World According to Me
Archive:
May 25: An Anniversary of a Different Kind of War
(This little digression was inspired by the growing belief among audience members that there is an inherent "interactive" element to every concert or show they attend, that they must somehow insinuate themselves into the entertainment to enjoy it. Personally, I think that's fine...in the privacy of their own homes. They can dance on the table, swing from the drapes, yell at the TV, but not out in public where some of us bought a ticket to see a performer or performance which most assuredly was not meant to include them. I know; I've checked. Their names appear nowhere on the ticket I purchased. If I had known they planned to include themselves prominently in the show, I would have saved my money. And, my fear is, unless something is done by the venues or the performers themselves, I will be forced to assume such audience participation is inevitable and therefore, will keep my money. Thus depriving the venue, the performer, and myself, all because of the rude, self-important behavior of an increasing number of individuals in our culture. Whoa! That was a little heavy! The following, I assure you, is NOT.)
An Evening at the Barrymore With Abraham Lincoln
By
Dale Jellings
The houselights dim. The murmur of the crowd, a scurried return to seats. Hanging in the air, barely audible, like wallpaper, an acoustic string version of "Dixie" trickles out of the twin towers of black speakers on either side of the stage.
There is a sharp pop, a crackle and hum as the public address system switches on, "Ladies and Gentlemen, President Abraham Lincoln."
In black tailcoat and top hat, the venerable orator is greeted by warm applause as he makes his way to the microphone. Coming to a stop near the solitary microphone stand, he appears dissected by the oval illumination of a glaring spotlight. Standing half in darkness, half in light, he doffs the stovepipe hat, revealing less hair atop his head than the well-cropped beard adorning his cheeks and chin.
Tall, but with slouching shoulders, he seems much older than expected, and ill at ease with the technology, the microphone, the spotlight. The crowd grows restless. Lincoln reaches inside his coat, extracts and unfolds two sheets of lined paper, not an envelope. Awkwardly, he steps fully into the light, to the microphone.
In a clear, resonate, surprisingly soprano voice, he begins:
"Four score and seven --
"Hey, Abe, welcome to Madison!"
"Ah, thank you. That's quite kind." Lincoln pauses, smiles nervously, glances down at the creased
papers. "Now where was -- oh, yes. I'll start again. Four score and seven years ago our fathers
brought forth, upon this continent, a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the
proposition that "all men are created equal. Now--"
"You go, Abe!"
"Go? I just got here..." He looks into the wings, confused. Someone is giving him a "keep going" signal. "...we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived, and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met --
"Abe?"
The flustered statesman forges on: "We are met on --
"Abe?"
"--met on a --
"Abe?"
"What? What do you want?"
"How's Washington?"
"How should I know? Why don't you dig him up and ask him."
The crowd explodes with laughter and applause.
Lincoln smiles, adjusts his coat, throws back his shoulders like a man who has just chopped a cord of wood. "Let's see...we are met -- right, here it is -- on a great battle field of that war. We come to dedicate a portion of it, as a final resting place for those who died here, that the nation might live. This we may, in all propriety do. But --"
"Do the Emancipation Proclamation!"
"What? No. All right, later maybe, I'll get to it. Shucks, now I have to --" He shuffles the two sheets of papers. "...I think I was...okay, I got it -- but, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate ‑‑ we can not consecrate ‑‑ we can not hallow, this ground ‑‑ "
A couple near the front row get up and try to dance to it. They look familiar, like a couple classic rockers: she looks like David Crosby; he like Cher before the face lift.
Lincoln is momentarily distracted but doesn't lose his place. "The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have hallowed it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here; while it can never forget what they did here."
"Ich Bin Ein Berliner!"
"What? Absolutely not. No covers tonight. What are you people, Whigs?"
No one laughs. The dancers return to their seats.
"It is rather for us, the living, we here be dedicated to the great task remaining before us ‑‑ that, from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they here, gave the last full measure of devotion ‑‑ that we here highly resolve these dead shall not have died in vain; that the nation, shall have a new birth of freedom --"
"Lincoln rules! Douglas sucks!"
"-- and that government of the people, by the people for the people, shall not perish from the earth."
The crowd leaps to its collective feet, clapping collective hands together in a thunderous standing ovation. The lanky, gaunt man re-folds the papers, slips them inside his coat and strides off the stage.
"More! More!" the crowd chants.
When Lincoln returns to center stage, he launches into a rendition of "Copland's "Lincoln Portrait" humming each part in a high nasal twang. He receives the same ovation, and returns again with a medley of his inaugural addresses, and when the crowds' chanting and rhythmic clapping draw him out again, he begins to act out the play, "Our American Cousin," doing all the parts, but he trails off and wanders off stage.
Stunned, the crowd applauds, trying to rekindle its earlier fervor, but the applause dissipates, replaced by murmur and rustle of people filing for the exits, and it is a fitting end to another evening at the Barrymore.
THE END
My Response to a recent front page commentary:
Excerpted from: “Will You Watch The Video Of Beheading?” Wisconsin State Journal :: FRONT :: A1 Thursday, May 13, 2004, William Wineke
The availability of all those grotesque images means that each of us has to confront an uncomfortable truth about ourselves: Am I the kind of person who would look at those pictures? And, if I do look, what will that do to my soul? Will I become further desensitized to the violence of the world around me? Will I become immune to the horrors of war?
The first public beheading most of us ever learned of was when David killed Goliath with a slingshot and then cut off the giant's head. In the New Testament, we read that John the Baptist lost his head because King Herod wanted to please his daughter-in-law.
But there's a difference. We didn't have to view those. We don't have to watch the video of Nick Berg being beheaded either -- but we can if we want to.
We, individually, have to decide. There's no editor, no filter to shield us from the reality.
My response: (in it's entirety, not the butchered sample which was printed by the paper)
Mr. Wineke contends the visual evidence of Nicholas Berg's beheading must cause each of us to call into question what "kind" of person we are. “Am I the kind of person who would look at those pictures?" The implication is implicit and insulting. There must be something wrong with such a soul-damaged, desensitized individual.
On the contrary, such a person might well feel compelled to look upon such atrocities to keep from becoming immune to the horrors of war.
The horrors of this war have only recently come before us. The removing of embedded reporters, the relegation of body counts to the inner pages of the newspapers, and the rescinding of flag-draped casket parades on tarmacs have kept the horrors of this war safely and comfortably far from the consciousness of the American people.
The longer this quagmire continues the more these images will become unavoidable, and I remember another far-off war some thirty odd years ago which would have remained comfortable and falsely patriotic if it had not been for several powerful visual images which could not be ignored.
The image of a Buddhist monk setting himself on fire cross-legged on the sidewalk of a busy sidewalk in Saigon.
The image of a South Vietnamese general executing a Viet Cong prisoner point blank with a handgun on an open street in Saigon.
The image of a nine-year-old girl, running naked down a road, screaming in agony, her outstretched arms burning from the jellied gasoline dropped on her village.
The exposure afforded these alarming visual images and the shock and revulsion they engendered in the American people is widely credited with turning the tide of public opinion against the war. Each of these images won a Pulitzer Prize for photojournalism, but they were also captured on film and shown countless times then and now.
They could not be ignored because they were visual. They would not have had the same impact if they’d been reported in a newspaper or magazine, and most importantly, they would not have received network news, front-page newspaper, and major magazine coverage.
Personally, I have no intention of seeking
out a video image of this most recent atrocity, but count me among those “kind”
of people who would look. Someone has to. And it would benefit our country
immeasurably if more and more someones looked upon or at least took notice of
these images until we are once again shocked and appalled enough to see past the
flag decals and jingoistic rhetoric to oppose this unnecessary war and all its
atrocities on both sides.
Sincerely,
Dale Jellings