History

A Perfect Big Dipper

 

1001 Days that Shaped the World - Peter Furtado

Those of you who have been following along (bonus points if you were here during the LJ days), know that I have a thing for list books.  I’ve been watching the 1001 Movies You Must Watch Before You Die (latest installment here) in order, and then someone gifted me the book 1001 Days that Shaped the World.

Now, I can’t really take the same approach as with the movies until my time machine gets back out of the shop.  They say it will be ready next week, but they’ve been saying that since November of the year 2472, so not sure whether to believe them anymore*.

So instead of living each of the days listed, I had to settle for another unorthodox way of enjoying this book: reading each entry in the order they printed it–which is to say reading the book cover to cover.

Now these aren’t really books that are best enjoyed by reading it that way.  These books are probably the ultimate bucket-list creators and dippers.  By dippers, I am referring to those books you dip into (hence the name) whenever you need to recall a particular fact or event.

What I particularly enjoy about this one is that the author, Peter Furtado, doesn’t let his politics shape the book.  A real risk in this kind of volume is to make evident one’s own leanings by removing events that don’t align with your political bent.  In reading this one, it’s impossible to know whether the author leans left, right or believes that unicorns are evil.  And that is wonderful in this day and age, especially in a book that would have been utterly ruined and rendered meaningless if someone’s politics had been involved. His professionalism as a curator is hugely beneficial (protip: if you’re running a book, an event or anything else that isn’t specifically political–or which doesn’t have big yellow disclaimers about the content–and your politics show, that is unprofessional).

So I enjoyed this one, learned a huge amount, and recommend to all of you on either side of the spectrum.

I like these books a lot.

 

Gustavo Bondoni is an Argentine writer. His novel Outside tells of really important events that happened a few hundred years from today. If you don’t have a time machine, you may want to buy it here.

 

*Did you see what I did there?

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The Golden Years of the Big Apple

Illustration for Manhattan 45

I probably should have bundled this review together with my post about the Venetian Empire because today’s book was also written by the indomitable Jan Morris.  The reason I didn’t is twofold: first off, I want to keep the posts about Italy separate from other things because the whole Italian-reading period in my life coincided with the writing of a novel.  The second reason is that I forgot that today’s book was next in the queue.

 

Manhattan '45 by Jan Morris

The book in question is Manhattan ’45, and, like the Venetian book, the one I read was a Folio Society edition, one that, with the day-glo pink highlights and evocative period photographs was ver inviting to read from a visual standpoint.  The prose, as seems to be the norm when it comes to Morris is also welcoming and colloquial – Morris is clearly a popular writer as opposed to a stuffy historian.

Equally clear is the affection that Morris has for this particular subject.  WWII was ending, the world could move on to other things… and it was a time of joy and expectation in the densely packed metropolis.  One could quite easily have thought that New York was the center of the world immediately after the war, and one would quite likely have been right.  It’s a great subject to write about, if a slightly obvious one.  Still, Morris got there first, so everyone else will always be the imitators.

It’s a great book to learn about the city as it was precisely at that time… and perhaps therein lies its weakness.  Though charming, the snapshot of a city, no matter how quirky, isn’t memorable in the way the hundreds-of-years-long exploits of an empire and its charismatic leaders can be.  This one is a book to dip into when you want to be transported elsewhere, but not one that you’ll remember details of later.  It’s like looking at pictures of the British countryside.  You can’t relive the sensation unless you’re actually interacting with it right now.

The true downside?  It’s nearly impossible to share.  You can’t sit at a party and tell a pretty girl (or boy) something you gleaned here.  “There used to be a Clarke’s on Third Avenue in the shadow of the El Train” just doesn’t evoke the same feeling that reading about the underworld beneath the tracks does.

Either way, I enjoyed reading it, and dipping back into it to write this review, so I’m happy I purchased it.  But if I had to choose a Morris, I’d go with Venice every day.

 

Gustavo Bondoni is an Argentine novelist whose latest book is a comic fantasy set in ancient Greece entitled The Malakiad.  Check it out!  Paperback and Ebook.

Dr. Livingstone, I Presume

As I’ve mentioned here before, I live about a block and a half from a beautiful Anglican church that holds a jamboree every year.  They have games for children, food and, in one delightful room, piles of used books for sale.

I particularly love this because the kind of books they have for sale tend towards the things that the British community in Argentina would have had on their shelves in the fifties, sixties and seventies: books and other periodicals in English that I never would have thought to buy for myself.  Often, they can be had for a token price and all proceeds go to charity, so there’s plenty of incentive to bring home something outside your normal comfort zone.

The White Nile by Alan Moorhead

One of these titles was The White Nile by Alan Moorehead, a hefty hardcover that I immediately grabbed out of the pile.

Now, for those of you who don’t know it, the history of the exploration and colonization of the lower reaches of the Nile in the latter half of the 19th century is fascinating, and Moorehead’s style makes for gripping reading.  The tale of Livingstone and Stanley is probably the most famous of these, but perhaps the military quests and particularly Gordon’s famous defeat at Khartoum are the most interesting parts.

Like Tarzan of the Apes, this is a book that one needs to read without falling into the revisionist trap.  Published in 1960, a time where the glories of the British Empire lived vividly in the minds of many, it doesn’t pander to modern sensibilities.  That’s not to say it’s rampantly racist or one-sided–it isn’t; Moorehead was a historian with a decent amount of sensitivity to the people he wrote about–but it IS written from the British viewpoint, and exclusively through the testimony of white explorers, many of whom truly believed that they were bringing light to a dark region of the world.  When you read their descriptions of what they found, it’s even possible for open-minded readers to understand why they felt this way.

If you can set aside modern thought patterns for a moment, this book is nearly as good as any lost race novel at transporting you to fascinating worlds… with the added benefit that the events related therein actually took place in real life.  It’s an escape from the pressures and rhythms of everyday life that make it well worth the effort of leaving one’s sensibilities aside.

And you’ll learn one heck of a lot along the way.

 

Gustavo Bondoni is an Argentine novelist and short story writer.  He is the author of the well-received novel Siege.

The Byzantine Story of the Buenos Aires Zoo

On a cool evening in the autumn of 2016, I got home and my wife told me that there was an event being held in the neighborhood.  The idea was that one could visit various expositions and historic sites around Belgrano R and get a stamp at each.  Once one had all seven stamps, one could claim a prize.  The only catch was that we had to do it all before 8:30 PM… it was already 6:30.

St Saviour's Church Belgrano

Her kids and I (she couldn’t join due to being seven months pregnant) took off at once.  We rushed around like maniacs and visited 3 churches (including the one in the photo), 2 schools, a social club and some other stuff I can’t remember, walked about three miles and earned our prize.  The kids chose a book.

On the face of it, this book was a natural choice, as it was about the Buenos Aires Zoo.  But delving a little deeper, it wasn’t really a good book for kids at all.  It was a collection of scholarly historical essays dealing with the creation of the zoo itself in all its historical and social significance, as well as a specific focus on a Byzantine Portico commissioned for the entrance to the park.  The book, quite naturally, is entitled El Pórtico Bizantino del Jardín Zoologico de Buenos Aires.

El Portico Bizantino del Zoologico de Buenos Aires

To understand the attraction of something like this, it must be noted that, when the zoo was being planned in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, Buenos Aires was the capital of a world power which looked to Europe for its social cues.  Anyone visiting from fin de siècle Paris would have felt right at home, and did.  Transplanted victorian ladies would have been able to walk the park’s promenades without having to modify their dress–their Argentine peers would have looked exactly the same.

So the government had art experts scouring the markets in Europe and the Middle East for suitable antiquities.  Many arrived… some real, some not-so-real, and the analysis of whether the Portico’s columns are from classical antiquity or from a 19th century Italian workshop is both exhaustive and, to a modern reader, amusing.

Amusing in a sad way, though.  Firstly, because, despite having been in the zoo many, many times, I’d never really paid much attention to the semicircle of columns set on an island in a park lake.  It was just part of the background, and a difficult to see and not-very-imposing part at that.

Secondly, it’s sad because, due to unfortunate intervention of a small but vocal minority, the Buenos Aires zoo, a magnificent public space enjoyed by a city of fifteen million people, was forced to close at just about the same time as I was gaining possession of this particular volume.  It’s supposedly going to be reopened at some future date as an eco-park (the word “eco” in there should give a clue as to which special interest group needs to be appeased), but it hasn’t happened yet.

It’s poignant that the Portico might disappear now.  Not because it was a major attraction–it wasn’t.  But it was part of the history of the city… To have it disappear as an unintended side effect of pressure from fanatics is a sad but accurate reflection of how the modern world works.

 

Gustavo Bondoni is an Argentine novelist and short story writer.  His novel Incursion was released by Severed Press in 2017.

A Stained-Glass View into a Simpler Time

A Stained Glass Tour In Italy

In the early twentieth century, tourism was mostly an upper-class pursuit.  Due to the way the upper classes were (and to a certain degree still are) educated in those days, this made for a very different kind of tourism.  The mere concept of going to Coney Island for a Hot Dog Eating Competition would have been met with a mixture of derision and outright disbelief.

While you’re not really going to find too many equivalents of the glorious Grand Tours in the years just before the Great War, you still found erudite madmen going off on interesting expeditions.  Heirs to Victorian obsessions, these adventurers were hobbyists and diarists that make the people who dress up as Stormtroopers for Comic Con (or worse, science fiction writers) look like normal, well-adjusted human beings.

Many of them left books behind regarding the unlikeliest of subjects, I was delighted but unsurprised when a volume entitled A Stained Glass Tour in Italy appeared at the annual jamboree at our local Anglican Church.

But, before I talk about the book let’s talk about this church.  I’m not religious in the least (and certainly not Anglican), but I love the place.  It is a lovely stone building that looks like it should be situated somewhere in fictional Wessex in the early 19th century and not a block from my house in the middle of a heavily built up sector of one of the world’s megacities.  It was the perfect spot to find a book like the one above, my copy of the Stained-Glass tome.

St Saviour's Church Belgrano

The book itself is a first edition, albeit worn frayed around the edges and well-aged, and probably the thing that I loved most about it was the fact that I was the first person in its over 100 years of history to read the thing completely.  How did I know this?  Because some of the pages were still uncut.  So, for two dollars, I purchased a journey back in time and the thrill of trying to separate pages with a steak knife (long story) without tearing them.

The book itself was a charming example of something that would never have been touched by a modern day publishing house.  A couple of wealthy friends go on a tour of northern Italy for the express and arcane purpose of viewing significant works of stained glass in the regions churches.  As they guide us through the towns they visit, the focus is on the glass and a brief history of the art form, but glimpses of life in the Italian countryside before WWI peek nostalgically through.  My lasting impression of this book is one of sunlight bathing dusty country roads and sand-colored buildings, slightly crumbling but once magnificent.

The book itself is interesting, too, with a number of laid in photographs and a strangely folded map, its production values would be dismissed as an amateur production today, but carries the stamp of the Bodley Head, a major publisher in 1911.

But it’s the writing which carries the day.  This book functions as neither a comprehensive guide to Italian stained glass nor as a reasonable tour guide for the era.  A labor of love, written – and likely published – with little or no consideration for any commercial value, in a tone that is as affectionate towards the subject as it is to any reader interested enough to open the volume.  It’s the work of a generalist who happened to love stained glass, a product of a polymath and a man of his time (Charles Hitchcock Sherrill – ambassador, athlete and stained-glassophile) that we like to think would be an avid reader of Classically Educated today.

We were definitely avid readers of his book!

 

Gustavo Bondoni is an Argentine writer.  His best-known book is the science fiction novel Siege.

Museums by Proxy

National Museum of American History

Here at Classically Educated, we love museums.  We visit them whenever we’re in a new city, we rank them whenever we’ve seen all that a certain city has to offer, and we try to enjoy all sorts.   Most people spend their time in art galleries, but we also enjoy history museums, science museums and even transport museums.  If you’ve never been to Brooklyn’s New York Transit Museum, you’re missing out.

But as I can’t spend all my time visiting museums (well, I could, but only if someone wants to a) pay for the trips and b) pay for the resulting reams of copy – operators are standing by), I have found another way to do so.  Find the official museum book for a couple of dollars at some used bookstore.

That’s what I did with the National Museum of American History.  I didn’t need and wasn’t particularly looking for a three ton tome (all right it might be a little lighter than that) about the museum, but once I saw it, it was mine (especially at the price they were asking).

National Museum of American History - Shirley Abbott

And I’m glad I bought it.  The book was published in 1981, so it covers most of the interesting bits of history (or at least the bits I don’t remember for myself) and is production values are so high that, in many shots, you feel like you’re standing in the museum itself nearly forty years ago.  As the museum was set up to bring to life many earlier eras, the excellent photography can take you back to 1891, or even 1650.

The book was written by Shirley Abbott and is split into three sections: At Home in America, The Headlong Century and Our Times (remember it was published some time ago) and the text around the images is well-written and engaging, bringing to light the often misunderstood times it highlights.

But as in the museum itself, it’s the visual experience that predominates, and I’m grateful that museums take the time to publish books like these.  Yes, it’s a big block of a book, but it truly is the next best thing to being there.  Even modern vido tours necessarily have to take a back seat to productions of this caliber.

And the nicest thing about this museum and the US in general?  It doesn’t get sniffy about showing machinery.  Is there anything more evocative of the age of steam than a huge bronze boiler and piston?  The stuff that made life what it was, from guns to toys, is all here – and it’s from 1981, remember, so no revisionism to fit with 21st century sensibilities, which is always nice.

Grab a copy if you can (they’re cheap), but spend some time in the gym first.  This is not a book for people with slipped discs or serious hernias.

 

Gustavo Bondoni is an Argentine novelist and short story writer whose work spans several genres. His latest book is a humorous fantasy novel: The Malakiad.

Party Like You’re in India and It’s a Thousand Years Ago

A few years ago, we published our most popular post ever.  Ironically, considering that we try to be at least a little bit high-brow and are proud of being elitist pigs, our most popular piece was a humorous story about parties written by our vampire columnist.  It immediately went viral and everyone read it.  Then, like all these things, everyone forgot about it.  (even more ironically, our second-greatest hit was a depressing relationship piece written by a columnist calling herself Scarlett – argh, there goes our street cred).

We may be elitist, but we aren’t proud and we like clicks as much as the next blog, so we asked Baron H (famous as the main columnist of the now defunct Undead Smart Set) to do a follow up to that one.  He hemmed and hawed that he’d gotten all the best parties in the first one, but when we pushed, he started saying things like “well, there was that one time in Mexico, but I really shouldn’t talk about that…”  We told him he was going to talk about it or we’d call in the stakes and garlic brigade, and the results are below.

 

Greetings and Salutations,

It’s always a mystery to me why mortals get so exercised about parties.  They’re entertaining, yes, and often instructive, but from what I’ve seen of the blowouts organized by humans, they’re not really all that special.  Granted, there are some exceptions, but in general I’ve found that the undead have much better blowouts… Perhaps the fact that we’re permitted to eat the mortals present make our festivities inherently better.

Nevertheless, there were some good party eras in the past and it’s worth celebrating the ones I missed last time.  Nothing too new, of course, because modern people have no idea what a good party looks like – not even in the seventies, when sex was a lot more free and easy than it is today.

 

300px-Codex_Magliabechiano_(141_cropped)

5.  The Re-consecration of Great Pyramid of Tenochtitlan

Now this was a good party to be undead at mainly because, for a glorious few days, the strict taboo on not killing the partygoers was lifted.  Every male was expected to bring something to the party – specifically, every male was expected to bring a prisoner, captured in battle to sacrifice at the altar.

No one is quite sure what the final number of victims were.  Sources have said that it might have been as high as eighty thousand killed over the course of four days.  As a witness, I’d say that there certainly were a lot of them, although I’d be hard pressed to give an exact count.  Why, you ask?  Well, there are certain things that a gentleman doesn’t discuss… let’s just say that there were other things happening at the party apart from the sacrifices.  It was good enough for fifth place on this list.

 

kubla khan pop-up coleridge

4. Kubla Khan’s Xanadu

I didn’t mention this last time because I wanted to spare Coleridge’s blushes.  I told him all about the parties, how the great Khan would empty entire nations to have the right kind of food and drink for the table and the right shade of girls on hand for his soldiers.  But then he went and got stoned out of his mind and forgot most of it.

I tried again, but the woman I told it to was either even more stoned than Coleridge or had a really low opinion of what her contemporaries could understand.

Either way, these were amazing parties with a seriously dark edge, but I’m done trying to explain them to humans.

 

Nero's Domus Aurea

3. Nero’s Domus Aurea

This is a gold dome near to my heart.  Nero’s Rome was possibly unique in its tolerance of the undead.  They were pretty much up for anything back then, and would happily invite anyone – and anything – out of the ordinary to join in.  When you have accepted that infinite power corrupts infinitely, and have decided to enjoy that fact, it takes a lot of creativity to make you feel special again

At this place, every night felt special.

The amount of blood, wine, food and bodily fluids spilled at any of these parties could fill an ocean basin, and I suspect they probably tried.  I shudder to think of the wasted blood.

 

White Smoke from Papal Conclave

2. Papal Conclave of 1644

One normally doesn’t think of the Catholic Church as a hedonistic and freewheeling institution.  In fact, if one doesn’t know the right people, it might seem precisely the opposite (assuming one politely looks the other way on the subject of altar boys).

The reality is very different.  Everyone knows that in earlier, less social-media-conscious centuries, the Vatican had a brothel for its priests.  Also there were Medicis in there – those guys knew how to throw a party.

But that just scratches the surface.  If you want to see what the Vatican is capable of, try to get invited to a conclave.  Better yet, build yourself a time machine, or go around the earth really fast or get hit by lightning and go back in time to 1644 and get invited to that conclave.

While everyone in Rome was distracted by the fact that, oh, woe, the Pope was dead and also by the fact that someone had wisely ordered that the water from various fountains be replaced with wine, leaving the population drunk for days, the cardinals shut themselves in a huge palace with every courtesan in Italy.  The wine also meant they didn’t realize that a lot of their wives were also missing, and so were a number of altar boys.  Finally, I find it amazing that no one commented that the white smoke smelled decidedly funny.

The Cardinals themselves?  They were having such a good time that not one of them threatened me with a crucifix during the whole party.

 

Indian Sex Temple Carvings

1. Indian Chandela Dynasty

Look, I know there have been good parties everywhere.  But when they’re so good that you actually carve the images of them on temples and they’re still causing comment a thousand years later, then you were really on to something.

Such was the situation in India during the Chandela dynasty.  As Mel Brooks used to say, “It’s good to be the King”, but it is even better to be the king of a civilization whose Pantheon includes a deity called Kama, essentially a god of sex.  So you can spend the entire GDP of your people on a huge party, run through the entire supply of virgins of both genders in a few nights, and still say that you were observing a religious holiday.  Bliss.

Today all the guides tell tourists that the temples are carved with all aspects of life and that sexual lust was one of the things of which one had to be purified before entering the sacred space – hence its prominent placement along some walls.  It’s not hard to tell that that is purely PR spin and you should pay no attention to it whatsoever.

We know exactly what those temples are: they’re the 10th century equivalent of those Instagram pics of the party last weekend.  The one that got a little out of control.

I know because I was there – being immortal has its perks!

 

Anyhow, this time I’m really out of parties worthy of including in future lists, but if you know of any coming up that might compare to these…  well, just leave a comment and the owners of this blog will invite me.

Kind Regards,

Baron H

 

 

Gustavo Bondoni’s latest novel is entitled Incursion.  He assures us that, if you enjoy adventure and action by believable characters, you’ll like this one (of course, he’s the author, what else is he going to say?)

City of Light, City of Magic

Today we have something different: a thought piece by one of our contributors.  Longtime readers will be familiar with Stacy Danielle Stephens’ monumental historical novel about WWII, of which we’ve run excerpts here quite often (if you haven’t seen those yet, just search for her name in the little box on the top right.  Trust me on this one).  In this post, she brings together two very disparate elements: baseball and Nazi segregation of Jews.  It should make you think.

Star of David in 1930s

Is this couple offended by those stars they’re wearing? Of course not. When Hitler became Chancellor of Germany, no Jew on earth was so far removed from Tsarist pogroms or from Martin Luther’s “On the Jews and Their Lies” as to assume the privilege of being personally offended by anything an otherwise polite and civilized society might arbitrarily inflict upon them. So, these stars they’re wearing–are they offensive? Yes, of course they are.

Upon pronouncement of that word, “offensive” Libertarians in particular like to throw up their hands in mock horror, and shriek in a sort of Mickey-Mouse-impression voice, “Heavens to Betsy! We can’t have anyone being offended.” And even your average conservative likes to downplay the subtextual attack quietly yet forcefully contained in offensive terms, symbols, or statements by immediately repackaging incidents surrounding them as public instances of a personal offense which the offended party ought to keep to themselves.

But what made those stars offensive was not any personal feeling of the people required by law to wear them; rather, it was the harmful attack not merely symbolized by those stars, but carried out through them. And the impact of that attack was further compounded by the complacency of a society willing to construe them as small, inoffensive details in the natural order of everyday life. Who, after all, was hurt by a simple star bearing a single simple and absolutely true word? Where is the harm in an accurate label, Jew, being applied to a Jew? The harm of it, of course, was not in the label itself, but in the fact of it being applied.

Now there are a few things I should tell you about myself. First, I hope to receive the Nobel Prize for Literature one day. And once I do, my childhood hero, Mister Peabody, is sure to visit me. Then I can borrow the WABAC and start going places.

Mr Peabody and Time Machine

Well, alright, he’s a cartoon character, so I’d better plan on building my own time machine, unless I can rent one. Either way, the first place (and time) I’d go to is Frankfurt, Germany, in June of 1936, so I could book a trans-Atlantic flight on the Hindenburg the year before it exploded.

Chief Wahoo - Cleveland Indians

And then I would go to Cleveland, Ohio, in October, 1948, to see them win two world series games at home the last time they won the series. Because I’ve been a Cleveland Indians fan for most of my life. Why? Chief Wahoo. He won my heart at an early age, in much the same way Tony the Tiger convinced me that Sugar Frosted Flakes were GR-R-REAT! He did exactly what a logo was supposed to do, and he did it perfectly well. I’m telling you this because I want you to understand that I’m not a Social Justice Warrior, whose only angst is meticulously striking that razor’s-edge balance between a Draconian principle and its Procrustean application. Although when I heard that this season will be the last in which Chief Wahoo will be appearing on the team uniforms, I did not hammer out an impassioned letter imploring the front office to rethink their decision, which, after all, was a carefully considered action by a professional corporation, fully aware of their club’s historical significance in both their league and their city. They have been an important part of each for more than a century. The franchise not only predates the Cleveland Orchestra, it predates the New York Yankees. When the franchise owner wanted to change the team name, Naps, to something else, a poll of local sportswriters settled on “Indians” which went into effect with the 1915 season. The name was allegedly chosen as an homage to Louis Sockalexis, a Penobscot Indian, and popular outfielder for Cleveland’s long-defunct National League team, the Spiders. He had passed away on Christmas Eve 1913. Chief Wahoo first appeared as a logo in 1947, later taking on his more stylized, cartoonish features. Neither the name nor the logo were intended to be disparaging of Native Americans any more than the St Louis Cardinals intended to disparage either the Catholic Church or the Audubon Society. Other than a lawsuit in Canada, whose courts have limited jurisdiction because the Indians play a few of their games in Toronto each year, there has been no legal action against Chief Wahoo, and the only organized protest is a relatively small annual event on Opening Day. There has never been an organized boycott, nor a denunciation from a guilt-ridden white celebrity. And, to be honest, no member of the Cleveland Tribe has ever come forward to complain about Chief Wahoo. So what has compelled the front office to make such a decision? Why remove this popular logo from the team uniform?

Because it’s the right thing to do. Duh.

I realize, as I’m sure you do, that there’s no more of a parallel between a caricature on a ballplayer’s jersey and a star on a Jewish woman’s overcoat than there would be between a training camp and a concentration camp. Obviously, the two things are very different, even though they have an identical formal operation; that is, each is a patch sewn onto a garment to visibly communicate a simple fact, but more than this, to also create a vivid impression at a preconscious level. Chief Wahoo tells us the wearer is a Cleveland team member in exactly the same way the yellow star tells us the wearer is Jewish. However, the impression each creates is created by an operation which is the inverse of the other. Without that star, our impression of the Jewish couple would be very different from what it is. But a simple geometric figure with a single short word inscribed upon it forces us to wonder if that couple were still alive a year after the picture was taken. Without Chief Wahoo on his uniform, we only wonder which team the man is playing for. This is the profound, inescapable power of a simple logo attached to a human being, that it can create such widely dissimilar feelings while doing nothing at all, purely in the nonverbal impressions it prompts, the subtle feelings it engenders through a graphic depiction of a particular image. And it does that regardless not only of what its designer may have intended it to depict, but with very little regard for what we might have supposed it depicts. When we think of a star of David on an Israeli flag, or cast in silver suspended on a small chain and hanging just below a person’s collarbone, our associations are not at all what they are when we see that picture. We might insist that it represents pride or devotion, rather than condemnation, but when we see it sewn on a person’s coat, we know better than to argue that it represents anything else.

So in evaluating this decision by Cleveland’s front office, we must also evaluate the impressions Chief Wahoo creates, and not simply the impression the ball club wishes him to create, or the impression of him so many fans, myself among them, have cherished. For most, throughout a lifetime. For many, across three generations.

Ride Great Trains Through a Great Country

We will ask, reasonably, what harm is done by a cartoon Indian. In considering a similar question in 1954, Chief Justice Earl Warren noted that we have to look beyond tangibles in measuring damage done when vestiges of racism are enforced as if they were valid realities. Even so, we must begin the assessment with something tangible, like a yellow star, to establish context for the very consequential impact of intangibles.

MLB Baseball Team Logos

In this case, we must examine Major League Baseball team names and logos.

In listing and categorizing them, I find twelve are Mythic or Legendary characterizations. (Angels, Braves, Brewers, Dodgers, Giants, Mariners, Padres, Phillies, Pirates, Rangers, Twins, and Yankees) Of these, only the Braves have a blatant ethnic connotation, visibly reinforced by their Tomahawk logo. The Padres and Yankees each have a fairly clear ethnic connotation, and the Brewers a very subtle one. These teams’ logos avoid any ethnic associations. I find seven teams are named after abstractions. (Astros, Athletics, Mets, Nationals, Reds, Rockies, Royals) Among these, the Royals might be thought to have racial associations, since Kansas City was home to the Negro League Monarchs. Such association, if it exists, has never evinced any negative expression. I find three teams are named for birds, (Blue Jays, Cardinals, Orioles), two for mammals (Cubs, Tigers) two for fish (Marlins, Rays) two for sox (Red Sox, White Sox), one for a reptile (Diamond Backs) and one–the Indians–for an ethnic group.

As an aside, two points must be mentioned. First, that Cleveland alone carries the name of an ethnic group validates Commissioner Manfred’s insistence “that the logo is no longer appropriate for on-field use in Major League Baseball”. Second, the Braves, although essentially the same issue, are another discussion entirely. I’m not a fan, and leave it to those who are to work that problem. So it would appear that we have reached a dead end. Other than pirates, Major League Baseball offers us no semblance of an equivalent group of human beings for comparison. There’s no avoiding the fact that Chief Wahoo places real live people on a par with fish, birds, snakes, and sox.

“So,” you may ask, “a team that celebrates Native-American heritage with a cartoon character featuring a big smile has to discontinue using its mascot?” Rather than answer this rhetorical question, I will suggest a pair of thought experiments. First, let us suppose you commemorate New Year’s Eve by firing a pistol into the air. If, when that bullet returns to earth, it strikes someone, they will be harmed by it, and no argument based on your intention to celebrate something, anything, will undo that harm. You cannot reasonably expect anyone who might be struck by such a bullet to have a greater respect for the innocence of your intentions than you have for their well-being.

Evita Cartoon for the Cleveland Argentines

Or imagine the Cleveland Argentines, with this caricature of Evita as their mascot. Now perhaps you can tell me how well this celebrates Argentine heritage. Honestly, with the possible exception of Donald J Trump, I doubt that anyone would want to explain how an exaggerated depiction of a former prostitute married to a dictator is a celebration of Argentine heritage, or an image which will innately foster a positive, charitable opinion of Argentina or anyone from Argentina. So if the question here is whether Chief Wahoo represents affectionate and respectful celebration, or bigoted derision, the answer can only be that, at best, he encapsulates a misplaced affection without respect for the human dignity of a very large number of people. Just as this unflattering presentation of Evita Peron imparts to you a negative perception of the archetypical Argentine, so Chief Wahoo tacitly inclines you to a narrow and unkind view of the average Native-American.

Having demonstrated that Chief Wahoo doesn’t merely offend a few people, but is the embodiment of a harmful insult characteristic of attack, I hope you will not be disappointed by my forbearance in refraining from what might appear to be the next logical step, but I have no intention of discussing whether the franchise name, “Indians”, is also offensive, although stopping short of that will surely seem to be a case of hacking at the branches of an evil while leaving the root to flourish. I will say that whenever the front office discards and replaces that name, I intend to express my support for their decision just as I am doing now for their first step, at once both abysmally small and abhorrently huge, finally taken. It is, of course, long overdue for those to whom it is due, and yet seems much too soon for far too many of us.

 

At Least a Favorable Reference to the Devil

Today we present a new excerpt from Stacy Danielle Stephens monumental work-in-progress about WWII and the events that led to it.  Those of you who’ve been following along at home know that these pieces never fail to deliver – and now we’re reaching the war’s endgame… and one of its most mysterious episodes.

 

May 6th, 1945. London–As his capitol was overrun by the Red Army, Adolf Hitler appears to have sought asylum in the one location from which there can be no extradition. Although reports of a German surrender were only optimistic speculation, news of Hitler’s suicide has been confirmed. He named as his successor neither of the obvious candidates, Himmler or Goering, but the less widely known commander of the German Navy, Admiral Donitz. How the Admiral intends to prosecute the war is unclear. What is clear is that, regardless of the Admiral’s intentions, Germany lacks the means to continue any meaningful opposition to United Nations forces.

If there is no surrender soon, surrender itself will become a moot formality. The Royal Air Force, as well as the US Eighth and Fifteenth Air Forces, ceased all bombing of Germany two weeks ago for lack of targets. There is no traversable length of railroad still intact, no refinery still operating, no factory able to produce any usable weapons, no aggregation of rubble large enough for a group of desperate soldiers to hide behind.

And there is still no surrender.

Perhaps this reckless determination to fight on is nothing more than a desire to die in combat with a semblance of honor rather than face responsibility for what is increasingly clear. That crimes and atrocities which only one month ago would have been dismissed out of hand as too incredibly heinous be be seriously countenanced have undeniably occurred.

There has never been a military man more even-tempered or fair-minded than General Eisenhower. What he has personally observed at concentration camps in Germany is so far beyond description that it need not be described. It is sufficient to say that it has sickened and angered him to such an extent that every German, in uniform or not, knows better than to anticipate any mercy from their conquerors.

by Stacy Ketcham, Omaha Chronotype-Mercury

* * *

Bloodstains in Hitlers Bunker

 

The stuffiness of the room had grown more oppressive, and the shrill insistence of the slightly inadequate ventilation fan more penetrating. Or perhaps Eva had nothing better to hold her attention.

“Would you like me to go first, Princess?” Adi asked.

He had never called her Princess before.

“No,” she replied, suddenly overcome with tears. She put her head on his shoulder. Silently, she told herself that she was not afraid, and realized what an abominable lie that was. The truth? She was more afraid of living an hour longer than of dying in another minute. She recovered her nerve. She had to be steady for him. Steely. She lifted her head.

“We agreed,” she resumed. “You should wait to make sure that I am–” Her breath seemed to congeal in her throat. “–safe,” she concluded.

“Do you know, Eva,” Adi suddenly said, “when I was a child, I wanted to be a priest?”

“I’m not surprised by that.”

“No?”

She picked up the brass capsule containing the bit of serious business.

“Hold out your hand,” she said. He did. She unscrewed the capsule and pulled the two pieces apart so that the ampule dropped into his palm. Tossing the shell aside, she opened her mouth, the tip of her tongue resting on the edge of her teeth, just inside of her lower lip.

He smiled, the same shimmering smile he’d displayed so shyly the day they met for the first time. He took the ampule gingerly between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. Tenderly, he placed it onto her tongue.

One could not but wonder what that moment of transcendence would comprise. Of course, death would not be like anything. There was nothing in life that could serve as a simile for it.

She knew she should repent of this madness, and spit the thing out. Yet she knew just as well that she was able to do this with a clear conscience, because her conscience was improperly formed by years of compromise. Her faith, once white hot, had gone lukewarm and then stone cold, and was now already dead, although still as strong as it had ever been. She and Adi had never been to Mass together. In sixteen years, neither of them had said a single Hail Mary, or even once made the sign of the cross over themselves, and yet, if pressed on the point, each of them would have insisted that they were Catholic.

Smiling at Adi, she bit into the glass. He heard it cracking between her teeth. Then she was translated. She slumped over the arm of the sofa, and he saw the discolouration around her nose. That quickly, sixteen years had passed.

His pistol–the 7.65 mm Walther–was on the table. Like a chalice on the altar, he thought. He remembered the many times as a child when he stood on a chair at the kitchen table, wearing an apron as his vestment, celebrating the Mass.

Fondly recalling his first communion, he knelt at the table, then lifted the pistol to his lips. As his finger settled on the trigger, he was reminded of the delicate silver bells jingling during the Mass, announcing the descent of the Holy Spirit as it settled on the unleavened wafers and they became the resurrected Body of Christ. As an altar boy, he had held those bells, and beckoned to the Holy Spirit with this very finger. Now, as this profligate finger curled more tightly, summoning his own spirit in another direction entirely, he strained to remember the gentle sound of those tiny bells, softly resonating in the hushed stillness of the church, but could not. He only heard the harsh chirping of the distant ventilation fans, and trapped in his ears, echoing in his mind, the brutal cracking of the glass in Eva’s mouth.

The trigger at last succumbed to the pressure of his finger. He felt the action release the firing pin, and heard the shot rushing from the chamber. With it, he received no absolution, but only abrogation[1].

* * *

How does one make sense of Adolf Hitler, a peculiar but heroic soldier who earned the respect and admiration of comrades and commanders alike, then went on to take his country to the brink of annihilation with much of Europe close behind? How do we understand this little boy who wanted to be a priest, but instead became the eponym of evil at its most absolute by leading his nation in their effort to exterminate an entire people?

Millions of words have been written in pursuit of Hitler’s presumed hatred for Jews, with no evidence of his ever being so much as rude to even one Jew, let alone the discovery of a fury intense enough to bring about ten million deaths.

In the early days of the Nazi Party, another Party leader asked Hitler what the Nazis’ program would be. Hitler replied that the program was unimportant, it was only power that mattered. When this same leader argued that power must always be wielded with purpose toward a goal, Hitler dismissed the argument as pointless intellectualism.

Every Jew who met Hitler personally found him to be kind and courteous. Every Jew who knew him was convinced that the anti-semitism he espoused was nothing more than agitprop, palaver poured out to get himself and his party elected and into power, and Hitler is known to have said that everyone in Germany would recognize Jews as a common enemy, if they were arbitrarily selected by the Nazis to serve as a focus for national unity.

But if Hitler’s vaunted anti-semitism were only a ruse, why, then, the final solution?

More so than soldiers of any other nation, Americans were infused with the righteousness of their involvement in the war. From the noble clarity of their goals there followed an expected purity in their actions. They were not engaged in a war of vengeance, but a holy crusade to restore the world to justice. Yet there were occasions when these righteous crusaders would physically abuse or shoot prisoners of war. A disinterested observer could ascribe most of these incidents to anger or frustration in the heat of a few horrible moments. Some justification may be found for excusing these violations of the Geneva Convention. But the fact remains that even the best of soldiers may become murderers when circumstances permit murder.

It has been said that absolute power corrupts absolutely.

If it seems preposterous to you to suppose that a man might send millions of innocents to their deaths simply for the pleasure of doing so, then you have probably never walked among armed combatants seeking battle, and you have certainly never noticed that every word of the United States Constitution is about restraining the exercise of power.

By the time of the Final Solution, it was clear that the Soviet Union would not be defeated as easily as France had been, and evident that it might never be defeated. When the United States entered into the war, Hitler had little reason to hope that Germany would ever win. Frustrated and angry, he could console himself easily enough by exercising absolute power while it was still his.

This is not to suggest that Hitler’s decision to have eleven million[2] people put to death was made on the spur of the moment, or that the Ka-tsets would have been shut down and all the prisoners inside them released if Germany had won the war. Hitler had written about his proposed Entfernung of Jews as early as 1919.

When speaking of tattoo removal, a German will use the word Entfernung. There can be no doubt what becomes of the tattoo. How could there be any doubt what Hitler intended for the Jews of Europe as early as 1919?

When Bertold Brecht was deported from the United States, German newspapers reported his Entfernung. There could be no doubt that Bertold Brecht was alive and unharmed.

It would be both naive and asinine to assume that Hitler had not carefully chosen that word for its ambiguity. While it cannot be proven that Hitler had begun to plan, as early as 1919, for the extermination of all European Jews, neither can it be denied that this eventuality was among the possibilities he had considered at that time.[3]

* * *

As early as 1937, President Roosevelt had decided that in the event of war with The Empire of Japan, Japanese-Americans on the West Coast would be interned. It was only after this decision was made that the rationale for it was formulated. Internment, it was said, would be necessary to ensure that any disloyal individuals among these people did not escape detection, and in order to protect them from their suspicious white neighbors.

Adolph Hitler claimed that German emigrants remained citizens of his Reich, and that their children and grandchildren were German citizens as well. He insisted that all persons of German ancestry owed their loyalty to him and no one else. He believed that German-Americans were entirely German, and not at all American. The existence of the German-American Bundt would suggest that a number of German-Americans shared his belief.

The FBI, conducting the largest investigation of its kind, determined that there was no similar belief held by the government of Japan or by Japanese immigrants in the United States, or by any of their children or grandchildren. The Japanese government had never made any effort to recruit even a single spy or saboteur from among the Japanese-Americans, nor had any Japanese-American, whether resident alien or United States citizen by birth, ever made any effort to further the interests of Japan to the detriment of the United States, even by peaceful and legal means, let alone through any attempts at espionage of any kind.

Tule Lake Japanese Internment Camp

Sociologists engaged by the State Department determined that no immigrant group was more loyal to the United States than the Japanese-Americans, and no group was more truly American. In Japanese culture, emigrants are not merely transplanted into their new country, they are grafted onto it. They will retain a Japanese appearance, and they may retain the Japanese language, but they are not Japanese. Among any other nationality, as many as one-third of immigrants arriving in the United States would, within twenty years, return to live in their native country. Japanese who came to America rarely went back to Japan.

Investigating the question of conflicted loyalties, the State Department learned, as had the FBI, that Imperial Japan had no wish or intention to use Japanese-Americans as spies, recognizing first that they had no loyalty to Japan, and secondarily that they would be of no use, since white Americans would not trust them. Instead, Imperial Japan chose to rely on the already existing German and Italian spy networks.

Although he was fully aware of all these facts, President Roosevelt did not allow himself to be dissuaded by them. In 1942, he ordered the internment of Japanese-Americans, precisely as he had planned to do all along. Today, it is profoundly disturbing to see how easily that order could be given, and to see the docile facility with which it was carried out. Without investigation or probable cause, without trial or arraignment, with no semblance of due process, all persons of Japanese ancestry abiding in California, Oregon or Washington State, whether resident aliens or citizens of the United States, were simply removed in just a few days.

However plausible the justifications for this relocation may sound, whatever explanation one might wish to accept, a single photograph of any white American standing proudly beside his sign–WE DON’T WANT ANY JAPS! EVER!–looking exactly like a German standing beside his sign–JUDEN RAUS!–makes clear that this arbitrary corralling of an ethnic minority by a racially prejudiced government was, in fact, Entfernung.

* * *

Because the internment of Japanese-Americans happened in Twentieth Century America, every fact and detail of it is utterly harrowing. With each paragraph one reads about it, with each story one hears, there is a renewed desire to scream, because it was a heinous injustice perpetrated by Americans against other Americans. Yet there is one inescapable facet of the whole picture that transcends expression, a realization so horrible that one can only see it and turn away.

Of all military construction in the United States during the Second World War, only Los Alamos was more remote than the internment camps. The Manhattan Project was the only war-related activity of their government about which the American public was told less than the internment of Japanese-Americans. While one simply cannot imagine President Roosevelt authorizing a final solution to the Japanese-American problem, one must–if one is honest–recognize from the placement of the camps and the silence surrounding them that this eventuality was among the possibilities considered within the War Department.

 

 

[1] In his movie, Little Nicky, Adam Sandler supposes Hitler gets a pineapple shoved up his ass every day, but that would be letting him off easy. Hell? The Russians are approaching, Eva is dead, and the pistol won’t fire. Every day, over and over. The Russians are approaching, Eva is dead, and the pistol won’t fire. He spends the day, every day, alone in the bunker, remembering the face of every young man whom he sent to an early and horrible death, remembering every conversation with Himmler, remembering the footage of unreleased documentaries he watched with Goebbels. Then it’s morning again. The Russians are approaching, Eva is dead, and the pistol won’t fire.

[2] The Wannsee Conference planned to “involve” eleven million European Jews in the Final Solution, but the precise number of deaths that occurred in the Ka-tsets cannot be known. Although an estimate of twenty million is the largest number which cannot be discredited, it staggers the imagination. The estimate generally considered to be an accurate minimum is ten million. In either case, six million of these are known to be Jewish.

Although Common Criminals and Prostitutes were sent to the Ka-tsets with the expectation that they might die, and Gypsies, Homosexuals, Jehovah’s Witnesses and Politicals were sent with the expectation that they would die, only Jews were sent specifically for the purpose of extermination. The death of a Jew was not merely expected, it was intended.

In the moral sense of the word, each of these deaths–whether of a Jew or a Gentile–was a murder, but in the strictest legal sense of the word, they were not. Pragmatically, the millions of Germans and other European nationals who participated to some degree in every one of these deaths could not all be hanged, so it was held that these deaths occurred within the jurisdiction and under the authority of the German government. Individuals who had given orders were guilty of war crimes; those who obeyed these orders were presumed innocent, and every murder that was committed became only a death which had occurred.

[3] A plausible argument can be made that the Wannsee Protocol, Section Three, Paragraph Seven: “jews should be put to work in the East. . . . Any final remnant that survives… will have to be dealt with appropriately” was a precise enunciation of Hitler’s long-intended Entfernung.

Viewed in retrospect from this conclusion, Hitler’s actions can be generally seen as a series of planned steps moving toward that goal. Militarily, the sole object in this scenario was the conquest of Soviet Russia as a repository for Europe’s Jews, in which they could “be dealt with appropriately.” This conquest required that the bulk of the German army be deployed from Poland. The necessary encirclement of Poland required the occupation of Czechoslovakia, which was itself first encircled through the Anschluss of Austria. That France and England became combatants in opposition to Germany was an inconvenience anticipated and prepared for with the occupation of the Rhineland.

When realization of the expected repository failed, concurrent with the failure of the Soviet Union to be conquered, the Nazis adapted the plan to an accelerated schedule, intending to “involve” as many Jews as they could apprehend before the war ended.

For this argument to be valid, Hitler’s anti-semitism would have to be a profoundly irrational, superstitious variety of prejudice. Precisely that sort of anti-semitism can be found throughout the world, and is particularly virulent in Eastern Europe even today.

Fairy Thefts

Fairies and Jewelry

Richard H. Fay is back to the occult this week for his final occult post in this series (but check back next week for a post on a different subject!).  The darker side of fairy lore is something that most people don’t think about…  But he sets the record straight.   You can read his blog here, and we also recommend checking out his Zazzle Store.  

Fairies seem to have a confusingly contradictory nature when it comes to their interactions with mankind. Even though the Fair Folk frown upon mortals prying into their secret affairs and may take drastic action when angered by interfering humans, they also display a strange dependence upon the race of Adam. Fairies have been known to rely upon humanity for certain goods, services, and even spouses. Possessing a moral code paradoxical to human minds, the Good Neighbours don’t always exhibit neighbourly attitudes toward mortal rights of ownership. Sometimes they borrow, while at other times they steal, what they want or need. Those that steal may pilfer foodstuff and livestock. They may rob the goodness, or “foyson”, from victuals and cattle. They may even abduct human children and adults. Although selfish individuals are most susceptible to visits from fairy robbers, all mortal kind should be aware of the fairy proclivity for thievery and take the proper precautions.

Members of the often light-fingered other crowd have no qualms about lifting mortal provender needed to sustain their own existence. Fairies will filch a portion of a farmer’s crop and carry off sheaves of corn one straw at a time. On occasion, they make off with milled meal instead of unprocessed grain. Invisible sprites scrape smidgens of butter from pats being sold in the market place. Brownies magically ingest ill-gotten junket under the very noses of dishonest servants. Buttery spirits and abbey lubbers devour the food and drink of shady taverners and self-indulgent monks. At times, the Little People lure mortal-owned cattle into their knolls to be milked, bred, or butchered for a feast. At other times, they steal milk right from dairy cows browsing the meadow or sequestered in the barn.

More often than thieving the items themselves, fairies may simply remove the goodness, or “foyson”, from desired food and livestock. What is left behind looks solid enough, but it lacks true substance or nourishment. Cheese thus denatured floats in water like a cork. Bannocks so altered appear hearty enough, but they never fill a man’s stomach no matter how many are eaten. Cows whose spirits have been whisked away to Fairyland may continue to wander farmer’s fields, but they produce no milk. An elf-taken ox sickens and dies, and upon its death will prove to be merely an alder wood simulacrum of the actual animal. Land with its goodness stolen by the Gentry yields a slender harvest and produces fodder empty of sustenance.

Midsummer Night's Dream

Far worse than the theft of goods or the removal of the substance from such goods, the fairies also steal away mortal children and adults. The Fairy Queen’s dark butler, the far dorocha, fetches men desired by his mistress. The Gentry in general nab nursing mothers so they can suckle fairy infants. Midwives carried off are expected to perform their duties in Fairyland. Young craftsmen beguiled into service become fairy bond-slaves. Handsome lads and pretty lasses captured by the Fay are paired with fair spouses to replenish the dwindling fairy strain. Golden-haired babes and children looked on with envy are especially vulnerable to abduction by the Wee Folk. The youngest of mortals taken beneath the fairy hills either grow into full members of fairy society, or find themselves offered as part of the Teind, the septennial tithe the fairies pay to Hell.

As with stolen cattle, the Good Neighbours may leave behind a substitute for the kidnapped human. This substitute is called a changeling. In the case of abducted adults, the fairies frequently replace the mortal with a replica body, or stock. In the case of snatched children, the changeling may be a cantankerous old fairy well past his prime, or a sickly fairy child, or a wooden stock roughly formed to look like a human babe and imbued with glamour to simulate life for a short while. In almost all cases, if the truth of the changeling’s identity is not soon revealed, it eventually appears to wither and die.

According to some, fairies only take from miserly mortals or humans who grumble about that which they do not deserve to have, but this may not always be the case. However, laziness or carelessness definitely makes one more likely to be a victim of fairy theft, especially if one ignores certain precautionary measures. The mark of the Cross on the first bannock stops the Fair Folk from sapping the nourishment of the whole batch. Bells, spells, or rowan and red thread protect cattle. Daisy chains worn by small children drive off potential fairy abductors. An open pair of scissors hung above an infant’s cradle, or steel pins stuck crosswise in the babe’s clothes, keeps the child safe from being switched with a changeling. An iron horseshoe hung over the threshold protects the whole house.

Food seemingly devoured by mundane pests may have actually been pilfered by the Fay. Disappearing livestock or missing persons might now be residing in Elfame. Greed or an unappreciative nature can make humans more vulnerable to attention from light-fingered fairies, but all men who neglect traditional protections risk the theft of food, cattle, or even the abduction of their wives and children. After all, as the old saying goes, it’s better being safe than sorry, and those who’ve become victims of the thieving Wee Folk may be sorry indeed.

 

Sources:

An Encyclopedia of Fairies by Katharine Briggs

Faeries by Brian Froud and Alan Lee

A Field Guide to Irish Fairies by Bob Curran

A History of Irish Fairies by Carolyn White

The Illustrated Encyclopaedia of Fairies by Anna Franklin

The Vanishing People by Katharine Briggs