Recycling, refreshing and re-using are very popular subjects on Saturna and are taken very seriously by some, if recent issues of the Scribbler can be trusted. You sometimes get the feeling that this is some dark religious cult or that we are headed for some cataclysmic event, if we don’t re-use those tiny bits of left-over soap or, God forbid, toss out an old sock that has seen better days. Though, come to think of it, there are very practical and beneficial uses for old socks. I will try to address that topic in a later issue.
A more light-hearted look at recycling in another time and place might be a good idea. Recycling is, of course, not new to our age today. I remember a time some 60 years ago when people had to be resourceful and find new applications for things that had outlived their original usefulness. This was part of our common survival strategy. This was long before I crossed to the enlightened shores of North America. This was when I still lived on the dark side, in post-war Germany.
The year was 1946 and refugees from the lost eastern German territories were flooding across the border between east and west. One of those refugees lived on the second floor of our house in one of our guest rooms. His name was Hans Spiess (pronounced shpees) and he came from some place in Czechoslovakia or as he called it, the Protectorate. He was a heavy smoker and he was suffering, because cigarettes were a luxury and he didn’t have any. This was also in the days before filters were the norm. His fingers were nicotine-stained and he held his cigarettes in a very peculiar way between his thumb and forefinger of his right hand, with the burning end up. To take a puff, this meant that he had to twist his hand awkwardly, palm up. It looked odd, foreign, to us. He spent his days crouched behind his second floor window, watching the proceedings in the street below, a pair of army-issue binoculars at his side, particularly when there were American soldiers about, who were known as great wastrels as well as benefactors. They would light a cigarette, take a couple of hits and toss it on the ground.
When that happened, Herr Spiess would rush downstairs and out into the street to where the treasure had been carelessly flicked. He didn’t like Americans and thought of them as slackers. He didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of knowing that he was after their half-smoked stubs. He also didn’t want to let those butts burn uselessly down to the end on the ground. Speed was of the essence. So, to camouflage his true intentions, he had worked a short darning needle into the heel of his boot with its pointed end protruding in back. He would quick-march over to where the errant smoke lay in the dirt, surreptitiously spike it with his boot-heel needle as he walked past, bring his heel up to where he could reach it with his hands without bending over too much, palm the butt, put out the embers and return to his lair. You had to give him credit; he was pretty good at this maneuver. However, his hands were always covered with plasters, where he’d stuck himself with his cigarette-butt-retrieval-needle. In the evening, he would sit down with his stash of half-smoked cigarette butts, meticulously strip them and roll them into thin new cigarettes. Sometimes, there was enough for quite a few of his recycled hand-rolled smokes. He figured five normal sized American butts equaled one new cigarette. He never shared with anyone and guarded his stash jealously.
My older brother, also a heavy smoker, had a different method of recycling cigarettes. He persuaded me to be his gofer in his battle with Herr Spiess over supremacy in the cigarette-butt-retrieval war. Whenever anyone showed up who smoked, it was my job to hover unobtrusively nearby and retrieve their leftovers. I was very good at this task, picking up butts, emptying ashtrays and shadowing the Americans to beat Herr Spiess to the prize. Several times Herr Spiess threatened me with severe consequences, if I didn’t cease and desist. I laughed at him, because I knew he was afraid of my brother, who had told him that if he so much as laid a finger on me, he would put a large hole in him.
On rare occasions, some GI would carelessly leave a half smoked pack of Lucky Strikes or Camels laying around, giving me the opportunity to sneak in under the radar and swipe them. These were like gold to my brother, because you could trade them for whatever you needed, whether it was food or booze or gasoline or nylons. American cigarettes were the unofficial currency of Germany in the years after the end of the war and would buy you just about anything.
My brother stretched these pickings I brought him with an assorted mix of boysenberry leaves and elephant ear, also called hoof lettuce, a giant-leafed, horseshoe-shaped, hairy weed which grew in moist ditches along roadways all around our village. These leaves were carefully spread out to dry on the floor of our attic and then meticulously cut and mixed with the stripped tobacco I had collected and rolled into new cigarettes. My brother used whatever paper was handy, including newsprint, for rolling papers.
My brother could roll cigarettes with one hand. He could also light matches with one hand. Obviously, his three-year war experience had been good for something. He always carried a handful of cigarettes loose in his pocket. He never threw a cigarette away, but smoked it down to the last crumb of tobacco. His fingertips and the cup of his right hand were stained dark brown. He had the soldier’s habit of cupping his smokes in his hand to avoid giving himself away to the enemy or superiors.
He told me that this mixture of his tasted better than the cheap Russian makhorkas he had smoked during the war. And, he added, you didn’t have to hold them up vertically to keep the tobacco from falling out, as you apparently had to with the Russian smokes, because that tobacco was dry and stale, loosely packed and full of sweepings. As any real smoker knows, dried out tobacco can be a bitch and can interfere with the enjoyment of the act of smoking. You had to hold them awkwardly and if you weren’t careful, you burned your fingers.
By relating this story, I don’t want to entice anybody to pick up smoking or praise the filthy habit in any way. It is simply an example of re-use, driven by necessity, in another time entirely. But all the same, the next time you espy an abandoned cigarette butt under foot, you’ll know what to do. Waste not, want not. Nowadays, the problem, of course, is what to do with the filters. I’m working on that.
In future issues, I will endeavor to familiarize you with ways to overcome a total lack of toilet paper, how to extend the lifespan of paper towels and give you an example of how the creative use of a wool sock can dissuade trespassers from your property.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Saturday, May 17, 2008
Alpo And Other Savory Delicacies
I sincerely hope that you tried and enjoyed my lung pie recipe featured in last month’s installment. I realize that savory treat may not be high on some folks’ list of favorites, but I also know that once you gagged it down, you’ll never forget its taste. I am equally sure that you’ll think twice now before discarding deer innards or tossing sheep and goat guts or road kill to the eagles or the ravens.
Thinking about lung pie brings to mind another mouth-watering dish that I’d like to share with you, this one from my university days. Five of us - two Costa Rican exchange students from San Jose, a pre-med student from Salina, Kansas, a freshman from the south side of Chicago and me, a veteran with limited language skills - were living in Mrs. Lynch’s basement on Vermont Street in Lawrence, Kansas, a block off campus. The two Costa Ricans were on scholarship, the rest of us had to work to go to school. Needless to say, we had limited resources.
Mrs. Lynch, a widow in her sixties, lived on the first floor and guarded with a zealot’s zeal the approaches to the second floor, which was shared by eight co-eds. The only way up there without being spotted by Mrs. Lynch was up a rickety pear trellis against the back wall of the house. This was a dangerous climb, because the house was built into the side of Mt. Oread, a steep flat-topped hill, 191 feet above the surrounding city of Lawrence, with the campus of the University of Kansas taking up the top. Mrs. Lynch’s backyard fell away steeply from the back of the house. If you tumbled off the trellis, you had a ways to go before you came to a stop.
If you’re into trivia, here are a couple of tidbits about Mt Oread. Originally called Hogback Ridge, Mt. Oread was named after Oread Institute in Worcester, Massachusetts, and was the staging area for William Quantrill’s infamous raid into Lawrence on August 21, 1863. It sits on the water divide between the Kaw and Wakarusa Rivers and offers one of the finest views in Kansas.
Living in that basement was an adventure. For one, we had a bit of a rodent problem. Our pre-med roommate – his name was Carleton Wedell – believed in sanitation and each night he’d lay out mouse poison in the kitchen. The poison didn’t turn out to be fatal, because the next morning there always seemed to be three or four dazed mice running in circles around the legs of the kitchen table. Carleton had a BB-gun, but he was a lousy shot and he could never hit the groggy mice, so it fell to me to take over the daily task of shooting the vermin before breakfast. I’d put a chair in the doorway between the kitchen and our common room to block the little buggers’ obvious escape route, sat down on it and picked them off, one by one. Even in their impaired condition, these mice were pretty skittish and BBs ricocheted off the kitchen surfaces. Mrs. Lynch kept complaining about the dings in her appliances, but we didn’t tell her about the kitchen’s alternate use as a rifle range.
Another thing I learned in Mrs. Lynch’s basement was the fact that Alpo could be considered comfort food, if you’re hungry. It didn’t taste bad, as long as you put lots of pepper and ketchup on it and washed it down with plenty of fluids of your choosing. The trick was to put the can of Alpo in the fridge overnight. This led to a slight contraction of the can’s contents, so that you could extract the mess the next morning in one cylindrical piece. This overnight cooling made it cohesive and gave it the consistency of aspic, kind of jiggly. You then sliced it into slabs about an inch thick and fried them. The slices looked like hamburger patties. We all ate them, except pre-med Carleton. He thought eating dog food was disgusting. But I don’t think he had ever been truly famished in his life. Besides sharing is a good thing, just don’t let your dog know you’re gagging down his food. He or she might take exception.
To pay for Mrs. Lynch’s basement and my university tuition, I got a summer job as a house painter with the university works department. I spent a hot Kansas summer painting married student quarters. I was the tallest in the crew, so I got the chore of painting ceilings. I discovered new muscles in my neck, shoulders and back that I didn’t realize I had.
One of my co-workers was a black guy named Earl Ladd. He lived on the edge of Lawrence along the Kaw River. He invited me to a barbecue at his house one Saturday in July. When I showed up, I was the only white face in sight. I didn’t care and they treated me like one of theirs. Most of them were veterans like me and I spoke their language. Fried catfish and ‘coon were the highlights of the menu. The raccoon was roasted whole on a spit and was dripping with grease. You ate it with mashed sweet potatoes and corn on the cob. I think they were trying to see how the white boy handled a leg of ‘coon. If they thought I would balk at chowing down on their offering, they got the wrong guy. I gagged it down. We washed it down with home brew that came in great big metal buckets. Everyone just dipped their glass or cup in there for refills. The beer had quite a kick. I think they tried to get me drunk, but my long and intimate experience with Bavarian beer helped me persevere. It was a party.
They say raccoon tastes like chicken. I don’t know if I’d go along with that assessment. To me it tasted more like badger. Or perhaps porcupine, without the bitter hemlock or cedar aftertaste. I’ve tried both, though not barbecued badger. That always came in a stew. I remember some years ago at my cottage in the Haliburton Highlands, north of Toronto, my friends and I were barbecuing a porcupine. It had made the mistake of chewing through the brake-line of my wife’s Toyota Tercel. When that happened, I received orders to shoot and kill the miscreant, which I did. But I thought it wasteful to just toss the remains aside and leave them for the wolves.
To barbecue a porcupine, you first have to skin it – very carefully. Porcupine quills are not fun to remove, as anyone who’s ever had to pull them out of their dog’s muzzle can attest. My friends and I were pretty much into the beer and in the bag by then and we were busy basting the porcupine with President’s Choice Memories of Saigon barbecue sauce, when my neighbor, Mrs. Griffin, walked over, asking if we had seen her dog, a miniature Schnauzer. My friend Tim lifted the lid of the barbecue and asked her: “Was it grey?” Needless to say, Mrs. Griffin was not impressed. She was aghast and didn’t think the gag was at all funny. Maybe not.
I should have known that talking about food would get me sidetracked. I guess we’ll have to tackle the recipe for making tasty alcoholic beverages out of Coca Cola and common household fluids, like aftershave lotion, lighter fluid and gasoline in a later installment. Here is a hint: the trick is the proper proportion.
Thinking about lung pie brings to mind another mouth-watering dish that I’d like to share with you, this one from my university days. Five of us - two Costa Rican exchange students from San Jose, a pre-med student from Salina, Kansas, a freshman from the south side of Chicago and me, a veteran with limited language skills - were living in Mrs. Lynch’s basement on Vermont Street in Lawrence, Kansas, a block off campus. The two Costa Ricans were on scholarship, the rest of us had to work to go to school. Needless to say, we had limited resources.
Mrs. Lynch, a widow in her sixties, lived on the first floor and guarded with a zealot’s zeal the approaches to the second floor, which was shared by eight co-eds. The only way up there without being spotted by Mrs. Lynch was up a rickety pear trellis against the back wall of the house. This was a dangerous climb, because the house was built into the side of Mt. Oread, a steep flat-topped hill, 191 feet above the surrounding city of Lawrence, with the campus of the University of Kansas taking up the top. Mrs. Lynch’s backyard fell away steeply from the back of the house. If you tumbled off the trellis, you had a ways to go before you came to a stop.
If you’re into trivia, here are a couple of tidbits about Mt Oread. Originally called Hogback Ridge, Mt. Oread was named after Oread Institute in Worcester, Massachusetts, and was the staging area for William Quantrill’s infamous raid into Lawrence on August 21, 1863. It sits on the water divide between the Kaw and Wakarusa Rivers and offers one of the finest views in Kansas.
Living in that basement was an adventure. For one, we had a bit of a rodent problem. Our pre-med roommate – his name was Carleton Wedell – believed in sanitation and each night he’d lay out mouse poison in the kitchen. The poison didn’t turn out to be fatal, because the next morning there always seemed to be three or four dazed mice running in circles around the legs of the kitchen table. Carleton had a BB-gun, but he was a lousy shot and he could never hit the groggy mice, so it fell to me to take over the daily task of shooting the vermin before breakfast. I’d put a chair in the doorway between the kitchen and our common room to block the little buggers’ obvious escape route, sat down on it and picked them off, one by one. Even in their impaired condition, these mice were pretty skittish and BBs ricocheted off the kitchen surfaces. Mrs. Lynch kept complaining about the dings in her appliances, but we didn’t tell her about the kitchen’s alternate use as a rifle range.
Another thing I learned in Mrs. Lynch’s basement was the fact that Alpo could be considered comfort food, if you’re hungry. It didn’t taste bad, as long as you put lots of pepper and ketchup on it and washed it down with plenty of fluids of your choosing. The trick was to put the can of Alpo in the fridge overnight. This led to a slight contraction of the can’s contents, so that you could extract the mess the next morning in one cylindrical piece. This overnight cooling made it cohesive and gave it the consistency of aspic, kind of jiggly. You then sliced it into slabs about an inch thick and fried them. The slices looked like hamburger patties. We all ate them, except pre-med Carleton. He thought eating dog food was disgusting. But I don’t think he had ever been truly famished in his life. Besides sharing is a good thing, just don’t let your dog know you’re gagging down his food. He or she might take exception.
To pay for Mrs. Lynch’s basement and my university tuition, I got a summer job as a house painter with the university works department. I spent a hot Kansas summer painting married student quarters. I was the tallest in the crew, so I got the chore of painting ceilings. I discovered new muscles in my neck, shoulders and back that I didn’t realize I had.
One of my co-workers was a black guy named Earl Ladd. He lived on the edge of Lawrence along the Kaw River. He invited me to a barbecue at his house one Saturday in July. When I showed up, I was the only white face in sight. I didn’t care and they treated me like one of theirs. Most of them were veterans like me and I spoke their language. Fried catfish and ‘coon were the highlights of the menu. The raccoon was roasted whole on a spit and was dripping with grease. You ate it with mashed sweet potatoes and corn on the cob. I think they were trying to see how the white boy handled a leg of ‘coon. If they thought I would balk at chowing down on their offering, they got the wrong guy. I gagged it down. We washed it down with home brew that came in great big metal buckets. Everyone just dipped their glass or cup in there for refills. The beer had quite a kick. I think they tried to get me drunk, but my long and intimate experience with Bavarian beer helped me persevere. It was a party.
They say raccoon tastes like chicken. I don’t know if I’d go along with that assessment. To me it tasted more like badger. Or perhaps porcupine, without the bitter hemlock or cedar aftertaste. I’ve tried both, though not barbecued badger. That always came in a stew. I remember some years ago at my cottage in the Haliburton Highlands, north of Toronto, my friends and I were barbecuing a porcupine. It had made the mistake of chewing through the brake-line of my wife’s Toyota Tercel. When that happened, I received orders to shoot and kill the miscreant, which I did. But I thought it wasteful to just toss the remains aside and leave them for the wolves.
To barbecue a porcupine, you first have to skin it – very carefully. Porcupine quills are not fun to remove, as anyone who’s ever had to pull them out of their dog’s muzzle can attest. My friends and I were pretty much into the beer and in the bag by then and we were busy basting the porcupine with President’s Choice Memories of Saigon barbecue sauce, when my neighbor, Mrs. Griffin, walked over, asking if we had seen her dog, a miniature Schnauzer. My friend Tim lifted the lid of the barbecue and asked her: “Was it grey?” Needless to say, Mrs. Griffin was not impressed. She was aghast and didn’t think the gag was at all funny. Maybe not.
I should have known that talking about food would get me sidetracked. I guess we’ll have to tackle the recipe for making tasty alcoholic beverages out of Coca Cola and common household fluids, like aftershave lotion, lighter fluid and gasoline in a later installment. Here is a hint: the trick is the proper proportion.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Stuff My Uncle Sam Taught Me
I joined my Uncle Sam’s Army when I was 20 years old and fresh off the boat from the fatherland. I could not speak English. Well, I did know four words – yes, no, thank you and f—k off. So it may not come as a surprise to you, that I encountered some problems communicating with my betters in the early days of my indenture.
The first thing my Uncle Sam taught me is that every action or inaction has a consequence. I was familiar with the physics axiom that every action generates a reaction, but I didn’t realize that this rule also applied to the military. My Uncle Sam’s Army was very high on cleanliness, neatness and, of course, order and he believed in issuing demerit points, gigs, we called them, if you didn’t measure up to his high standards. If your boots were not spit-shined or your belt buckle polished to your platoon sergeant’s high expectation, you could look forward to policing the parade ground for cigarette butts or cleaning the barracks latrine after everyone else had gone off duty. If you overlooked some dust particles on the mantel over the door during an inspection of your quarters, you could expect to spend hours in the mess cleaning pots and pans and being the cooks’ flunky. If, God forbid, there was dirt or rust on your rifle, you were guaranteed hours of extra drill on the parade ground with full field pack and your rifle at port arms, while your buddies slept.
The second thing my Uncle Sam taught me is that it is beneficial to obey orders, no matter how stupid they may seem to you. When a superior in those early days called me to attention and gave me an order, my lack of understanding and vocabulary sometimes was quite a nuisance. I learned quickly that f—k off was not a good answer, even though it entertained my fellow recruits greatly. It took me about six months to get a bit of a handle on the King’s English. Then I saw the light. I learned that the best response to an order, no matter what, was “Yes, sir” and then make sure your butt was below the horizon, to avoid getting it shot off. This insight served me well.
The third thing my Uncle Sam taught me was to never volunteer. If you volunteered, the chances of getting your butt shot off increased exponentially while your buddies were back in camp relaxing and sucking back Budweisers.
My Uncle Sam taught me how to shoot neat stuff – rifles, pistols, machine guns, BARs, bazookas, 120mm tank guns. And, if you were good at it, this earned you privileges. Like, if you were good with a machine gun – and I was pretty good – you got to go out by yourself to an exposed position and become the target of all the guys on the other side, who were trying to kill you, before you did them in.
My Uncle Sam taught me how to drive stick, how to drive a deuce-and-a-half and a Sherman tank. He taught me how to fly an airplane. All pretty useful skills. But he also taught me how to blow up stuff and I haven’t found a good use for that skill yet.
My Uncle Sam taught me that vodka is a great soother of both mental and physical pain and that Aqua Velva filtered through your gasmask charcoal filter and mixed with Coke will give you a pretty good jolt. The consumption of alcohol sometimes had bizarre repercussions, like the time two of my buddies and I tried to milk a cow, but hit on a bull instead, due to our blurred vision. Bulls don’t like to be milked.
My Uncle Sam taught me to avoid the company of bible thumpers and square-headed butt clenchers at all cost, because they had a tendency to be heroes and get you involved in their foolish quests for glory. If you wanted to survive, it was better to be invisible then to charge headlong into disaster.
My Uncle Sam taught me to treat my rifle like my bride, to love her, clean her, even sleep with her. I never had a bride, so this was new to me. He also insisted that you treat this bride vigorously, like in closed order drills, where you had to slap her and jerk her this way and that, to twirl her in the air, to thump her onto the ground with resolve, in unison with your mates. Perhaps that explains my initial awkwardness and difficulties when I did find a real bride later.
My Uncle Sam taught me that everything is done better in a group, like marching, eating, sleeping, tending to your bodily functions. If you did not adhere to this policy, there were always ramifications, none of them pleasant. Those of you who have ever dug a regulation latrine trench know whereof I’m speaking.
My Uncle Sam taught me how to kill. He taught me to do this without a second thought, without remorse. He taught me that the only thing that mattered was the man standing at the end. He didn’t teach me how to deal with the aftermath, the nightmares.
The first thing my Uncle Sam taught me is that every action or inaction has a consequence. I was familiar with the physics axiom that every action generates a reaction, but I didn’t realize that this rule also applied to the military. My Uncle Sam’s Army was very high on cleanliness, neatness and, of course, order and he believed in issuing demerit points, gigs, we called them, if you didn’t measure up to his high standards. If your boots were not spit-shined or your belt buckle polished to your platoon sergeant’s high expectation, you could look forward to policing the parade ground for cigarette butts or cleaning the barracks latrine after everyone else had gone off duty. If you overlooked some dust particles on the mantel over the door during an inspection of your quarters, you could expect to spend hours in the mess cleaning pots and pans and being the cooks’ flunky. If, God forbid, there was dirt or rust on your rifle, you were guaranteed hours of extra drill on the parade ground with full field pack and your rifle at port arms, while your buddies slept.
The second thing my Uncle Sam taught me is that it is beneficial to obey orders, no matter how stupid they may seem to you. When a superior in those early days called me to attention and gave me an order, my lack of understanding and vocabulary sometimes was quite a nuisance. I learned quickly that f—k off was not a good answer, even though it entertained my fellow recruits greatly. It took me about six months to get a bit of a handle on the King’s English. Then I saw the light. I learned that the best response to an order, no matter what, was “Yes, sir” and then make sure your butt was below the horizon, to avoid getting it shot off. This insight served me well.
The third thing my Uncle Sam taught me was to never volunteer. If you volunteered, the chances of getting your butt shot off increased exponentially while your buddies were back in camp relaxing and sucking back Budweisers.
My Uncle Sam taught me how to shoot neat stuff – rifles, pistols, machine guns, BARs, bazookas, 120mm tank guns. And, if you were good at it, this earned you privileges. Like, if you were good with a machine gun – and I was pretty good – you got to go out by yourself to an exposed position and become the target of all the guys on the other side, who were trying to kill you, before you did them in.
My Uncle Sam taught me how to drive stick, how to drive a deuce-and-a-half and a Sherman tank. He taught me how to fly an airplane. All pretty useful skills. But he also taught me how to blow up stuff and I haven’t found a good use for that skill yet.
My Uncle Sam taught me that vodka is a great soother of both mental and physical pain and that Aqua Velva filtered through your gasmask charcoal filter and mixed with Coke will give you a pretty good jolt. The consumption of alcohol sometimes had bizarre repercussions, like the time two of my buddies and I tried to milk a cow, but hit on a bull instead, due to our blurred vision. Bulls don’t like to be milked.
My Uncle Sam taught me to avoid the company of bible thumpers and square-headed butt clenchers at all cost, because they had a tendency to be heroes and get you involved in their foolish quests for glory. If you wanted to survive, it was better to be invisible then to charge headlong into disaster.
My Uncle Sam taught me to treat my rifle like my bride, to love her, clean her, even sleep with her. I never had a bride, so this was new to me. He also insisted that you treat this bride vigorously, like in closed order drills, where you had to slap her and jerk her this way and that, to twirl her in the air, to thump her onto the ground with resolve, in unison with your mates. Perhaps that explains my initial awkwardness and difficulties when I did find a real bride later.
My Uncle Sam taught me that everything is done better in a group, like marching, eating, sleeping, tending to your bodily functions. If you did not adhere to this policy, there were always ramifications, none of them pleasant. Those of you who have ever dug a regulation latrine trench know whereof I’m speaking.
My Uncle Sam taught me how to kill. He taught me to do this without a second thought, without remorse. He taught me that the only thing that mattered was the man standing at the end. He didn’t teach me how to deal with the aftermath, the nightmares.
Monday, May 5, 2008
On Political Correctness
My man, Charlton Heston, called it the “tyranny of manners.” He was talking about the obsession with political correctness of the self-anointed, morally superior, sensitive and compassionate elite, a type of censorship that is only applied to subjects near and dear to this vociferous left-leaning fringe.
Interestingly, the idea of political correctness is a German invention, developed in the 1920’s by the “Frankfurt School,” a group of progressive thinkers, who were trying to help to spread the Bolshevik Revolution into the rest of Europe. The obstacle, as they saw it, was Western Civilization and its belief in the primacy of the individual and not the group. To achieve their goal of advancing the revolution, they decided that western society’s speech and thought patterns had to be changed by putting about the idea that vocalizing your beliefs was disrespectful to others and must be avoided, in order to make up for past inequities. And it was important to call it something that sounded positive: ”Political Correctness.” George Orwell grasped this concept perfectly.
This infatuation with sensitivity has spread everywhere, particularly the media and post-modern literature. Advocates of political correctness try to homogenize our language, make it easy to be a victim. Terms like “culturally deprived” or “developmentally challenged” come to mind. If you aren’t successful in life, then it must be the fault of your race or gender. Truth is no longer absolute, but simply one perspective offered by a particular group to promote its own interest.
It is a language that leaves common sense at the door. It speaks in platitudes and feel-good euphemisms. It uses words which obfuscate, cloak and obliterate reality. If you do not fall in line, you are marginalized as a died-in-the-wool reactionary, bigot or redneck. I sometimes feel we have returned to the days of the Spanish Inquisition or the star chamber.
I recently wrote a story that touched on the subject of rape of countless German women by Red Army soldiers in 1945. It is a documented fact of history and it was part of the price of the Germans’ defeat. I happened to live there at the time. Rape and death and destruction were a normal part of our everyday life. I tried to put a light-hearted spin on a terrible story. I was told that this was offensive, that rape was a subject that must not be treated lightly. I agree, but back then it was part of the booty of victory. Rape occurred every day and no one in the West objected, because they were afraid of Uncle Joe’s displeasure. Would they object today? I doubt it. If the soldiers were American, perhaps. After all, they are today’s evil empire.
I admit that I am politically incorrect. Mea maxima culpa. Maybe it’s my age. I simply don’t care if anyone thinks I’m a reactionary or a dinosaur. Whatever. This is a free country and everyone is entitled to their truths. It is ok, if you don’t agree with me. That’s your right. Just don’t tell me what I should do or think. If I am factually wrong, show me the error of my ways. I will admit my shortcomings. It is human to err.
Interestingly, the idea of political correctness is a German invention, developed in the 1920’s by the “Frankfurt School,” a group of progressive thinkers, who were trying to help to spread the Bolshevik Revolution into the rest of Europe. The obstacle, as they saw it, was Western Civilization and its belief in the primacy of the individual and not the group. To achieve their goal of advancing the revolution, they decided that western society’s speech and thought patterns had to be changed by putting about the idea that vocalizing your beliefs was disrespectful to others and must be avoided, in order to make up for past inequities. And it was important to call it something that sounded positive: ”Political Correctness.” George Orwell grasped this concept perfectly.
This infatuation with sensitivity has spread everywhere, particularly the media and post-modern literature. Advocates of political correctness try to homogenize our language, make it easy to be a victim. Terms like “culturally deprived” or “developmentally challenged” come to mind. If you aren’t successful in life, then it must be the fault of your race or gender. Truth is no longer absolute, but simply one perspective offered by a particular group to promote its own interest.
It is a language that leaves common sense at the door. It speaks in platitudes and feel-good euphemisms. It uses words which obfuscate, cloak and obliterate reality. If you do not fall in line, you are marginalized as a died-in-the-wool reactionary, bigot or redneck. I sometimes feel we have returned to the days of the Spanish Inquisition or the star chamber.
I recently wrote a story that touched on the subject of rape of countless German women by Red Army soldiers in 1945. It is a documented fact of history and it was part of the price of the Germans’ defeat. I happened to live there at the time. Rape and death and destruction were a normal part of our everyday life. I tried to put a light-hearted spin on a terrible story. I was told that this was offensive, that rape was a subject that must not be treated lightly. I agree, but back then it was part of the booty of victory. Rape occurred every day and no one in the West objected, because they were afraid of Uncle Joe’s displeasure. Would they object today? I doubt it. If the soldiers were American, perhaps. After all, they are today’s evil empire.
I admit that I am politically incorrect. Mea maxima culpa. Maybe it’s my age. I simply don’t care if anyone thinks I’m a reactionary or a dinosaur. Whatever. This is a free country and everyone is entitled to their truths. It is ok, if you don’t agree with me. That’s your right. Just don’t tell me what I should do or think. If I am factually wrong, show me the error of my ways. I will admit my shortcomings. It is human to err.
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