Compelling Interest

Read It and Weep

Today's Guest Author is Sam Clemens, better known as Mark Twain.

This is one of those stories that should never ever be forgotten.

A TRUE STORY, REPEATED WORD FOR WORD AS I HEARD IT.

IT was summer time, and twilight. We were sitting on the porch of the farm-house, on the summit of the hill, and "Aunt Rachel" [Mary Ann Cord] was sitting respectfully below our level, on the steps – for she was our servant, and colored. She was of mighty frame and stature; she was sixty years old, but her eye was undimmed and her strength unabated. She was a cheerful, hearty soul, and it was no more trouble for her to laugh than it is for a bird to sing. She was under fire, now, as usual when the day was done. That is to say, she was being chaffed without mercy, and was enjoying it. She would let off peal after peal of laughter, and then sit with her face in her hands and shake with throes of enjoyment which she could no longer get breath enough to express. At such a moment as this a thought occurred to me, and I said:

"Aunt Rachel, how is it that you've lived sixty years and never had any trouble?"

She stopped quaking. She paused, and there was a moment of silence. She turned her face over her shoulder toward me, and said, without even a smile in her voice:

"Misto Clemens, is you in 'arnest?"

It surprised me a good deal; and it sobered my manner and my speech, too. I said:

"Why, I thought – that is, I meant – why, you can't have had any trouble. I've never heard you sigh, and never seen your eye when there wasn't a laugh in it."

She faced fairly around, now, and was full of earnestness.

"Has I had any trouble? Misto Clemens, I's gwyne to tell you, den I leave it to you. I was bawn down 'mongst de slaves; I knows all 'bout slavery, 'ca’se I been one of 'em my own se'f. Well, sah, my ole man – dat's my husban' – he was lovin' an' kind to me, jist as kind as you is to yo' own wife. An' we had chil'en – seven chil'en – an' we loved dem chil'en jist de same as you loves yo' chil'en. Dey was black, but de Lord can't make no chil'en so black but what dey mother love 'em an' wouldn't give 'em up, no, not for anything dat's in dis whole world.

"Well, sah, I was raised in ole Fo'ginny, but my mother she was raised in Maryland; an' my souls! she was turrible when she'd git started! My lan'! but she'd make de fur fly! When she'd git into dem tantrums, she always had one word dat she said. She'd straighten herse'f up an' put her fists in her hips an' say, 'I want you to understan' dat I wa'n't bawn in de mash to be fool' by trash! I's one o' de ole Blue Hen's Chickens, I is!' 'Ca'se, you see, dat's what folks dat's bawn in Maryland calls deyselves, an' dey's proud of it. Well, dat was her word. I don't ever forgit it, beca'se she said it so much, an' beca'se she said it one day when my little Henry tore his wris' awful, an' most busted his head, right up at de top of his forehead, an' de niggers didn't fly aroun' fas' enough to 'tend to him. An' when dey talk' back at her, she up an' she says, 'Look-a-heah!' she says, 'I want you niggers to understan' dat I wa'n't bawn in de mash to be fool' by trash! I's one o' de ole Blue Hen's Chickens, I is!' an' den she clar' dat kitchen an' bandage' up de chile herse'f. So I says dat word, too, when I's riled.

"Well, bymeby my ole mistis say she's broke, an' she got to sell all de niggers on de place. An' when I heah dat dey gwyne to sell us all off at oction in Richmon', oh de good gracious! I know what dat mean!"

Aunt Rachel had gradually risen, while she warmed to her subject, and now she towered above us, black against the stars.

"Dey put chains on us an' put us on a stan' as high as dis po'ch – twenty foot high – an' all de people stood aroun', crowds an' crowds. An' dey'd come up dah an' look at us all roun', an' squeeze our arm, an' make us git up an' walk, an' den say, ‘Dis one too ole,' or 'Dis one lame,' or 'Dis one don't 'mount to much.' An' dey sole my ole man, an' took him away, an' dey began to sell my chil'en an' take dem away, an' I begin to cry; an' de man say, 'Shet up yo' dam blubberin',' an' hit me on de mouf wid his han'. An' when de las' one was gone but my little Henry, I grab' him clost up to my breas' so, an' I ris up an' says, 'You shan't take him away,' I says; 'I'll kill de man dat tetches him!' I says. But my little Henry whisper an' say, 'I gwyne to run away, an' den I work an' buy yo' freedom.' Oh, bless de chile, he always so good! But dey got him – dey got him, de men did; but I took and tear de clo'es mos' off of 'em, an' beat 'em over de head wid my chain; an' dey give it to me, too, but I didn't mine dat.

"Well, dah was my ole man gone, an' all my chil'en, all my seven chil'en – an' six of 'em I hain't set eyes on ag'in to dis day, an' dat's twenty-two year ago las' Easter. De man dat bought me b'long' in Newbern, an' he took me dah. Well, bymeby de years roll on an' de waw come. My marster he was a Confedrit colonel, an' I was his family's cook. So when de Unions took dat town, dey all run away an' lef' me all by myse'f wid de other niggers in dat mons'us big house. So de big Union officers move in dah, an' dey ask me would I cook for dem. 'Lord bless you,' says I, 'dat's what I's for.'

"Dey wa'n't no small-fry officers, mine you, dey was de biggest dey is; an' de way dey made dem sojers mosey roun'! De Gen'l he tole me to boss dat kitchen; an' he say, 'If anybody come meddlin' wid you, you jist make 'em walk chalk; don't you be afeard,' he say; 'you's 'mong frens, now.'

"Well, I thinks to myse'f, if my little Henry ever got a chance to run away, he'd make to de Norf, o' course. So one day I comes in dah whah de big officers was, in de parlor, an' I drops a kurtchy, so, an' I up an' tole 'em 'bout my Henry, dey a-listenin' to my troubles jist de same as if I was white folks; an' I says, 'What I come for is beca'se if he got away and got up Norf whah you gemmen comes from, you might 'a'seen him, maybe, an' could tell me so as I could fine him ag'in; he was very little, an' he had a sk-yar on his lef' wris', an' at de top of his forehead.' Den dey look mournful, an' de Gen'l say, 'How long sence you los' him?' an' I say, 'Thirteen year.' Den de Gen'l say, 'He wouldn't be little no mo', now – he's a man!'

"I never thought o' dat befo'! He was only dat little feller to me, yit. I never thought 'bout him growin' up an' bein' big. But I see it den. None o' de gemmen had run acrost him, so dey couldn't do nothin' for me. But all dat time, do' I didn't know it, my Henry was run off to de Norf, years an' years, an' he was a barber, too, an' worked for hisse'f. An' bymeby, when de waw come, he ups an' he says, 'I's done barberin',' he says; 'I's gwyne to fine my ole mammy, less'n she's dead.' So he sole out an' went to whah dey was recruitin', an' hired hisse'f out to de colonel for his servant; an' den he went all froo de battles everywhah, huntin' for his ole mammy; yes indeedy, he'd hire to fust one officer an' den another, tell he'd ransacked de whole Souf; but you see I didn't know nuffin 'bout dis. How was I gwyne to know it?

"Well, one night we had a big sojer ball; de sojers dah at Newbern was always havin' balls an' carryin' on. Dey had 'em in my kitchen, heaps o' times, 'ca'se it was so big. Mine you, I was down on sich doin's; beca'se my place was wid de officers, an' it rasp me to have dem common sojers cavortin' roun' my kitchen like dat. But I alway' stood aroun' an' kep' things straight, I did; an' sometimes dey'd git my dander up, an' den I'd make 'em clar dat kitchen, mine I tell you!

“Well, one night – it was a Friday night – dey comes a whole plattoon f’m a nigger ridgment dat was on guard at de house – de house was head-quarters, you know – an’ den I was jist a-bilin’! Mad? I was jist a-boomin’! I swelled aroun’, an’ swelled aroun’; I jist was a-itchin’ for ‘em to do somefin for to start me. An’ dey was a-waltzin’ an’ a-dancin’! My! But dey was havin’ a time! An’ I jist a-swellin’ an’ a-swellin’ up! Pooty soon, ‘long comes sich a spruce young nigger a-sailin’ down de room wid a yaller wench roun’ de wais’; an’ roun’ an’ roun’ an roun’ dey went, enough to make a body drunk to look at ‘em; an’ when dey got abreas’ o’ me, dey went to kin’ o’ balancin’ aroun’, fust on one leg an’ den on t’other, an’ smilin’ at my big red turban, an’ makin’ fun, an’ I ups an’ says, ‘Git along wid you! – rubbage!’ De young man’s face kin’ o’ changed, all of a sudden, for ‘bout a second, but den he went to smilin’ ag’in, same as he was befo’. Well, ‘bout dis time, in comes some niggers dat played music an’ b’long’ to de ban’, an’ dey never could git along widout puttin’ on airs. An’ de very fust air dey put on dat night, I lit into ‘em! Dey laughed, an’ dat made me wuss. De res’ o’ de niggers got to laughin’, an’ den my soul alive but I was hot! My eye was jist a-blazin’! I jist straightened myself up, so – jist as I is now, plum to de ceilin’, mos’ – an’ I digs my fists into my hips, an’ I says, ‘Look-a-heah!’ I says, ‘I want you niggers to understan’ dat I wa’n’t bawn in de mash to be fool’ by trash! I’s one o’ de ole Blue Hen’s Chickens, I is!’ An’ den I see dat young man stan’ a-starin’ an’ stiff, lookin’ kin’ o’ up at de ceilin’ like he fo’got somefin, an’ couldn’t ‘member it no mo’. Well, I jist march’ on dem niggers – so, lookin’ like a gen’l – an’ dey jist cave’ away befo’ me an’ out at de do’. An’ as dis young man was a-goin’ out, I heah him say to another nigger, ‘Jim,’ he says, ‘you go ‘long an’ tell de cap’n I be on han’ ‘bout eight o’clock in de mawnin’; dey’s somefin on my mine,’ he says; ‘I don’t sleep no mo’ dis night. You go ‘long,’ he says, ‘an’ leave me by my own se’f.’

“Dis was ‘bout one o’clock in de mawnin’. Well, ‘bout seven, I was up an’ on han’, gettin’ de officers’ breakfast. I was a-stoopin’ down by de stove – jist so, same as if yo’ foot was de stove – an’ I’d opened de stove do’ wid my right han’ – so, pushin’ it back, jist as I pushes yo’ foot – an’ I’d jist got de pan o’ hot biscuits in my han’ an’ was ‘bout to raise up, when I see a black face come aroun’ under mine, an’ de eyes a-lookin’ up into mine, jist as I’s a-lookin’ up clost under yo’ face now; an’ I jist stopped right dah, an’ never budged! Jist gazed, an’ gazed, so; an’ de pan begin to tremble, an’ all of a sudden I knowed! De pan drop’ on de flo’ an’ I grab his lef’ han’ an’ shove back his sleeve – jist so, as I’s doin’ to you, an’ den I goes for his forehead an’ push de hair back, so, an’ ‘Boy!’ I says, ‘if you an’t my Henry, what is you doin’ wid dis welt on yo’ wris’ an’ dat sk-yar on yo’ forehead? De Lord God ob heaven be praise’, I got my own ag’in!’

“Oh, no, Misto Clemens, I hain’t had no trouble. An’ no joy!”

Mark Twain

Girl Gets Dollar For Her Two Cents

In the present case, our Guest Author is really a Guest Speaker.

In 1873, Susan B. Anthony was hauled into court on criminal charges that she and other women of New York “did knowingly, wrongfully and unlawfully vote...without having a lawful right to vote.” The following is what she had to say to the Court, reprinted from a book she helped edit entitled History of Woman Suffrage (1881). I will never again look at another Susan B. Anthony dollar with apathy or disinterest.

THE COURT: The prisoner will stand up. Has the prisoner anything to say why sentence shall not be pronounced?
MISS ANTHONY: Yes, your honor, I have many things to say; for in your ordered verdict of guilty, you have trampled underfoot every vital principle of our government. My natural rights, my civil rights, my political rights, are all alike ignored. Robbed of the fundamental privilege of citizenship, I am degraded from the status of citizen to that of a subject; and not only myself individually, but all of my sex, are, by your honor’s verdict, doomed to political subjection under this so-called republican government.
JUDGE HUNT: The Court cannot listen to a rehearsal of arguments the prisoner’s counsel has already consumed three hours in presenting.
MISS ANTHONY: May it please your honor, I am not arguing the question, but simply stating the reasons why sentence cannot, in justice, be pronounced against me. Your denial of my citizen’s right to vote is the denial of my right of consent as one of the governed, the denial of my right of representation as one of the taxed, the denial of my right to a trial by a jury of my peers as an offender against the law, therefore, the denial of my sacred rights to life, liberty, property, and-
JUDGE HUNT: The Court cannot allow the prisoner to go on.
MISS ANTHONY: But your honor will not deny me this one and only poor privilege of protest against this high-handed outrage upon my citizen’s rights. May it please the Court to remember that since the day of my arrest last November, this is the first time that either myself or any person of my disenfranchised class has been allowed a word of defense before judge or jury-
JUDGE HUNT: The prisoner must sit down; the Court cannot allow it.
MISS ANTHONY: Of all my prosecutors, from the 8th Ward corner grocery politician who entered the complaint, to the United States Marshal, Commissioner, District Attorney, District Judge, your honor on the bench, not one is my peer, but each and all are my political sovereigns; and had your honor submitted my case to the jury, as was clearly your duty, even then I should have had just cause of protest, for not one of those men was my peer; but, native or foreign, white or black, rich or poor, educated or ignorant, awake or asleep, sober or drunk, each and every man of them was my political superior; hence, in no sense, my peer. Even under such circumstances, a commoner of England tried before a jury of lords would have far less cause to complain than I, a woman, tried before a jury of men. Even my counsel, the Honorable Henry R. Selden, who has argued my cause so ably, so earnestly, so unanswerably before your honor, is my political sovereign. Precisely as no disenfranchised person is entitled to sit upon a jury, and no woman is entitled to the franchise, so, none but a regularly admitted lawyer is allowed to practice in the courts, and no woman can gain admission to the bar – hence, jury, judge, counsel, must all be of the superior class.
JUDGE HUNT: The Court must insist – the prisoner has been tried according to the established forms of law.
MISS ANTHONY: Yes, your honor, but by forms of law all made by men, interpreted by men, administered by men, in favor of men, and against women; and hence, your honor’s ordered verdict of guilty against a United States citizen for the exercise of “that citizen’s right to vote” simply because that citizen was a woman and not a man. But yesterday [referring to the days of slavery], the same man-made forms of law declared it a crime punishable with a thousand-dollar fine and six months’ imprisonment for you or me, or any of us, to give a cup of cold water, a crust of bread, or a night’s shelter to a panting fugitive as he was tracking his way to Canada. And every man or woman in whose veins coursed a drop of human sympathy violated that wicked law, reckless of consequences, and was justified in so doing. As then the slaves who got their freedom [had to] take it over, or under, or through the unjust forms of law, precisely so now must women, to get their right to a voice in this Government, take it; and I have taken mine, and mean to take it at every possible opportunity.
JUDGE HUNT: The Court orders the prisoner to sit down. It will not allow another word.
MISS ANTHONY: When I was brought before your honor for trial, I hoped for a broad and liberal interpretation of the Constitution and its recent amendments that should declare all United States citizens [as being] under its protecting aegis – that should declare equality of rights the national guarantee to all persons born or naturalized in the United States. But failing to get this justice – failing, even, to get a trial by a jury not of my peers – I ask not leniency at your hands – but rather the full rigors of the law.
JUDGE HUNT: The Court must insist – (Here the prisoner sat down.) The prisoner will stand up. (Here Miss Anthony arose again.) The sentence of the Court is that you pay a fine of one hundred dollars and the costs of the prosecution.
MISS ANTHONY: May it please your honor, I shall never pay a dollar of your unjust penalty. All the stock in trade I possess is a $10,000 debt, incurred by publishing my paper – The Revolution – four years ago, the sole object of which was to educate all women to do precisely as I have done, rebel against your man-made, unjust, unconstitutional forms of law that tax, fine, imprison, and hang women, while they deny them the right of representation in the Government; and I shall work on with might and main to pay every dollar of that honest debt, but not a penny shall go to this unjust claim. And I shall earnestly and persistently continue to urge all women to the practical recognition of the old revolutionary maxim, that “Resistance to tyranny is obedience to God.”

The Art of Self-Deprecation

Today's Guest Author is my brother, Karl Henning. No, seriously. You've got Mark Twain, Susan B. Anthony, and my brother, Karl. A logical progression, don't you think?

As we were growing up and soaking in the comedy of Dick Van Dyke, Tim Conway, Lucille Ball, Bob Newhart, etc., Karl discovered that strain of humor wherein one makes oneself the butt of the joke: self-deprecating humor. We practiced this technique all through school and, sure enough, it gets the laugh.

Shortly after I had joined the Navy Reserve four or five years ago, Karl sent me this e-mail. He artfully combines my military and piano tuning experience, and sets that against his FAA and musical endeavors. Ostensibly, according to Karl's narrative, we are both using everything we've got to help out in these uncertain times. Enjoy.

_______________________________

Two paths, a common goal.

Thousands of miles out on the rolling green swells of the Indian Ocean, the Aviation Structural Mechanic walks into the ship's galley for refreshment. At the end of a 12-hour shift, he wants nothing more than to get a quick bite and hit the sack. Four hours from now the treadmill begins afresh.

This is a world of nicknames - short, meaningful monikers given by your shipmates that tell, in a word, your story. The religious might be called, "Rev;" the blasphemous, "Satan." There's Knuckle and Scourge; Ripper and Hairball; Hammer and Dulcimer. And Gonorrhea. Lots of Gonorrhea.

The Aviation Structural Mechanic takes his tray of hash and makes for a table, any table. It doesn't matter - everyone makes room for him at their table. They all want to be near him - no - to be him.

Above the din, a new crewmember, a "swab," asks of no one in particular, "What gives? Who's the Messiah?" "Cookie" reaches a meaty fist across the table and grabs the swab's lapel. "That," he snarls, "is 'Maestro.' A musical theatre conductor back in 'the world.' Best mechanic on this tub - hell, probably the best in GW Bush's Navy." He lets go of the newbie who crashes back onto his bench. "It's unbelievable what that guy can do with an F100," Cookie says, reverentially.

"F100?"

"Engine on an F-15. Some guys'll take all week trying to get those things to light up properly. Not Maestro. Uses a wimpy looking socket wrench and some electronic piano tuning gizmo. Maestro says he only uses the gizmo to tune the fundamental pitch."

"Pitch?"

"Yeah," Cookie continues. "He says each engine has its own frequency. He tunes the fundamental electronically but does the harmonics by ear. Has it done in a couple of hours. Never looks at a manual. Word is that a couple o' fighter jocks turned in their wings after flying an F-15 worked on by the Maestro. It scared 'em." He looks around, then whispers, "Guy in the laundry told me they filled their flight suits with shit."

"You're kidding!"

"Honest engine! Pilots say it's like strapping a rocket to their ass! Not for the weak. Takes a real pro to fly one of Maestro's jets. Takes a fuckin' hero to use the damper pedal on one of those things. And don't even look for an una corda pedal. If any new F-15 comes in from the mainland with an una corda pedal, Maestro rips it out and calmly tucks it into the breast pocket of the pilot's flight suit. A real character, he is..."

Thousands of miles inland, in the rolling green hills of central Iowa, the Air Traffic Controller walks into the break room, sorting his change to see if he has enough money for his third package of Donettes. Four hours into his shift, he's been on position a total of 45 minutes. "When will it end?" he asks of no one in particular.

This is also a world of nicknames - witty and often insulting names that stick to you because of some infamous event or an embarrassing personal trait that you've spent your 40-plus years trying to overcome with varying levels of success and why can't people just leave me alone?! There's Crash and Mid-Air; Cupcake and Curly (the bald guys - and girls, for that matter - are always called "Curly." Get it?); Duck and Cap'n. And Halitosis. Lots of Halitosis.

The Air Traffic Controller is pleased to see the machine's been recently stocked. Nothing but Donettes. On this side, powdered sugar-flavored-powder Donettes; on this, Chocolate Donettes in all their waxen goodsomeness. "Wouldn't it be great if they just mixed the two and called it a 'Donette Swirl'?" he asks of no one in particular.

He asks a lot of questions of no one in particular because, when he enters a room, it empties. People suddenly remember that they have something really important to attend to - elsewhere. Against the current stream of evacuees, the supervisor walks in with a new controller. The new guy is getting his facility orientation. "Who's that?" he asks the supervisor, pointing to the lone Air Traffic Controller who appears to be writing music, of all things.

"Him?" replies the supervisor. "That's 'Faggot.' A couple of years ago he started going to college to learn how to write music - choral music, if you can believe it." The supervisor punctuates the word "choral" with his middle finger. "Wanders up and down the halls during his breaks babbling on about the effect of preceding a five-chord with a Neapolitan six chord versus an Italian augmented sixth chord."

The new guy shrugs. "Really? Why wouldn't he just use a two- or a four-chord like everyone else?"

"Cause he's a pedantic little puss, that's why! For crying out loud, he could precede it with a one-chord and save everyone the trouble! But no! He wants to be different. Says he really wants to 'give it to the Hun.'"

"'Give it to the Hun?'" the new guy repeats slowly.

"Yeah. He feels that writing choral music somehow contributes to the war effort. He feels this enemy can't be touched by traditional harmonies - thinks that chromaticism is the only effective way to topple an oligarchic regime."

"What a nance. Let's get out of here. He gives me the creeps. 'Faggot...' is that what you call him?"

Doctor-Speak

My sister, Barbara Henning, is a medical transcriptionist when not working on her novel. This is a short article she wrote in a transcriptionist newsletter:

DOCTOR-SPEAK

Of course, no doctor/medical professional really speaks English. Sadly, nobody really knows why they have their own language; why they feel the need to say epistaxis rather than nosebleed.

It’s happened to all of us at one time or another, hasn’t it? You’re in the emergency room or simply getting that pesky annual physical out of the way. Everything is moving along smoothly. Name. Address. Date of birth. Reason for the visit. Have you had any headaches? “No.” Dizziness? “No.” Blurred vision? “No.” Epistaxis? “. . . . Well . . . . no. My taxes are about the same every year. Why?”

Never mind. Hearing problems? “No.” Swallowing problems? “No.” Any breathing problems? “No.” Dyspnea on exertion? “God bless you.” Uh, let me put it this way – any shortness of breath? “No.”

Do you have any GI problems? “No, my husband was in the Marines, but mostly he doesn’t act like it.” Okay, let’s make that stomach problems. “Oh. No.” Urinary tract infections? “No.” Stooling problems? “Nope. Everybody in the family has their own stool, right there at the breakfast bar in the kitchen.”

Medical professionals are harried, and hurried, and the medical jargon just falls out of their mouths. It’s not their fault. Their medical training has spanned years, and Latin derivatives just become part of normal conversation. They don’t seem to be able to help it. Ask any 10-year-old who’s fallen out of a tree and gone to an urgent care center to get stitches in his head, only to be asked during the physical exam, “Do you have any cervical or thoracic pain, son?”