Citizenship

by William H. Benson

February 27, 2014

     The New York Times reported last Sunday that Queen Elizabeth II is strapped for cash. This is a surprising development for an English monarch who owns Balmoral Castle in the Scottish Highlands, acres of farmland, horses, art, and jewelry, and has a net worth that Forbes magazine estimates at $500 million. In addition, she collects 15% of the income derived each year from the Crown Estate, assets that the nation owns but the queen uses, such as Buckingham Palace and the Crown Jewels.

     “The British government has subsidized the royal household since the reign of King George III.”

     So short of cash is the queen that in 2010 she “applied to a government fund normally reserved for low-income families to help with Buckingham Palace’s heating bills,” and was denied, due to “probable adverse press coverage if the palace were given a grant at the expense of, say, a hospital.”

     Although Parliament retains most of the political power, the Britons love their queen. Fewer than one in five want a pure republic, and 45% show support for the monarch. So, they pay her bills.

     This devotion and deference to a monarch made no sense to Americans in 1776. In Thomas Paine’s bestseller, Common Sense, he called King George III “the royal brute,” and wrote, “There is something exceedingly ridiculous in the composition of Monarchy.” “It is the pride of kings which throws mankind into confusion.”

     In bold words he insisted that Americans declare their independence from Great Britain. “I challenge the warmest advocate for reconciliation to show a single advantage that this continent can reap by being connected with Great Britain.” “’TIS TIME TO PART!” he shouted. “We have it in our power to begin the world over again.” “The birth-day of a new world is at hand.”

     Certain Americans agreed with Paine, that no longer should they cower to King George, that they could govern themselves, that they could establish an American republic, and so in 1776, they declared their independence, and in 1787, they wrote the Constitution.

     One question the Constitution’s writers failed to answer was, “who is an American citizen?” The founding fathers did say in the second article that the president must be “a natural-born Citizen, or a Citizen of the United States,” when the Constitution was adopted, but they said little else.

     It was not until 1868, during Reconstruction when Congress passed the Fourteenth Amendment, that citizenship was defined as “All persons born or naturalized in the United States, . . . are citizens of the United States.”

     Last Thursday, National Public Radio reported that in 2013 almost 3000 Americans renounced their citizenship, and among them was Tina Turner, who has resided in Switzerland since 1995 with her German-born husband Erwin Bach. Tina signed a “Statement of Voluntary Relinquishment of U. S. Citizenship,” paid the $450 fee, and turned in her passport. Federal officials recorded Tina’s name in the “name and shame” list published each quarter in the Department of Treasury’s Federal Registry.

     Never again will Tina cast her vote for a president, senator, or representative, and if the Federal government should decide to enforce the Reed Amendment, officials may bar her entry back into the United States if they determine she renounced her citizenship in order to avoid U. S. taxes. She must have thought that what she lost in privileges was of less value than what she gained by renouncing her American citizenship. “What’s Love Got To Do With It?”

     Others believe United States citizenship offers more value, than do the renunciants.

     In 1806, forty years after Thomas Paine wrote Common Sense, he appeared at the polls in New Rochelle, New York, but the poll’s supervisor, Elisha Ward, denied him a ballot, saying, “You are not an American.” What? Thomas Paine, the first American to urge independence, is now told he cannot vote. Ward argued that because Paine had lived for fifteen years first in England and then in France after the Revolutionary War, he had either lost his citizenship or never had it in the first place.

     Ward said to Paine, “our minister at Paris, Gouverneur Morris, would not reclaim you when you were imprisoned in the Luxembourg prison at Paris, and General Washington refused to do it.” Paine contradicted that argument, but Ward would not budge. A humiliated Thomas Paine was forced to leave the polls without voting. Paine sued Ward, but the judge sided with Ward, and so Paine lost the suit.

     What do American citizens do? They speak their minds, they voice their opinions, they disagree with their elected officials, they participate in their government when asked, but above all else, they vote. What do American citizens not do? They do not kneel before the queen, they do not subsidize her regal and extravagant lifestyle, nor do they renounce their citizenship.   

Alice Roosevelt Longworth

by William H. Benson

February 13, 2014

     Theodore Roosevelt’s first wife, Alice Lee, died of a kidney infection on Valentine’s Day 1884, just two days after she delivered her first child, a daughter, also named Alice. The tragedy was compounded when Theodore’s mother died of typhoid fever that same day. So grief-stricken was Theodore by the double loss that he packed up and headed for a ranch in southwest North Dakota where he tended cattle for two years, expecting his sister in New York to care for his infant daughter

      Upon his return to New York in 1886, he married Edith Carow, and they had five children. Alice though was difficult—opinionated, rebellious, and impulsive. She needed a mother, and Edith tried, but she had five children of her own. There was tension and conflict between step-mother and daughter. Alice’s dad was a rising political star, and he had little time to give to his eldest daughter.

     After all, he had to defeat the Spanish and win the war. He and his Rough Riders sailed to Cuba, where they marched up San Juan Hill in a blaze of glory. After the war he won the election as New York’s governor, then served as vice-president under William McKinley, and after an assassin’s bullet ended McKinley’s life on September 14, 1901, Theodore Roosevelt at forty-two took the oath to become president of the United States, the youngest president until John F. Kennedy

     Alice was seventeen and thrilled to move into the White House. Americans smiled though when they learned that she brought into the White House a pet snake that she named Emily Spinach because it was green, and officials looked the other way as she placed bets with bookies, smoked cigarettes, and interrupted her father’s meetings. At one point, the president said, “I can run the country, or I can attend to Alice, but I cannot possibly do both.”

     After her family moved out of the White House, and the Taft family moved in, Alice dug a hole in the White House lawn and buried a voodoo doll that resembled Mrs. William Howard Taft. The new president felt so outraged that he banished Alice from all of his future White House social functions.

     Because she told an unprintable joke about Woodrow Wilson, a man who never forgot or forgave an insult, he too banished her. Of Calvin Coolidge, Alice said, “He looks as if he was weaned on a pickle.” Of her own father, Theodore Roosevelt, she said, “He has to be the bride at every wedding, the corpse at every funeral, and the baby at every christening.”

     After she first met Thomas Dewey, New York’s governor and the Republican candidate for president in 1944, she said, “He reminds me of the little man who stands on top of the wedding cake.”

     Alice married a representative from Ohio named Nicholas Longworth, but she carried on several steamy affairs with other men, including Senator William Borah of Idaho, by whom she had her only child, a daughter she named Paulina.

     Alice lived the rest of her life in Washington D. C., just west of the Dupont Circle on Massachusetts Avenue, where she spoke her mind about all the presidents, attended numerous Washington parties, and carved out a position as a gossip. People called her “the other Washington Monument.”

     Theodore Roosevelt died in 1919, when he was only sixty, when Alice was just thirty-five. Twelve years later, she buried her husband Nicholas, and she was a widow at forty-seven. She never remarried.  

     A life-long Republican, Alice Roosevelt Longworth knew all the presidents: Taft, Wilson, Hoover, Franklin D. Roosevelt, Truman, Eisenhower, Kennedy, Johnson, Nixon, and Gerald Ford. Jimmy Carter, the peanut farmer from Plains, Georgia, she avoided.

     Serving as the nation’s president is difficult because criticism is expected and ever-present, but being the president’s daughter carries its own challenges: superior moral behavior is mandatory, all eyes stare at the poor girl, one mistake and the outcry could wilt the strongest constitution. The deluge of attention would cause some to give up and crawl into a corner of their bedroom and never say or do anything in public ever again, but not Alice.

     Sons of two of our nation’s presidents have won election as president also, John Quincy Adams and George W. Bush, but never a daughter. Officials in Ohio asked Alice to run for Congress after Nicholas died, but she turned them down because the thought of campaigning repelled her. “All those people.” She should have run for president. Few would or could push her into doing anything she opposed.

     After a lifetime of smoking cigarettes, and a double mastectomy due to breast cancer in her eighties, Alice died on February 20, 1980, eight days after her ninety-sixth birthday, and after she had outlived her five younger siblings.

     My favorite Alice Roosevelt Longworth quote: “If you can’t say anything nice about anybody, come sit next to me.”

English vs. French

by William H. Benson

January 30, 2014

     Edgar Allan Poe first saw in print his poem “The Raven” on January 29, 1845. You might recall from high school literature, that the raven visited the poet on a cold December night and would say only one word, “Nevermore,” a word that rhymed with the poet’s deceased lover, the lost Lenore. The poet shouted at the raven, wanted to know why the bird tormented him, and called it a “Prophet, a thing of evil!” The raven replied, “Nevermore.”

     On January 3 this year, Heather MacDonald, a writer for The Wall Street Journal, lamented on an English department’s recent decision to abandon the requirement that English majors read the works of great literature, poems such as Poe’s “The Raven,” as well as Chaucer’s “Canterbury Tales,” and Milton’s “Paradise Lost,” and plays such as Shakespeare’s “King Lear” and “Macbeth.”

     Instead, the deans in the English department at the University of California at Los Angeles, like other universities, have ruled that students should study issues of gender, race, ethnicity, disability, or sexuality, and ignore the written works of dead white men who, they claim, were part of the “Empire.” In other words, UCLA’s students will nevermore read of the raven who said “Nevermore.”

     MacDonald writes that this decision reflects “an obsession with victimhood, and a relentless determination to reduce the stunning complexity of the past to the shallow categories of identity and class politics.” Now the English student will only “study oppression, preferably his or her own.”

     Why read the literature of dead white men? By doing so, a student will learn how to identify the nuances of meaning in a passage, how to tease out an idea from a tangle of words, how to express a fleeting thought, and how to think in an independent way, without undue influence from others. It is not the dictatorships but the republics who need the independent thinkers.

     MacDonald writes that “humanistic learning is also an end in itself. It is simply better to have escaped one’s narrow, petty self and entered minds far more subtle and vast than one’s own than never to have done so.”

     “The Raven.” A poem, a thing of beauty, an object that all who know English should admire.

     The French may have fought the English for centuries, but the French love Poe, especially the French Symbolists, who admire this American author and his deft style with the English language.

     But now the French have troubles. Newsweek‘s January 3 edition reported that “ever since Socialist President François Hollande was elected in 2012, income tax and social security contributions in France have skyrocketed. The top tax rate is 75 percent, and a great many pay in excess of 70 percent.” Unofficially, unemployment is “more like 5 million,” and “the cost of everyday living is astronomical.” But if a citizen wants anything, “fill out a form,” and the government will pay.

     Two weeks ago the French newspaper Closer printed photos of Hollande riding his motor scooter away from the Elysée Palace to rendezvous with the actress Julie Gayet, and a media scandal erupted. One writer said Hollande is “the most unpopular president in French history.” The previous president Nicolas Sarkozy married the supermodel Carla Bruni and so flaunted her that he “paid a price at the polls,” and lost the election. French men have interests other than political, economic, or literary.

     French is a Romance language, derived from the ancient Romans’ Latin. Old English was a Germanic language, but after William the Conqueror crossed the English Channel in 1066 and conquered England, he introduced the French language into the English court. Modern English now offers dual vocabularies: one is Anglo-Saxon and the other is French. We can say either lake or reservoir, box or cache, bucket or pail.

     The French battled the English for centuries, but the English language has won the war. Today English and not French is the world’s “lingua franca.” A Channel separates the two countries, but now a Chunnel connects London with Paris in two hours and fifteen minutes.

     In Edgar Allan Poe’s short story, The Murders in the Rue Morgue, a detective story set in Paris, he mentions the game of chess and then observes that “what is only complex is mistaken for what is profound.” Games and sports can be complex but not so profound. What is profound? I would say that medicine, government, the law, and technology are all profound. Medicine saves people’s lives, people rule themselves in a republican government, the law brings order to human society’s chaos, and technology provides people with an amazing array of tools.

     Literature is the sum of “the stunning complexity of the past,” but is it profound? I would agree that it is because literature is the summit of the English language, the greatest construction for human communication ever devised, and so may it live evermore.

The Eighteenth Amendment

by William H. Benson

January 16, 2014

     On January 16, 1919, Nebraska’s legislature voted to ratify the eighteenth amendment that prohibited “the manufacture, sale, or transportation of intoxicating liquors.” Because Nebraska was the 36^th state to ratify the amendment, the temperance movement had the necessary two-thirds of the state legislatures’ approval. A year later, at midnight on January 17, 1920, the amendment, and the Volstead Act to enforce it, turned the United States dry.

     Temperance officials believed that a Federal law was the best solution to the liquor problem, and so they had pushed this amendment through the state legislatures. “Prohibition represented a genuine attempt to better the lives of people,” but instead, it did them “untold harm.”

     In the nineteenth century in America, people recognized the damage that resulted from excess alcohol consumption, and so they had formed leagues and clubs, such as Boston’s American Temperance Society. Members signed pledge cards that they would cease all consumption.

     Cary Nation did far more. After she buried her alcoholic husband, she carried a hatchet into a string of saloons, and there she axed the bars and the bottles. This one-woman army commanded attention.

     Now, with an amendment tacked onto the Constitution, people thought the problem solved.

     “No prophet arose to foretell the awful things that were coming: the rum ships prowling off the coasts, the illicit breweries and distilleries, the bootleggers, the speakeasies, the corruption of police and judiciary, the hijackers and their machine guns, the gang wars, the murders and assassinations, the national breakdown of morals and manners, and all the rest of the long train of evils that sprang from the Eighteenth Amendment,” wrote Herbert Asbury in his book Great Illusion.  

     Because the law prohibited the manufacture, distribution, and sale of liquor, legitimate companies were driven out of those businesses, and so the criminals rushed in to assume their duties.      

     Those who wanted to drink did so. H. L. Mencken, columnist at the Baltimore Sun, stockpiled dozens of bottles in his basement prior to the amendment. Drinkers found plenty of people willing to ignore the federal law and sell them liquor, and so evasion was the rule. Federal authorities might arrest a violator, but juries failed to convict him because the gangsters would threaten and bully the jurors.

     The most notorious gangster was Alphonse “Scarface” Capone, who controlled liquor distribution across Chicago. Born January 17, 1899, he turned twenty-one the day that Prohibition became the law. Gang warfare broke out between Capone’s South side Italians and the North side Irish, and so on Valentine’s Day 1929, Capone’s gang machine-gunned seven of Bugs Moran’s Irish gang.

     Once Elliot Ness and his fellow revenue agents, the so-called Untouchables, understood that they could not convict Capone of alcohol distribution, nor for the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre, they prosecuted him for failure to pay income tax on his illegal profits. The jury found him guilty, and the judge sentenced him to eleven years in prison. He served eight, including a stint at Alcatraz.

     By 1933, after thirteen years, the nation’s citizens and its law enforcement agents had had enough. They recognized that the amendment had failed and that they preferred regulation to prohibition. On December 5, 1933, Utah’s legislature voted to ratify the Twenty-first Amendment that repealed the Eighteenth and rendered the Volstead Act unconstitutional, the 36^th state legislature to do so. The “noble experiment” ended, and once again, the nation was wet.

     Public health officials tried a different tactic when they recognized that cigarette smoking resulted in lung cancer and emphysema. Instead of passing a law that made tobacco production and distribution illegal, they educated the public. Fifty years ago, on Saturday, January 11, 1964, Luther Terry, the Surgeon General, issued his 377-page “Report on Smoking and Health.” The result: smoking has subsided from 50% of men in 1964 to just 19% today, and from 33% of women to less than 17% today. Millions of people have lived longer because of that report’s dissemination and influence.

     Government officials tried prohibition when they declared a war on drugs decades ago, but they did so without a Constitutional amendment. Yet, this prohibition has delivered the same: organized crime, gangs, gang warfare, massive numbers incarcerated, murders. This time though possession is illegal.

     Now that Colorado and Washington are edging towards regulation, rather than outright prohibition, we are unsure whether that is good or bad for our citizens. A writer in The Week said, “Legalization may prove to be a mistake—or it may not. Either way, ‘it’s an experiment worth conducting.’”

     I am not convinced that is true. When governments impose laws and experiment with people’s lives, we have seen that the side effects can result in a social disaster. The nation has tried prohibition, and now Colorado and Washington will try regulation.

Work and the Rorschach Test

by William H. Benson

January 2, 2014

     In a scene from “The Andy Griffith Show,” Deputy Barney Fife showed an inkblot to Otis Campbell, Mayberry’s town drunk, and asked him what he saw. Otis said he saw a bat, but Barney objected and said that the inkblot represented a butterfly. Next, Barney showed Sheriff Andy Taylor the same inkblot, and he too said it was a bat. Barney rolled his eyes and refused to accept that answer.

     You see a bat, but I see a butterfly. I see a butterfly, but you see a bat. Perspective is everything.

     Early in the twentieth century, the psychologist Hermann Rorschach developed ten symmetrical inkblots that he would show to patients and then ask for their responses. From them, he would determine a person’s personality traits, although critics dismiss the test and call it pseudoscience.

     Two weeks ago in The York Times there appeared an opinion column “A Formula for Happiness,” written by Arthur C. Brooks, president of a public policy think tank in Washington, D.C. Brooks’s formula for happiness is, in a single word, “work,” and he makes a persuasive case that “work is uniquely relevant to our happiness.”

     He based his formula upon the University of Chicago’s General Social Survey that found that 80% of Americans are either “fairly satisfied,” “very satisfied,” or “completely satisfied” with their jobs, and, Brooks writes, “This finding generally holds across income and education levels.” This opposes the idea that Americans consider their work as unwelcome but necessary drudgery. Through work we create value and meaning in our lives and in the lives of others.

     The Declaration of Independence opens with the words: “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness,” and Americans know that they possess those rights. If we dislike our jobs, if the boss mistreats us, or if we are poorly paid, or if we see little opportunity in the job we now hold, we can quit and pursue different employment, one that will deliver life and liberty and happiness.

     The former slave Frederick Douglass said that we all need “patient, enduring honest, unremitting, and indefatigable work, into which the whole heart is put.” Arthur C. Brooks commented that Douglass’s words “struck the bedrock of our culture and character.” Joblessness, Brooks writes, “is catastrophic for happiness.” Alcohol and drug abuse, depression, and family disharmony converge like wolves on the home that lacks a job.

     Time‘s Person of the Year, Pope Francis, echoed the same thought last October when he was asked what is the most serious evil facing the world today. He answered, “youth unemployment and the loneliness of the old,” two segments of the population who find it difficult to locate work. In some parts of the United States, youth unemployment stands at 25%, an unacceptable number.

     On Tuesday, November 26, Pope Francis issued his Evangelii Gaudium, or The Joy of the Gospel, and in it he criticized the “new tyranny” of “unfettered capitalism” and denounced trickle-down economics “which assume that economic growth . . . will succeed in bringing about greater justice. . . . Meanwhile the excluded are still waiting.” Francis pointed to the gap that distances rich from poor.

     Yes, capitalism has its critics: from the Church, from the Left, from the disenfranchised, and from the poor, but others see it different. Andrew Napolitano of the Washington Post, responded to the Pope’s comments and said “No economic system in history has alleviated more poverty, generated more opportunity, and helped more formerly poor people.” Brooks argued that, “Free enterprise gives the most people the best shot at earning their success and finding enduring happiness in their work.”

     But it requires immense effort and work.

     Three weeks ago I went to the movie “Twelve Years a Slave,” a brutal and savage reenactment of the South’s plantation system prior to the Civil War, raw capitalism at its ugliest. Management badly mistreated their labor source, the men and women and children who worked their fields.

     Yes, there was zero unemployment, but what trickled down to Solomon Northup and his fellow slaves was chains, beatings, a whip, the whipping post, a flayed back, the buying and selling of naked men and women, name-calling, intimidation, humiliation, and abject terror. In a word, hopelessness.

From their perspective life was a relentless and cruel existence.     

     You see a bat, but I see a butterfly. No. I see the bat, but you see the butterfly. Perspective is everything, and our perspective for our job is determined by how the supervisor treats the employees.

     Managers have learned that if they wants laborers and employees to show up and work hard for the minimum eight hours, they must treat them with dignity and respect, and not resort to physical abuse, but if they whip their employees, their laborers will leave and find other jobs. They will pursue happiness elsewhere.

     Have a blessed and happy New Year in 2014.

Prince Harry and IceCube

by William H. Benson

December 19, 2013

     On Friday the thirteenth Prince Harry arrived at the Amundsen-Scott South Pole station. The twenty-nine-year old British army helicopter pilot joined his six UK teammates as they gathered around the mirror-like chrome sphere set atop the red and white striped pole. “It will just prove to everybody,” Harry said, “that there’s so much that can be made possible when you think that nothing else is left.”

     His team wore red parkas and was one of three teams that raised funds for Walking with the Wounded, a charity that supports wounded servicemen and women. The United States team wore blue, and the Australian and Canadian team wore yellow. At first, the three teams raced, but then part-way through they gave up the competition and decided to cooperate and enjoy the 208 mile course.

     For over a week the three teams’ members walked across Antarctica’s ice on skis, while holding a pole in each hand and pulling a sled that contained food, supplies, and tent. Because the elevation at the South Pole is at 9301feet high, the air is thin, the average daily high temperature this month is -15.7 °F, and the wind blows strong every day. Most of that elevation, nearly two miles thick, is compressed ice.

     What did Prince Harry see once he arrived at the South Pole? First, he saw a settlement of no more than 200 people, mainly scientists: glaciologists, astrophysicists, and climatologists. He saw the unheated 164 foot wide geodesic dome, built in 1975, that holds the town’s supplies and fuel, and he saw the modern rectangular box-like building that stands on stilts above the icepack, and where the men and women live and work and relax.

     He saw the South Pole Telescope, first directed at the stars in 2007, and also he saw the IceCube Neutrino Observatory, the South Pole’s most amazing attraction. The Observatory is a three-year-old telescope that is aimed not at the stars above, but at the ice underneath.

     Scientists drilled eighty-six holes deep into that ice, almost to bedrock. They then dropped a string of sixty Digital Optical Modules, each the size of a basketball, down each hole to depths of between 4750 to 8000 feet. The 5160 DOM’s detect the faint blue light that is emitted whenever a neutrino from outer space strikes an oxygen atom, part of the water molecule. The ghost-like neutrino is without electrical charge and mass, and passes through everything it touches, including planet Earth.

     For months, the astrophysicists watched but failed to find any neutrinos, and so they looked at the data again. On November 26, 2013, Professor Lutz Kopke announced that “we have found neutrinos that were very probably generated in the vast expanses of outer space.” He and his fellow scientists  discovered twenty-eight high-energy neutrinos that passed through IceCube between 2010 and 2012.

     The scientists believe that the neutrinos were created “in the proximity of supernovas, black holes, pulsars, active galaxies, or other extra galactic phenomena.” These cosmic accelerators drove the neutrinos outward in all directions. A reporter explained that IceCube is like a camera that develops “a long-exposure photograph” of what once occurred in deep space. Rather than seeing photons of light, it detects the neutrinos, the negative image of that light.

     Astrophysics is a science that promises future revelations, as well as exciting and intriguing glimpses into other galaxies, and into other worlds within our own Milky Way galaxy. Astronomers continue to discover other planets that revolve around their own sun, and their goal is to find a planet situated at that ideal distance from its sun, like Earth, neither too hot nor too cold, a place where plant and animal life could evolve.

     So back from the Afghanistan war are Prince Harry, a member of Britain’s royal, and his fellow warriors, some who walked on Antarctica’s ice with a prosthesis, or who saw none of it because they were blinded by a bomb. Harry was truly walking with the wounded. They met the scientists at the frozen South Pole, a place where neither native plant or animal lives, on a continent that receives so little precipitation that geographers label it a desert.

     Warriors and scientists have little to say to each other because they each hold different mindsets, distinct and divergent points of view of how to see and relate to the world. A ruler would not send his scientists to the battlefield, and he would not ask his warriors to conduct scientific experiments. But for a few hours last weekend, they met and talked about deep space, neutrinos, and a space observatory located in a dense block of ice a mile or two below their feet.

     Perhaps Harry and his team will stay long enough to celebrate the South Pole’s summer solstice on December 21, the day when summer begins, when the shadows are the shortest.