“Comparisons are Odorous,”

BY KATHY PERUTZ

declares Dogberry in the third act of Much Ado About Nothing. He’s a Shakespearean fool of the first order, an  insufferable windbag whose words are empty of meaning, though he believes that the bluster he speaks is language and that he is communicating.

It’s been a long time since my last blog. The results of the election came a few days before Michael and I celebrated our 50th wedding anniversary, at home with close friends, good food, pink bubbly and a large cake inscribed with M and K in gold letters. Despite what had just happened to our country, we were happy. In the last months of illness and confinement we had grown together, two trees entwined; a single entity forged from two separate beings. Then came Christmas, when Michael’s ability to breathe grew even weaker, though his mind was lucid and he continued to work on an important paper with his collaborator, Herb Terrace, attacking Chomsky’s notion that language is ultimately based on a “mutation,” which in this sense would make it a miracle, a deus ex machina suddenly landing in the field of evolution – a quasi-religious sort of belief that Michael and Herb opposed, and with excellent reason.  In January Michael died.  A few days later Trump was inaugurated and since then I have found myself at a loss for words.

*

Last year, over many of my blogs, I warned against Trump. My parents had come to America in the late 1930’s from Central Europe (he born in Vienna, she in Prague), skiing across the Alps when the Nazis invaded Austria, led by their guide into Switzerland from where they made their slow way to New York, where I was eventually born.  Others in the family were put to death in the camps or, perhaps worse, survived 4 years of Auschwitz.  I was aware that the sophisticates in the cafés of Vienna in the ‘thirties had reassured each other over their kaffee mit schlag that Hitler was a buffoon and clown and would never affect their lives.

Until he did.

In writing about Trump I was aware of Stalin too, the millions of deaths he perpetrated on his own people, murdered outright or left to die of planned starvation. I knew that Stalin was able to re-write history, to claim that something which had clearly happened hadn’t happened.  He and his experts were capable, even then, of erasing an image, a person, from photographs and of rewriting history, removing textbooks from the schools and replacing them with his newer versions.  Fake facts were his meat, as they are of any dictator, always have been and will be.

I made comparisons, odious and odorous. Trump was also the great showman, like P.T. Barnum, who showed the world the truth of the sentiment, “No one ever went broke underestimating the intelligence of the American public.”

Berlusconi too. That 70-something mad clown with lipstick on his face and pancake makeup who liked screwing children, at least those old enough to have breasts and curves.  He gave me the heebie-jeebies just to look at him, and he owned the media in Italy.  How could the Italians be so dumb?  How could they not see?

And then the Orange Dishrag appeared and the same nausea overtook me. A visceral reaction, going hand in hand with the mental revulsion that awful creature caused and keeps causing, because nothing in the world exists except himself, because he doesn’t care for anybody, doesn’t see that he is made in the image and mold of man, a person like others; that we are all the bloody same in our needs and desires and claim to respect.  So he spouts rubbish, any rubbish, just to be heard, to be the center of all eyes all the time.  No matter that he is crude, that he was kicked out of his elementary private school (Kew-Forest) for being a bully even though his father was on the board.  Quite an accomplishment, that.

I saw it coming and told myself I was wrong (as almost everyone around me did, saying how wonderful that this buffoon was running against Hillary; it guaranteed a landslide.) I tried to tell myself that I always go straight to the worst case scenario, that this was my form of optimism (since if it happens the way you’ve predicted, you’re not shocked, and if it doesn’t happen, well then, marvelous.)

Then came Brexit. I had lived in England for a few years after college. My first novel and the next two were first published there.  Michael was a Brit who had gone through the education system famous for producing leaders of the world, stiff upper lips honed on “the playing fields of Eton,” where men learned the onus and responsibility of privilege (colonialism) known as “the white man’s burden” to Kipling when Britannia ruled the waves and much of the world.  Michael did not go to Eton, but to another “public” school built on the same foundations of belief and empire, and then went on to Cambridge.  He left England after that because the system he’d been raised in oppressed him.

Brexit appalled us both, and my friends in England took to their beds. It was then that I realized democracy has a basic flaw: it does not require that the person who casts a vote know anything at all about the issue or person that he or she is voting for.  Brexit should never have been put to public referendum; the public simply didn’t understand the ramifications of what it would mean to leave Europe.

When Brexit was voted in, I was sure Trump would win. The know-nothings would invent their own scenario and project it onto the man who was nobody, nowhere, who had no objectives, no vision, no knowledge.

And so it happened, and now we are fed daily, hourly dispatches of such appalling behavior that any three-year old doing it would rightly be confined behind the bars of the playpen. Whatever Trump does brings pain or anger or grief or all of it.  “Whither I fly is Hell; myself am Hell,” is how Milton’s Satan put it, but Satan was an introspective sort compared with the dishrag now in charge of the planet.  And to be rid of him, with all those awful appointees in place is no longer the solution.

Now I find a new comparison, odorous indeed. I realize Trump is very like a hippopotamus, an animal that marks its territory by spinning its tail like a fan when it excretes, scattering the excrement over as large an area as possible.

A hippo is described by Wikipedia as: An extremely large animal with a round, barrel-shaped body, short legs and a large, broad head. . . . The virtually hairless skin is moistened by a secreted pink, oily substance that protects [it] from sunburn and drying, and perhaps infection. . . The hippopotamus is a highly aggressive and unpredictable animal and is ranked among the most dangerous animals in Africa.

The difference between the two is that the hippo is limited to one continent and even there has become a threatened and endangered species. Our excrement-flinger is leader of the world.  The hippo does not rape females, nor force other hippos of perhaps a slightly different shade to leave the river.  The hippo is an animal.  What we have in the White House is a “beast that wants discourse of reason,” as Hamlet characterized him some 414 years ago – an empty, cruel, self-seeking demagogue.

“Demagogue.” It’s a word we don’t often use of our own leaders, though we have used it of leaders in other country, particularly those known as “undeveloped.”  The word ricochets in my ears and returns as “demi-god,” which is what the followers of the Orange Dishrag must believe he is.  Some form of deliverer, certainly, though one who is without values, standards, or any concept of social behavior, empathy or responsibility.  There is no inner man there, only the hippo with its shit-flinging tail, and a very bad sort of hippo at that.

And yet, because I am an optimist in pessimist’s clothing, the sequence “demagogue. . . demi-god” puts me in mind of a beautiful Emerson poem that begins, “Give all to love,” and concludes:

Heartily know/When half-gods go/ The gods arrive.

Or perhaps we could convince Pope FrancIs and Angela Merkel to set up a joint rule in America, he being the visionary and she the enforcer. We don’t deserve them of course, but what a dream team they would make!

 

 

Fidel and Me

BY KATHY PERUTZ

1959.  Spring in New York.  Still early, not yet the blooming gardens of English squares and perfumes of French parks, but the bird was on the wing from Brooklyn to the Bronx and in upper Manhattan on April 22, the students were waiting.  We from Barnard had crossed the mighty river of Broadway onto the campus proper of Columbia (of which we were the female part) and were standing on the steps outside Low Library waiting.  We’d heard a lot, read a lot about the guerilla fighters with bushy beards who’d toppled the dragon Batista and were taking control of their own island in the name of the people. A rousing call to revolution for 19-year olds like me, hoping to be part of something that would sweep away inequality and bring liberty and justice for all.

A great cheer went up. He was here, entering the campus from the Broadway gate, walking east across 116th Street towards Amsterdam.  In rugged gear, cap on head, booted and bearded he came striding past us, waving.  Fidel!  Stirring our hopes and libidos, swelling our chests.  The man of the hour (with Ché Guevara, even more handsome according to the pictures, more rugged, and a quasi-intellectual besides, a wide and deep reader who was familiar with Faulkner and Kipling, Marx and Gide, Neruda and Sartre.)  What more could a college girl dipped in ivy want?  We were in love, we fell for them in every way.

So did the New York Times. So did most everyone I knew, though Ike was not impressed.  But then again, we were the girls who as freshmen had canvassed for Stevenson against Ike in the 1956 election even though we were too young to vote (21 was then the legal voting age, and we were not yet 18), and in Nancy Sternheimer’s room she’d put up a banner saying: I’d lay for Adlai.

***

April, 1961 was warm and lush in southern Spain in the village of Torremolinos near Malaga where drunken second sons of England’s finest families stayed up all night gambling and making intermittent passes at the young women who came by, among them Iris Owens, an American writer who published under the name of Harriet Daimler with Olympia Press in Paris, an English-language publisher of non-traditional books (William Burroughs’ Naked Lunch) and novels heavily invested in sex.  Iris was the first female pornographer I’d ever met, and certainly the only one who made her living (or some part of it) by her pen.  The pale Brits and their Yank companions, along with a few scattered self-exiles from other lands usually rose at dusk and headed for the bars, where the latest drink was a Fidelista, formerly known as a Cuba Libre, or rum coke.

I was there with my mother, who had picked me up in London, where I was then living, to take me off to a warmer and more congenial spot for conversation. Her mission was to convince me to return home to New York in light of the Bay of Pigs invasion (the CIA had attempted a military invasion of Cuba, which was put down in 3 days by Fidel Castro’s troops) and, since the Soviets had Cuba’s back, the threat of war, possibly nuclear war which hung across America like disused curtains, constantly rustling.  She came as an emissary from my father, who wanted the family united at such a time.  I could understand; he and my mother had fled Austria as Hitler’s troops entered the Alps during the Anschluss of 1938, annexing Austria into the German Reich.  The unthinkable had happened then, and it could be happening now.

But I was adamant. I was firmly set on the path of my own life, I’d had a novel accepted for publication by one of Britain’s most prestigious publishers (and by an new American publishing house as well) and I needed the break from the person I’d been up to graduation.  It was only a few months since I’d left home and fewer than that since my Christmas visit, and to return now would be to lead an interrupted life, possibly forever.  Besides, I reasoned, if it was going to be a nuclear war, we’d all be incinerated within minutes and what would be the use of a family reunion then?   My mother naturally didn’t think much of the argument, but I had a Welsh film director in London who was driving me crazy by refusing to go to bed with me.  He wanted us to wait (he knew me well without knowing me) though when I returned from Spain, he’d promised, I could have my way with him.

So in the end I stayed in Europe, flying from Madrid back to London and into the arms of my brilliant strategist. We made love, not war, and the sixties unfolded, England swings and the Beatles ruled, and I flew back home for the March on Washington, 1963, where Martin Luther King spoke about his dream.

Fidel Castro, too, had a dream, and it caught fire all over the world. How could it not?  It’s always the same dream: “. . .that all men are created equal;” “liberté, égalité, fraternité;”  “a government of the people, by the people, for the people,” or the Marxist dream of fairness, “from each according to his ability to each according to his needs.”  “Venceremos!”

What happened afterwards in Cuba is not one story but many, an accordion of stories, glorious and calamitous, leading to the major paradox of most revolutions: that they become established, and the leader becomes a cult. It happens on the right and on the left. Stalin, Lenin, Hitler.  I had been in Franco’s Spain when I was 18 and at a gathering with my parents a young officer invited me to have dinner with him the following night.  He was one of Franco’s men, a Falangist, (I didn’t know) and though I had not rejected his offer, my father did with great vigor.  My closest brush with dictatorship, though when I was much younger we’d been in Buenos Aires, in Juan Perón’s Argentina, from which I remember very little: that they had a Pink House instead of the White House and he had a wife, Eva, called Evita by the people, who adored her.  I also remember hearing that whenever the workers were dissatisfied, Perón declared another national holiday, on which they wouldn’t have to go to work.  He remained quite popular.

***

November in New York, 2016.  The darkest November I’ve known.  The will of the people has been recognized and the leader chosen.  A less committed one, a less informed one, a less admirable man could not be imagined.  The other dictators rode in on dreams – often vicious, mad dreams – and plans.  What we have now is Mr. Tabula Rasa, President-elect, a figure on whom anyone can project whatever they imagine him to be.  He has no policies, no agenda, no logic, no heart and no convictions beyond his absolute confidence that he is the Sun God, anointed by himself to be forever the love-object of his people.  He is us, our chosen one, the image of ourselves.  Narcissus looked upon the surface of a lake and fell in love with the image he saw.  Our Narcissist-in-Chief is our mirror and what we see is darkness, rage, a sense of entitlement and of  injustice (the motivator of so many revolutions)  but this time we’ve chosen a blind man who sees nothing beyond himself.   A man who when he looks at a map of the world sees only his own face.  The world is himself, as it was for Lucifer, flung down from heaven to reign far below as Satan: Whither I fly is Hell; Myself am Hell. (John Milton, Paradise Lost.)  If only our president-elect had as much self-awareness!

The winter of our discontent is now fairly established. Personality has won out over issues, values, morals, honesty, history and people.  I do not know how to deal with this, but intend to keep my head firmly ensconced in bubble wrap, avoid newspapers and TV and try to think of other things.  Spring, for instance, when the earth will inexorably bring forth new blossoms, new births, and when young girls will again think of nothing but how handsome a man can be, or how to change the world.  Farewell, Fidel, and hiya Donald.

On the Eve: A Plea

BY KATHY PERUTZ

 

It’s fast upon us now, the Vote that will lead us to chaos or keep us (though with dependably violent after-shocks) on the side of civilization.  A friend from England emailed me that the rest of the world really should be entitled to vote in the American election, since it affects the entire world.  And so it does.

The orange blob is the greatest menace of my lifetime.  Or, to be low-keyed about it, just think of what 4 Supreme Court appointees by Trump would do.  Revoke Roe v. Wade to start, then maybe Brown v. the Board of education. . .  who knows? Declaring certain kinds of people (gays, blacks, Jews, Muslims, migrants, Hispanics) non-people, which is the greatest argument since slavery.  In fact, it WAS the argument for slavery, as it was for the Holocaust.  If you declare some citizens to be monkeys, they will not have human rights.  Logic is clear, though I am not sure the word logic or any other derivation of Logos, the word (as in: In the beginning was the Word) should even be brought up when mentioning the orange blob, since logic, facts, history and even what he said a minute ago hold no validity to an ever-changing, vacuous, self-regarding brain no larger than the smallest of his famously small fingers.

In short, we must slay the monster.

VOTE!!!! And whether you like Hillary, can’t stand her, were/are a Bernie person or favored her over Obama, doesn’t matter anymore.  Third party candidates mean a throwaway vote. So do write-ins.  Those kind of votes are only of interest to very young people determined above all else to show they have a mind of their own.  Minds don’t matter right now; in fact, not even politics matter right now.  And if you’re in a “safe” state, vote anyway.  The popular vote is extremely important, since we know that if Blob don’t make it, he’ll be contesting everything.  Yesterday the chant in New Hampshire went from Lock her Up!  to Execute her! – a wonderful throwback to the days of Stalin, via Putin, via Blob.   And my last-minute hope was dashed two days ago, when the woman raped by Blob at the age of 13 refused to testify because of all the death threats.  Surely, I thought, remembering my years working in prisons, a child rapist is the lowest of the low, and even the prison population attacks such a criminal.  Maybe, I thought, all those crackers would finally turn away in disgust.

My husband Michael and I voted already, absentee ballots since we can’t get to the polls, he needing oxygen and my cancer becoming more demanding.  We’re on our way out, but please, everybody who can do anything about it, keep this country, this world and this planet alive.  Vote!!!

 

Terrible Men

BY KATHY PERUTZ

 

In this time of Terrible Men, terrible in a way we’ve always known but never seen in such abundance, such confluence, every day more and still more until it has become a typhoon, maelstrom, churning and dragging us down to the baseness of all things; in this time of terror and men who are mad with fury at everything they don’t have and don’t deserve and who possess a blindness towards fellow creatures that is almost impossible to achieve in the natural course of things, humans having evolved the ability to see another as themselves to be able to work together in such essential tasks as getting food and protecting the young; in this terrible time I’m not sure how any of us can stay afloat, never mind sane, but last night, waking from a trumphitlerian nightmare, I was rescued by images that came unbidden, like good angels – images and wisps of remembrance from other times, of gentle men and gentlemen, of my father with his big hands and his love and generosity and magic.

He was a charmer, Tino (diminutive of Constantine), Viennese, handsome, tall and dark with a flair for languages who told jokes that were not jokes so much as encapsulated stories, miniature plays, often with a philosophical tail and they were always funny.  He adored women of any persuasion, childhood, adulthood and age.  My little girlfriends adored him back and when they grew older they had crushes on him.  He loved having fun  (his childhood in Vienna not having supplied a hell of a lot of that, especially when other boys would gang up on him and pull down his pants to see if he was circumcised) and was constantly inventive.  The summer we rented a house in Weston, Connecticut he and my mother and two friends set up a orange traffic sign on which my mother Dolly, an artist, had painted SLOW.  Beneath that she painted a black snail and below that the word CROSSING.   A few hundred yards beyond, on the opposite side of the road they put up a restaurant sign: Á l’Escargot Bienvenu.  (At the Welcome Snail.)

That was the summer of his chamber music festival, with young musicians from all around the area and a fat magician named Dr. Stanley Jaks, whom we had met on a ship sailing from New York to Buenos Aires in the winter of 1948-49 and he remained a friend, a refugee himself, like my parents. His pinky nail extended for several inches and he treated it with great respect.  He was a member of the Society of 13, the world’s greatest magicians.  He had performed in the White House for President Truman and General MacArthur, setting it up and finally laying out cards for the finale.  He offered the General a choice of bibelots from his collection, a metsuke perhaps, a tiny jade Buddha or a turquoise elephant and asked him to place the trinket on the card he’d first selected.  When MacArthur had done so Jaks asked him,  “Are you sure?  You wouldn’t prefer a different card?”

To which Douglas MacArthur, from the battlefields of Korea, replied, “A general never changes his mind!”

Harry Truman reached out for the trinket and moved it to another card. “But a president does,” he said.

At the music festival Stanley Jaks presided as King in a rented monarchial outfit, ermine tails and all and I, twelve or thirteen at the time, was outfitted as the court jester, bells on cap (“I AM the royal jester/ My name is Peter Chester./This glorious person THAT you see/ Is his Royal Majesty.”)  I led the way, the King behind me, followed by the rest of the procession which included my mother as a lion, a very perfect lion with a large mane (she was a Leo and prided herself on that), into the house where the music would be played, different groups in different rooms and on the porch and grounds of the rambling farmhouse.  That was the summer of the snails, and their friend Tom Hollyman, a well-known photographer who played the bagpipe with a vacuum cleaner and had a dog named Flugelhorn.

By then I was on the cusp of some form of incipient maturity that has never found a correct appellation because how this maturity happens and when depend on the society and circumstances a child grows up in, and I had developed a new self-consciousness with accompanying irony.  In other words, though magic was all around me I did not believe in magic.

But when I was younger, how could I help it?  Those very early memories came to me last night as my mind skittered away from the Terrible Men that are beyond the thinking of.  It was summer, we were at a place with a hill,  a tent, a car. .  .  I had trouble sifting through indistinct images and then realized that very early memories are not actually of place in the sense of rooms or settings or landscapes; they are much smaller than that, outlines or suggestions of something – a barn door, the edge of a table, the rumble seat in the old car where we kids (what kids?) sat squashed together.  It was probably New England – where else would we have gone?  Rumble seat!  Holding on and screaming in fear we’d fall out (though I don’t believe the car, rumbling on the dirt road, ever went faster than 5 miles an hour.)  One day my father put on a magic show for us, but the rain came splashing down, a storm was gathering and we all went into the tent. Though maybe not a tent.  Now I am writing this down new images are popping up, or most likely ancient nearly-obliterated images at last resurfacing in the developing fluid of my brain’s darkroom.  It was something more like a garage, roomy. My daddy performing hocus-pocus.  All of us enthralled.  And then came a flash of lightning and we screamed, huddling together as the thunder came crashing after, the garage no longer safe. And my father raised his hand (or wand or finger) and we all fell silent.  He called out to the rain and told it STOP! which it did instantly.  We all filed out, the sun was shining, the grass smelled fresh and green and on the hill there were horsies – I mean, horses – and maybe other animals too.

He was a magician who could make things turn out the way I wanted, my Zauber-König in a Mozartian vein (which was very much my father’s vein, Viennese vein, little Wolfgang Amadeus having come to the palace of Schönbrunn when he was 6, in the little gala outfit given him by the Empress and Emperor, still sitting there now among the royalty at the banquet table in the painting that hangs in a Rococo room where little cherubs climb out from the ceiling feet first.)

At night, on the rare nights when he was home and could put me to bed, he didn’t read to me. Instead he told me wonderful stories that he probably made up as he went along.  Lovely little animals, each of whom was a character, a personality (sometimes with an accent) – the oyster (called Oystraka) defending his pearl; the two sheep, Wooly, who was white, and Tar who was black, best friends.  But Wooly was a good student and Tar could never learn to count beyond 3.  This was because he was lame in one foot and when he walked he went thump-thump-hoppeta-thump, counting only the thumps. And so Tar couldn’t get promoted to the next grade.  But one day when Wooly was missing and no one could find him, Tar went looking everywhere, high and low, calling his name.  At last he came to a little patch of clover, and there was Wooly, and Tar bounded over so fast he didn’t even limp.  “I came for you!” he cried. “Wooly, I came for you!”

“Four!” said Wooly. “You just said four!”  The friends embraced, and soon they went back together and Tar made his way in school alongside Wooly and they were inseparable for the rest of their lives.

I loved all the stories, though admittedly my favorite was about a little girl called Kathy who had braids, just as I did, and who climbed up over the back of the armchair into a painting that hung on the wall above it. She took the little path through the high meadow and walked towards the house far in back.  Everything was beautiful.  She looked out the window at flowers blooming and birds flitting in the trees, and in the kitchen where there were wonderful things to eat.  When she had her fill Kathy walked out the door, back along the path, through the meadow and out by the frame, my daddy sitting on my bed, my head on my pillow, traveling thorough paintings..

But the most forceful magic happened during a hike. My parents were very fond of mountains, and though my mother didn’t share my father’s love of or ability in skiing, she did like to hike (“marschieren,” she called it). On Sundays they often went to Bear Mountain and I had to come along, though I hated exercise in any form at all, and especially having to climb up stupid, fall-down paths with grownups (their friends Pepik and Olga often came along) all talking in grown-up, sometimes even in Czech, and me feeling so sorry for myself that it became difficult to propel my body forward even a few inches.

My father would drop back every few minutes to encourage me, and though I complained and maybe even cried, I did finally make it to the very top. And when I got there I saw a perfect little conifer tree no bigger than I was and its branches were hung with chocolate.

I am now a long way from cynical youth and deep into furious age. But now I do believe in magic.  There are moments that simply arrive or descend, engulfing you with pleasure for no reason, making you see how good people can be and how beautiful, or catching up your breath when you notice the sun’s rays falling on the trees just before sundown on 17th Street, turning their green to gold; or the rush of gratitude when a doctor finally diagnoses what is ailing you, speaking to you with compassion and intelligence. Words of all shapes. The magic of friends – Eli, already near 80, flying in from Finland to visit me for a couple of days in my illness or the unexpected delivery of luxuriant food ordered by another darling; the flowers from David, reuniting with two Lindas; the kindness of Michaels.

*

I think of my father often these days. I have a loving husband and loving son and loving male friends but they are here with me now, in this toxic swill that seeps into every conversation.  I can’t understand anyone who can’t understand what is happening.  So I turn to the past (civilization) instead of the future (chaos) and try to believe there is something beyond the present madness where:

The best lack all conviction, while the worst/ Are full of passionate intensity.

Yeats went on, in probably his most-quoted poem, “The Second Coming,” to ask:

What rough beast, its hour come round at last,/Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

“Rough beast” is good.  I take refuge in lost worlds and gardens of the mind where things can still grow. I hope every woman on earth can summon up in memory or at least imagination some gentle men she has known or loved, great good men like Pope Francis or an uncle, a neighbor, the mailman, someone with whom she felt happy and safe and who brought magic with him.  Of course it’s not only women who are suffering in all this, but we are the majority of people in the world and have been treated abominably by terrible men for a long time all over the globe. What we must do now is to recognize the clear and present danger of the most terrible man of all, heir to Hitler and Stalin, ally of Putin, racist, hater of women and everyone who doesn’t worship him; a man who steals from the poor, an ugly old fat man who attempts to shame others for one goal only: to crown himself god.  We must defeat him as surely as if the Black Death had returned that decimated most of Europe’s population before there was an America to which survivors (immigrants) came. Defeat him in the polls of course, but also by returning to our true concerns and values, to lightness, logic and imagination, reclaiming our country and our lives, ourselves.

Dark at the Roots

BY KATHY PERUTZ

 

When the time came, she often said, when she was older, she would let her hair go gray. But the time never came, and her hair colorist continued to dye her graying roots to match the rich auburn of her younger self.

My mother kept many secrets, and though some of them wounded me and made me hate her at times, on the whole she kept them beautifully. Some had to do with her personal habits, others concerned her actions and interactions, those I witnessed and those that came at me from out of the past.  Still other secrets had been thrust on her beyond her control: names she had to keep hidden to safeguard lives and also her own name, given her before her parents or ancestors or anyone in the world knew that the man’s name hers was derived from would become synonymous with evil on perhaps as great a scale as the devil’s own, because though she was always known as Dolly, they named her Adolfina.

I didn’t know her birth name or her actual age for many years. I learned how old she was on a  day my father’s mother came to visit, a rare occurrence because my mother never cared to entertain her.  My grandmother mentioned that Dolly had me at 31, though I’d thought she was currently 29.  When I later confronted my mother, she explained that she couldn’t tell me the truth because I would have told my schoolmates and then everyone would know.  I nodded sagely, thrilled to be given such an adult (and mysterious) explanation, and never afterwards told anyone her age or – when I learned it – her birth name.

In other ways too, I went on lying for her, because she demanded it. When she was dying of multiple myeloma, cancer in the marrow of her bones, she insisted I tell her friends that she had a “bellyache.” She believed cancer was “psychological” and was ashamed to be caught with it.  But she was also dying quickly, in the hospital and at home with round the clock nurses.  I hated having to lie to people on the phone; I was embarrassed for them, for myself, ashamed of that childish word  “bellyache,” ashamed of the knowledge I had, the dead certainty of what was going on.  I couldn’t tell anyone, and I couldn’t stop what I knew.

Everyone has secrets. I don’t believe, as my mother did, that cancer is a sign of repressed rage or repressed anything else. My cat Corduroy, who was also my best friend, died young of cancer and his rage was never repressed, nor his love either, shown in the way he tried to feed the family, bringing in headless squirrels or birds he’d killed and placing them beneath my seat at the dinner table.  But there are other secrets, so big that people spend their lives and countries go to war protecting them.

America’s secret is racism. It is the darkness at America’s heart.  Though it can be set aside (look at our President!), it continues, since it’s easier to blame whatever’s wrong (in your life, in the country) on others than on yourself.  (This may be one reason to get married, though not a good one.)  If other people don’t look like you, it becomes even easier.  Hitler had to tag the Jews with big yellow stars because they looked (and thought and felt) like other Germans. The star provided a target for German rage, which in truth had little to do with Jews and was mainly caused by devaluation of the currency and loss of jobs.  But an enemy is a handy tool for an aspiring megalomaniac dictator.  Especially for the newly-blond Donald Trump (who is dark-haired in photos of him in youth and middle age, and whose hair resembled an orange dishrag earlier this year), with his family tradition of racial intolerance, a father and grandfather who didn’t like dark people, didn’t rent to them, and who were drawn to the ideology of white supremacists.

Trump picks up on the American secret and adds the terror of the unknown. All murders are now the fault of foreign darkies, whether or not they had anything to do with it, all part of a world-wide conspiracy against blond white (straight) Christian men.  In Trump’s hatred of M folk – Mexicans, Muslims, menstruators, minorities –  he rounds up a lot of dark people.  Women make it into the core of his publically-proclaimed nemeses by being biologically different from other people, in that they ovulate and menstruate, two cycles that Donald Trump would never in his life engage in, and therefore finds disgusting.  Different is the bugaboo, and to Trump there is no reality outside of Trump.

He presents us with a caricature of the two greatest dictators of the twentieth century, Adolf Hitler (né Schicklgruber) and Josef Stalin (born Jughashvili), with an added dose of pure American hucksterism. Like Hitler and Stalin, Trump is his own creation, in his case a blown-up cartoon of The Big Male with scowling face, broad chest, lots of sawbucks, lots of broads and a grunter’s vocabulary.  He’s the entertainer, like Hitler in Brecht’s play Arturo Ui and also like P.T. Barnum, prankster galore, who toured America with his freak show, entered politics in Connecticut, made millions, lost them and then made them back again in the firm belief that, “Nobody ever went broke underestimating the intelligence of the American public” (though the quote varies and is sometimes  attributed to H.L. Mencken).  Barnum said of himself: “I am a showman by profession . . . and all the gilding shall make nothing else of me,” which shows a great deal more insight into his own nature than Trump has ever demonstrated.  His personal aim, said Barnum, was “to put money in my own coffers.”

The huckster, snake oil salesmen, slimy politicos and purveyors of hype that dotted our frontier probably were natural outgrowths of America’s wild Dream: to invent yourself, to become anyone you wanted to be because the old rules no longer applied. It didn’t matter who your parents were, where you went to school (or didn’t) or any of the values that cosseted Europe in its old ways.  Being American was a god-given passport to fun and freedom, to children who refused to eat their spinach because “America’s a free country,” and, on a more deadly note, to the necessity (for keeping the myth alive) of making sure some of the people are not included as people. The secret remained.  Be white, be powerful, and the Dream is yours.

Adolf Hitler said: If you tell a big enough lie and tell it frequently enough, it will be believed.

Trump also resembles Stalin, particularly in the penchant for putting his name on everything (remember Stalingrad? if things go rotten in November, New York could become Trump City.) To every proposed building during his years as Chairman, he added steeples that transformed them into secular churches erected to the greater glory of himself. Stalin, like his latter day successor Vladimir Putin – a man much admired by Trump – did not believe in negotiating with perceived enemies.  He had a quicker solution. “Death,” he wrote, “is the solution to all problems. No man – no problem.”   Putin seems to agree.

What is great in America is that this country took in my parents when it did; that it welcomed immigrants throughout its history because it is, on a grand scale, a nation made up of immigrants, a tree with many roots that finds its genius in difference. Americans are optimistic and flexible.  We’ll try anything, which is why we’re such rich fodder for entrepreneurs.  (P.T. Barnum: There’s a sucker born every minute.)  But if we screw up in November, we might lose far into the future, with a Trump Supreme Court meting out its justice.

Hitler: The victor will never be asked if he told the truth.

Truth is a moveable concept to Trump, who controls it as he controls everything around him. The Don sees himself as Czar of this country, Czar of czars, which is as czar-y or crazy as it gets.

N.Y. subway: If you see something, say something.

Donald Trump.

[Note: this blog was also published by the Huffington Post]

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/kathy-perutz/dark-at-the-roots_b_11173174.html