Donnie Brooks Taylor
I recently came across a note about an effort to memorialize the victims of September eleventh (
2,996: A Tribute to the Victims of 9/11). Being someone who has struggled with the event (much less the effort to address it), I felt compelled to participate.
I knew nothing of Donnie Brooks Taylor, his life, his interests, his passions or his accomplishments, I was at a loss to sufficiently address him as a human being standing inconveniently in the way of an assassin's bullet. This brought me to recall a poem that I'd written shortly after the event:
I did not know you
Sitting alone
Kitchen table
A toaster that sparks
Nor you
Who shuddered
With the sound of
Hot water
Rumbling through
The pipes
And you
Whose only crime
A daily one
Extra pat of
Butter
For your roll
What are your names
Crushed now
Beneath the weight
Of hatred, fear
What are your lives
But shadows
Glimpses
Of mine
As yet, I know little about Donnie. However, since the event of September 11, 2001, that no longer matters. He was, as we all are, a victim of hatred. In his case, the price was his life.
His life may have been insignificant to some, or emblematic of sin to others, but it was a life no less valuable than mine or yours. He was a human being whose dreams fell unfulfilled simply because he was unlucky enough to accept employment in someone else's combat zone.
He might have been a person who mistakenly believed that our purpose in life was to raise children conscious of the needs of others, or an individual who thought that the beliefs of one person did not trump those of another. He might have felt the need to address the inadequacies of the poor or the injustices of the powerful. He might have been one who found comfort in the small victories of the underprivileged or championed the toils of the over-worked. Whether all or none of these things are true, one thing remains, Donnie Brooks Taylor is no longer with us, and we are the lesser for it.
Manifesto
There seems no shortage of people willing to express any dissatisfaction imaginable regardless the issue. Were this sufficient to improve our condition, I might be inclined to excuse this activity. However, in as much as criticism does not itself alter anything save the immediate understanding of how the critical perceive, I find myself questioning my own propensity to contribute in such a fashion. This being said, I’ve elected to no longer engage in said activity unless I can add constructively to the discourse. As a result, I’ll no longer be visiting with our dear Mr. Williams whose recent venting has, at least to my ear, resembled little more than whining. From this point, I aim to contribute rather than scoff, suggest rather than deride, question constructively and add, in what small way I might, to the discourse unique to humanity.
As Concerns Morality
I was sure to inquire, upon our next meeting, how our Mr. Williams regarded the recent justice appointment. As was his custom, he eagerly delved into the issue well beyond any interest I might have expressed. Such are the pitfalls of his acquaintance.
“This is precisely where the decision led,” he responded, “well beyond the point of obvious reflection.”
“By ‘the decision’, you are referring to Roe, are you not,” I inquired further.
“Obviously,” he said, condescension ever at the ready, “Roe v. Wade, the Supreme Court decision which galvanizes both sides of the political spectrum to support or oppose every prospective justice.”
“The left claims that the defense of this judgment is worth all expense, be it political or otherwise. Their argument is that an overturn of this decision will lead to the demise of all personal freedoms. The right, in the mean time, seeks any opportunity to topple this result, claiming it stands between the states and their right to legislate as they see appropriate. They fervently lobby to counter this decision despite the fact that such an act is neither likely nor beneficial.”
This last remark caught me off guard. After all, I could follow how each extreme had exaggerated the importance of the case. The slippery-slope argument was employed equally on both sides and, as is usually the case, such an argument relied on a great degree of naiveté in those who would accept it. However, I was lost on the issue of benefit.
“I can’t claim to have expected more than confusion,” snapped E.W., “so I will gladly alleviate you of the need to puzzle further.”
“Despite your arrogance,” I responded, “your assistance is welcome.”
“Let us start with the case itself,” he began, “The argument was that the plaintiff’s privacy was violated by the prohibition of an abortion. The claim here was that such a decision should be available to the plaintiff and her doctor and, therefore, was protected under doctor-patient confidentiality.”
“The court, hearing this argument, took to addressing the laws as they stood, their origin, purpose and practicality. Through a meandering exposition, the majority decision found that the original laws were enacted to protect the life of the mother and that, since the procedure no longer endangered the mother’s life, their purpose had been outlived.”
“This left the question as to the sustained argument for the laws. The Court then ventured down the road of the unborn life’s viability. It explored a number of cases of precedence and found sufficient support to limit the scope of laws as they pertained to the viability of the unborn life. They did, however, leave room for challenges to procedures which involved sufficient fetal advancement to raise the question of viability.”
“As a result, the court found that the perpetuation of the laws being challenged in this case, those limiting any instance of this particular medical procedure, was based solely on moral grounds.”
I raised my glass in salute. Had he not merely been a figment of my imagination, I might have nominated him for the next available post on the high court. “Still, E.W., you’ve left the question of benefit unanswered.”
Mr. Williams slowly drank from his snifter, looking at me above its rim. I knew well the disdain that roiled beneath his glare. “I could hardly be more plain,” he responded, “Morality is a thing dictated largely by spiritual beliefs. As we see across the globe, this often means repressive legislation based on the belief's of the few. The Court’s decision, while counter to the wishes of conservative Christians, reinforced the constitutional edict that spirituality has no place in the establishment of laws just as laws have no place in the establishment of spirituality. I have little doubt that laws mandated by the moral teachings of other religions would be just as unpalatable to Christians as is the reverse.”
I finally came to understand his meaning. However, this left my original question unanswered. “How then does this extensive diatribe address my initial inquiry?”
“It doesn’t,” he responded, “though I have little to offer in the case of the newly appointed justice. I can only hope that he has as much respect for the constitution as he claims.”
As The Ball Bounces
I found myself alone at our usual table. The club seemed dramatically empty with the absence of our Mr. Williams. However, the lull did afford me an opportunity to more closely ponder recent developments abroad. Particularly troubling was the democratic process completed in the previous week by the homeless Muslims known as Palestinians. Fortunately, as my thoughts became more muddled, E.W. arrived to shed some illumination on the subject.
“I can scarcely be expected to wander far, sir,” he barked as he took his seat, “Being the result of your limited cognitive processes, I hardly have license to explore beyond the confines of your madness.”
While I was well aware of this fact, I had yet to master such conjuring with any degree of predictability. “Mr. Williams, please be so kind as to indulge my frailties. I’m rather perplexed and in need of your assistance.”
He unsheathed his dagger and, allowing it to glimmer slightly in the dimly lit room, drove it deep into my chest. “You are perpetually perplexed and in need of far more assistance than any might offer save a trained psychological professional. What triviality seems to be providing wind to your sails this evening?”
“Contradictions, it would seem,” was my reply.
“Specific to the recent political stirrings of the Middle East’s downtrodden,” he queried.
“You know my mind too well. Yes, E.W., I am confused by the events of the past weeks, particularly in that region.”
Mr. Williams carefully removed a Cuban cigar from his jacket pocket. As was his custom, he took in its aroma before preparing to light it. “You are confused as to the outcome of this specific political process?”
“Hardly,” I responded, “Knowing the plight of the Palestinians, the corruption which pervaded their previous governing body and the propaganda with which they are undoubtedly inundated, I fully expected them to choose a course of strength, for better or worse. There is surely little hope among these people save where they find a party willing to fight for their liberation, in whatever form that might take.”
Mr. Williams lit his cigar, violently shaking his match to extinguish it before he responded. “It would appear that your confusion is contagious, sir, for you have surely infected me with it. If you are not surprised by the outcome, what of this issue has you so bewildered?”
“Namely the reaction to it,” I answered, “After all, were we not seeking to bring democracy to the world?”
“By we,” he interrupted, “you mean the current administration?”
“Of course,” I replied, “we’ve established that this country does not have the right, responsibility or privilege to force democracy on other sovereign nations, regardless of how such political activity might improve or impair the world community.”
“I’m driving at the conservative response to the election. Weren’t these people seeking to inspire a voice in the disenfranchised of the world? What, then, could be so wrong with the result of a repressed people choosing their leadership?”
Mr. Williams inhaled deeply from his cigar. While one might have confused this for his enjoyment of the fine leaf, my familiarity with him allowed no such delusion; he was merely making me wait for his words of elucidation.
“You confuse the act,” he began, “with the result. The conservatives believe that, given the ability to choose, a free person will select an ideology closely aligned conservatism. They cannot imagine how, provided such a platform for change, the Palestinians would opt for a party that espouses violence. In short, they expected that those who they helped ‘free’ would then begin to think and act like they do.”
“I see,” was my response, “So, instead of democracy, it is a docile validation of conservative values which the administration hopes to install in these countries.”
“Some could see it that way,” said E.W., “though conservatives would prefer to think of it as ‘right thinking’.”
Obviousness and Redundancy
Mr. Williams slowly rose as though he had an announcement of some import. “Recent articles have touched on the concern,” he began, reaching for his pipe, “that the majority of U.S. citizens believe corruption to be commonplace in the nation’s capital.”
“E.W.,” I said, searching the room for anyone who might have overheard, “please keep such proclamations at a semi-audible level.”
Our Mr. Williams was world renown for both dramatic flare and a penchant for attracting attention to himself. Were these the extent of his foibles, he might have been modestly endearing. This aside, he always had the benefit of yours truly to lend an ear. Would that I’d chosen lobotomy or an unscheduled hip replacement, I might have been spared his exposition.
“Suffice it to say,” continued E.W., “few have much confidence that anything of substance is ever achieved in the halls of power without the proverbial greasing of the palm.”
“Your assessment,” I responded, “is as accurate as it is obvious, Mr. Williams. What do you hope to achieve with such banality?”
E.W. trained his condescending stare on me as he regained his seat. “I am merely honing my journalism skills, kind sir. If obviousness and redundancy are their hallmarks, then I must capture the spirit as well.”
As it was not common for Mr. Williams to appear so obtuse, I probed further. “You will need to be considerably more direct, E.W. I am having a devil of a time following your thought.”
“I am uncertain how I might be more clear,” he barked, “I have explained my intention to join the ranks of the revered masters of correspondence. How could that be less unambiguous?”
“Perhaps some context would help,” I pleaded.
Mr. Williams delighted in such volleys. As was his custom, he lingered on my inquiry until my anxiety approached nausea.
“As you are aware,” he started, “the recent Abramoff scandal has sent many a politician running for cover. Rather than soil only his coveted republican party, this particular lobbyist generously tainted any palm willingly lent. The degree to which any of these recipients knew of the source of the funding not withstanding, there is little doubt that very public people will soon become even more so.”
“As a result, the news media chose to inquire into the public perception of capital corruption, so to speak. To their surprise, a majority of Americans believed such vice to be commonplace in Washington.”
I felt compelled to interrupt, “Surely not surprised, E.W. The attitude of mistrust is evident in each election cycle made manifest in dwindling participation.”
“Precisely my point,” he continued, “yet the results are presented as revelation. While the media registers its shock, the constituency sees the Abramoff events as confirmation. Even someone as poorly equipped to confront reality as yourself seems to grasp this.”
“Cynical to the last,” I responded.
“So I chose to seize this opportunity to join their ranks. The skills required to succeed in journalism appear to diminish in inverse proportion to the public’s apathy. Even a fictional character has a chance in that environment.”
“Best of luck,” was my reply.
Talking To The Big Guy
“It would appear,” I said upon my arrival at the club, “that the celebrated Minister Robertson has long been concealing a spiteful deity from his attentive flock.”
E.W., ever the resourceful conversationalist, raised his empty snifter in salute. It was only after I had taken my seat that I realized his gesture was meant as protest rather that acknowledgment. “If I am expected to converse on religious trivialities, the least I might expect is an amply-filled snifter for my trouble,” he remarked.
I could little argue this point. In fact, it was my preference to have our Mr. Williams at least mildly inebriated in the hopes of dulling his acid wit.
“While I am ill equipped to validate the minister’s claims,” I continued, “I did have to question how such vindication fit in the decidedly new testament world of fundamentalist Christianity.”
Mr. Williams waived my question aside, as though my very presence were void of significance. “Save the conjuring of yours truly,” he stated, “your existence would be something approaching counter-significance.”
Rather than providing the validation he’d hoped to provoke, I continued my inquiry. “Does Mr. Robertson expect us to believe, counter to the doctrine of cheek turning, that his almighty might have stricken Mr. Sharon for attempting to achieve peace with Palestinians? For that matter, does he actually believe in his own intimate knowledge of his god’s motives?”
E.W. slowly sipped from his brandy. I might have been mistaken, but it seemed that I could hear his cogitation as gears meshing, grinding through his thought process. “That is the echo of disdain,” he responded, “Surely you do not expect Mr. Robertson to adhere to a doctrine which ill-fits his current agenda. He clearly opposes any reconciliatory act toward Palestinians. Thus, he reaches for older portions of his religious texts to justify this ludicrous position.”
Mr. Williams was, as usual, spot on in his assessment. It suddenly became clear to me that Mr. Robertson’s bid for the presidency was far from coincidence; he appeared just as gifted in misdirection, subterfuge and back-pedaling as was the most seasoned Washington politico.
“What of this communication,” I responded, “is it merely a tool employed to justify his agenda, or do you suppose that the minister believes he has a direct line to his god?”
“It is just as likely that Mr. Robertson has direct communication with his god as it is that Mr. bin Laden has with his, a fact that can hardly be disputed.”
Were surprise a mountain, I might just have surmounted Everest. “What would inspire you, Mr. Williams, to make a claim such as that?”
“Lacking any concrete evidence,” he responded, “I would surmise that any Jihadist who’d survived so many suicide missions must have some direct correspondence with his divinity.”
“I suppose,” was my response, “though I would hope that a being of omniscience, an attribute claimed for their god by both Mr. Robertson and Mr. bin Laden, would have been more discriminating in the selection of a spokesperson.”
They Must Know Something…
A sense of dread always accompanies an extended absence from our most distinguished club. For the source of this dread, I might point to the distance from a comfortable locale or the yearning for the finely crafted Cuban leaf oft enjoyed in said environs. While these things might indeed inspire a certain mood, they are hardly the nourishment upon which trepidation might be instigated. Instead, my anxiety is triggered by the anticipation of again seeing our Mr. Williams and what is certain to be a vitriol-laced diatribe fostered by my extended absence.
“You are hardly the most endearing of hosts,” he responded upon my return, “to fear an encounter with one of your own conjuring bespeaks of your questionable sanity.”
“E.W.,” I responded, “there is little call for personal attacks. Surely you can find something constructive to contribute.”
“You did not have the misfortune of spending the last fortnight with the singularly dreadful Mr. Russell,” he said.
Having never actually met the chap, I felt ill equipped to respond. As a point of fact, I was none too certain that an imaginary person could have, in turn, an imaginary confederate. However, I preferred to adjust to Mr. Williams’ perversions rather than risk having my own introduced to the discussion. “Such is the danger when one finds it necessary to conjure up one’s companionship. There is always a threat that the result will be disagreeable. My own situation provides ample evidence of that. Please, do tell, what might dear Mr. Russell have said that sparked such contempt?”
E.W. sat heavy in his chair, roughly brushing aside some unseen lint from his smoking jacket. Knowing him as I do, I understood this to mean that he remained in the throes of whatever emotion had been stirred by his compatriot.
“While there are any number of examples worthy of note,” he began, “one conversation in particular inspired ample spleen. In summary, we had been discussing the deplorable state of our national media. As is my custom, I pointed out the bias present in nearly every outlet. While this bias is not limited to the left, the liberal influence is arguably the most pervasive in the main stream. With this he had no quarrel.”
“As well he should not,” I interjected.
“In fact,” continued E.W., “he went so far as to question whether this was a desirable state.”
I was dumbfounded. “Mr. Williams, surely your friend did not mean to imply that the reporting of news should include any political bias. His argument must have been the defense of editorial writers rather than editorial reporting.”
“Would that were the case,” responded E.W., “Rather, his argument was that the pervasiveness of liberalism in the media might be an indication that those who perpetuate left-leaning editorial reporting are privy to knowledge which inspires such recklessness. In short: he believes that this sizable contingent must be liberal because they know something of Washington that we do not know.”
“Remarkable,” was my response, “and how did you respond to such lunacy?”
Mr. Williams smiled broadly. Had I not known him, I might have mistaken this as a cordial acknowledgment or a friendly approval. However, there was the distinct air of the sinister in that smile. “I asked Mr. Russell when he might begin consuming excrement, for surely several trillion flies must know something of this delicacy that man has yet discovered.”
“Really, E.W.,” I said, “your penchant for vulgarities is disturbing in the least.”
