, frankly I was in no mood. So I applied only to Columbia for both programs, because fantastically neither Columbia J-School nor Columbia’s School of the Arts requires it. (Children: do not apply to graduate programs because of the tests they do not require. Man up and take the GRE.)

During the fall when all this was going on, people would ask me which program I really wanted to do and I would answer that I didn’t know. I figured that I would get into one program, and that the wisdom of the admissions officers would be able to dictate to me exactly where my talent – if not my preference, which remains unclear – lies.

Meanwhile, I Netflixed the entire West Wing series and as the credits rolled after the end of the series finale my legal amibitions completely evaporated. This is a good thing. I should note that both of my parents are lawyers and my rational mind is well aware that the life of the attorney is bears little resemblance to the witty, politically crucial, banter-soaked lives of the characters of the Bartlett Administration, but I am pretty easily led astray by television in general and Aaron Sorkin in particular, so there you have it.

So, come April I got two letters – admittances to the CU Journalism School and the CU School of the Arts. Which is completely sweet, but presents a sort of enormous crisis. I know this is a problem of the my diamond shoes are too tight variety, but it is a crisis nonetheless. And so I am opening up the comment portion. You, gentle readers, should tell me what to do. So that you can best instruct me on what I want to be when I grow up, here are the facts: the MFA program is for nonfiction writing and takes 2 years. It is a pretty flexible curriculum and the faculty are amazing superstars. We are talking about writers whose autographs I want. Badly. The J-School is a one year program. A more regimented curriculum with much less creative stuff involved. Also a faculty of superstars. And you emerge with a degree from the Columbia School of Journalism, which makes you employable in a serious way. Which would be a nice change, since the salary I am currently pulling down at my rewarding-in-a-nonmaterial-way-non-profit job works out to a cool $10.15/hour, or roughly the same wage as a skilled babysitter in rural Minnesota.

Your opinions regarding my future, be they informed or otherwise, would be appreciated…

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Update

Gentle readers, I thought I would let you know that I will definitely be going to the School of the Arts to get my MFA in Nonfiction Writing next year. Your comments were very helpful, much appreciated and also unanimously in favor of the MFA.* What I mean to say is that you, gentle readers, are my Oprah, and I will unquestioningly do your will at every turn.