Sunday, February 7, 2010

Democratic Republican

I came up with the italicized statement (below) about my political leanings just before an important interview at a university in the event someone were to inquire about my political affiliation as a sort of litmus test for the position. I wanted to have a response at the ready. I've been in academia long enough to know that, sadly, faculty search committees, whether fully consciously or not, are often looking for someone who agrees with their own political ideology.  Readers of this blog might know by now that I'm both an academic and a soldier.  I'll tell you what: institutions of higher learning, as a rule, don't come close to the U.S. Army when it comes to tolerance and diversity of opinion.  You can bank on that.  Anyway, Murphy's Law being what it is, I didn't get the question because I had planned for that contingency!

One more thing before you read the statement below.  Students of history will point out that the term Democratic Republican is not new.  Indeed, this was the party of Thomas Jefferson in opposition to the Federalists.  While the current Democratic party traces its origins to Andrew Jackson in the 1830s, the Democratic Republicans, loosely speaking, anticipated many aspects of the Democratic party.  To add to the confusion, Democratic Republicans back in the 1790s referred to themselves in abbreviated form as Republicans.  (Der Viator readers are aware that the Republican party of today, however, begin in 1856 in Wisconsin.)  My usage of the term is different, as you'll now read.

Sometimes people want to know my political allegiance. In truth I am a Democratic Republican. I affirm democracy and I believe in a republic. I’m for a two-party system. I always want an opposition that freely voices its contrary views and provides a check on the majority party. In this sense I’m for Obama, Bush, Clinton, and Reagan. But my favorite president is Teddy Roosevelt. I suppose this choice reveals something about me, but less my political ideology—after all, TR was a maverick Republican and later third party candidate—than the personal attributes and concerns I like in a president.

Saturday, February 6, 2010

An Apology

I would like to apologize to all my readers for the scatological remarks made in the previous blog.  Frankly, there's no excuse.  My wife was understandably shocked when she read the part about emitting gas and eating excrement, and she immediately ordered me to delete the whole thing.  However, since this apology won't make much sense unless you've seen the original message, I'll leave it for your viewing displeasure.  I shall refrain from discussing bodily functions in the future, the only exceptions being matters related to health and fitness, gastronomy, and embarrassing moments.

Friday, February 5, 2010

Dealing with People

With the exception of you of course, most readers of Der Viator fall into a certain category. I’ve been told that both adults with a college education and twelve-year-old boys tune into this site on a regular basis, the former perhaps hoping for some historical insights and the latter searching for scatological references. (Sometimes I can satisfy both readers in one fell swoop when I discuss, say, Martin Luther’s "theological" breakthrough while he was sitting in cloaca.) But I’m talking about a different type of reader altogether, one who could use some guidance, a person finding the obstacles of life sometimes too difficult to negotiate. For this reason I’ve culled a number of experiences from my checkered life to share with you, the purpose of which is to give you some self-confidence and peace of mind. Consider my advice the Cliff Notes for that fat and unreadable novel called Dealing with People.

First off, a handy technique when people ask you something dumb is to turn the question around on them. They won't know what to do or they'll quickly realize their mistake in having posed the question in the first place. For instance, let's say you're urinating on someone's rosebushes in the middle of the night because after the bar closed at 2 you and your buddies decided to talk about girls and tattoos in the parking lot. Finding no restroom in sight and not wanting to unleash the beast in a lit area that has cameras peering down from light posts, you walk down the street. Out of nowhere the owner of the property comes up to you in flagrante delicto and barks in a meanish tone, "What the hell do you think you're doing?" With an authoritative voice you respond quickly, "Doing you're think you do heck the what?!" And you look the crazy old man in the eyes with all earnestness. You see? Turning the question back on people will make them think, and your assertiveness also leaves an impression. You're sort of forcing them to come to terms with with their idiocy, yet in a gentle way that makes them reflect on their untoward behavior.

I'll give you a couple more examples just for good measure. You open your apartment door just enough to see your ugly upstairs neighbor losing his cool.  His pounding on the door bestirred your tranquil soul and interrupted your delicious read of Poe's The Cask of Amontillado over chamomile tea.  "Will you turn down that frickin' music," he bellows.  "It's past midnight!" Only fleetingly do you consider leading him to the basement, chastising his audacity with a crowbar to the skull, and walling up his corpse brick by brick in that hollowed-out area next to your storage space.  But you come to your senses and instead respond thus: "Midnight past it's, music that down turn please you will!"  Final example.  Your A-hole of a boss spews his usual crap: "Look, if you can't get to work on time, you might as well not come in!" You take a sip from your Starbucks cinnamon dolce latte and retort: "Time on work to get, can't you!" Now, I should explain that it took me years to develop this ability and it's paid off in at least three encounters in my life; as it turns out, the three examples I gave above were those instances.  I practiced everyday as a kid in my bedroom, listening to myself played backwards on a tape recorder over and over and over.  Who needed sports or the glee club or a girlfriend?  I kept myself busy enough.

Another way to deal with rude people is to shower them with compliments. You'll either throw them off guard or win them over with your mellifluous words.  Here’s one example. Last week I stopped at an Interstate rest area to freshen up before I was to teach a class at a satellite campus up north.  (Readers will recall that I'm a part-time itinerant instructor for "Hexington College.")  A guy walked in as I was shaving and made a comment about my patriotic toiletry bag that I had hung over the liquid soap dispenser. While I’m not unpatriotic, I bought it at Walmart because it was on sale, not especially because of the stars and stripes all over it. Anyway, as the guy was making his way to the urinals and already reaching for his zipper, he said: “Proud of your country, huh?” Sensing a tone in his voice and anyway not appreciative of an unsolicited comment from a stranger regardless of attitude, I immediately gave him a compliment. “Wow! What acute observational skills you have?” He didn’t seem to understand that I was paying him a compliment or perhaps he didn’t hear me correctly. So I gave him some more positive feedback, hoping to get a smile of appreciation. “I really appreciate your comment. That was so nice of you to direct your attention my way.”  I think I scared him a little.

Okay, I concede that I can be a bit caustic, but sarcasm is also a handy tool in dealing with people.  There are different schools of thought on sarcasm.  The hoi polloi practioners of sarcasm like to be obvious about it.  Yes, it's important for them that the person to whom the sarcasm is directed, as well as any third party who might overhear such sarcasm, have no doubt about their light-hearted mockery.  These people probably have bumper stickers on their car; they're compelled to let others know their partisan bias.  I'm a different beast.  I prefer the butt of my ridicule not to know I’m being sarcastic, not so much because I don't want them to feel the pangs of ridicule but because it requires greater skill.  I enjoy the challenge of serving up a sarcastic comment that is far-reaching as an insult and yet the intended target is clueless.  I like living on a razor's edge.  Yes, I prefer hardcore mockery, however subtle, over "light-hearted" versions.

What I call "impromptu script-writing" can also provide a helpful strategy in dealing with those pesky homo sapiens. Here's how it works. When someone is getting into your business, start up a conversation with the individual. The only catch is that you're doing all the talking.  That is, you supply the person's responses and counter-responses to everthing you say and in the process portray the person as unreasonable or arrogant.  Honestly, I've never used this technique to ward off people; I've employed it thus far as a defense mechanism with my wife. "Why do you always buy creamy peanut butter when you know I like the crunchy? How long have we been married?" Now, just before my wife can get a word in edgewise, I make a preemptive strike and answer for her. "Look, how am I supposed to remember all these things, huh? Why don't you go to the grocery store and get what you want? You're acting so ridiculous right now!" My wife often has a bemused and disgusted look on her face as I engage in these constructed dialogues.  She's not particularly keen on my impromptu script, especially when I go on and on for minutes.  Anyway, trying this tactic on rude people you meet is worth a try.

I would like to close this blog entry with yet one more tactic in dealing with people.  I don’t want to overstep the bounds of propriety, but this last piece of advice tips into the scatological, I'm afraid.  (Besides, I have an obligation to the aforementioned 12-year-old readers of this blog.)  However, for the present purposes of providing helpful counsel to readers, I’m about to employ a word that I’ve virtually banished from this blog. If someone around you is being stupid, emit foul gaseous waste from your rectum, that is to say, fart. Why? It speaks volumes and make many points in an instant: The stench reminds the person that life can be unpleasant. It puts things into perspective. The initial sound of the fart in a public place resounds like a shock wave and immediately grabs their attention. A Norwegian proverb has it that farts are man's best friend because it reminds him of his mortality and it takes him off his high horse, something even human friends don't always do. It doesn't matter if you're a prince or pauper, a corporate executive or swing shift manager at Popeyes Chicken, we're all just an anus on legs spewing filth and making life difficult for others.  Besides, while some aspire to be the smartest guy in the room, I usually want to be the only guy in the room.  Farting, as it turns out, can achieve this objective.

If all else fails, you can try one more last-ditch effort to ward off rude people around you.  If someone causes you grief, start eating your own feces. Yes, feces--and make sure it's (they're?) your own.  It will totally throw them off. They'll usually leave you alone at the spectacle of you stuffing your face with excrement. This isn't for everyone. I myself haven't worked up the courage yet, but that doesn't mean it won't work.  It's all about timing and opportunity.

Thursday, February 4, 2010

Around the Campfire

I have studied the foibles of humankind—the wars and genocides, the purges and scandals, the conflicts and tumults. I keep coming back to Rodney King’s perennial question: Can we all get along? Why can’t we just gather around the campfire, hold hands, sing songs, maybe roast some marshmallows, and tell ghost stories? Perhaps we might momentarily break away from the beach party and with a few friends skip on down the shoreline under the moon and stars. Yeah, in this scenario we, in a spontaneous moment of joie de vivre, might just slip off our swim trunks and go skinny dipping, experiencing in wild abandon the exhilaration of life without analysis or commentary.

Why can’t life be like this? Why? I’ll tell you why! A huge shark will bite your frickin’ legs off, my friend! Besides, you wouldn’t survive the campfire unscathed. You’d contract some venereal disease, what with all the hand holding. Vegetarians and PETA would get on your case for eating marshmallows because the gelatin contained therein is made from animal products. Your campfire songs about community and brotherhood will be labeled socialist drivel from righties, while your mention of God will offend the lefties. Inevitably, someone will lace the smores with LSD. Eventually the beach party would descend into half-naked drunks throwing plastic bottles of their urine into the fire just to watch them melt and explode. Then there’s the pyromania freakazoid who tosses a can of hair spray into the flames and risks a major conflagration just because he thought it was “cool.” All of a sudden you realize: “What the hell am I doing here in this cesspool of humanity? I’d be better served leaving the campfire and going out to fight wars or join a gang, something useful at any rate!”

Wednesday, February 3, 2010

Consoling the Bereaved

The other day a dear friend of mine told me that his beloved father—and I quote—“was killed in a car crash last week.” I could tell that this tragic event still tore him up inside. I decided that the best way to console my friend was to help him improve his grammar and style so that he could tell his story with more impact and move people in a greater way.

“You might want to consider avoiding the passive voice in your narrative,” I responded. He looked at me strangely, almost as if he knew I was about to impart to him sagacious counsel and perhaps help him lift the stone from his heart. “You said that your father ‘was killed,’ that is, you use the verb ‘to be’ and the past participle. I recommend that you ‘activate’ your language thus: ‘The car crash killed my father,’ or something to this effect. Or you could simply say: ‘My father died in a car crash.’ The active voice offers a more lively description of events to engage the audience and retain the listener’s interest.” My friend had a stunned look on his face, which I took to be a commingling of amazement and gratitude for these insights. He walked away in silence. I was glad that I had the opportunity, however small, to help my friend.

Tuesday, February 2, 2010

Nebuchadnezzar Reborn: Genocidal Massacres and Ethnic Cleansing in Saddam’s Iraq

The crimes of Iraqi strongman Saddam Hussein read like a mile-long wrap sheet. You name it, he, his wicked sons, and his sadistic Baathist regime did it. Saddam ruled the disparate parts of his country with fear, intimidation and brutal suppression. He violated UN resolutions left and right; invaded neighboring states; created huge environmental disasters during and just after the first Gulf War; committed the Mother of all Heists in what became known as the UN Food for Oil scandal; built over seventy presidential palace compounds during the Oil for Food program and bought weapons while his people starved; and used chemical and biological weapons against civilians. One of the conflicts that Saddam started, the Iran-Iraq War (1980-1988), was the deadliest conventional war in the last third of the 20th century. Saddam’s elder son, Uday, a rapist and psychopath by trade, headed a paramilitary group called the Fedayeen Saddam that carried out the most heinous tortures for slight offenses, from disobeying an order to not performing satisfactorily on the soccer field.

Saddam’s repressive violence could take on genocidal proportions, a reprisal incommensurate with the original action. Take for example his response to an attempt on his life while visiting the town of Dujail in southern Iraq (1982). He “disappeared” 140 suspects, rounded up and imprisoned over a thousand men, women and children (torturing many of them), banished them to another region, and with bulldozers wiped Dujail off the map. In the al-Anfal Campaign of 1988 Saddam’s cousin, Ali Hassan al-Majid, sought to solve the so-called Kurdish Problem in Northern Iraq by razing thousands of villages, executing males between 13 and 70, throwing their bodies into mass graves, placing the women and children in horrendous relocation centers, and most notoriously firing chemical weapons into many Kurdish villages, most notably Halabja where 5,000 people died. (Thousands of other victims endured horrific disfigurement and long-term aftereffects.) Ultimately over 150,000 Iraqi civilians died in the campaign.

What happened in 1991 at the brief war’s end should bring some shame upon us, but let’s not forget that Saddam’s regime is the perpetrator. (Sometimes, in our appropriate condemnation of international third parties who could have done more or who inadvertently aided the perpetrator or who tried to profit from the crimes, we forget that they weren’t the murderers.) Encouraged by President Bush’s vociferous support, disenfranchised Iraqis tried to take advantage of the postwar defeat of Saddam with an uprising. Our own troops stood by and watched Iraqi helicopter gunships massacre Kurdish civilians because we were bound by our own agreement not to intervene unless Saddam violated a no-fly zone (by fixed-wing aircraft). Saddam’s crackdown on would-be liberators was worse in the Shiite south. The Iraqi Republican Guard squashed the revolt and mass executions followed. After the U.S.-led invasion of Iraq in 2003, bereaved families with international forensic teams in tow were finally able to visit the mass graves that dotted the barren landscape. But a decade earlier Saddam’s anger was not satiated. In a massive program of environmental destruction, he diverted water from the marshlands in the South, causing the Marsh Arabs to flee and ending a civilization that had thrived in the region for millennia.

Monday, February 1, 2010

Dark Secrets of an Austrian Family (2/2)

Moreover, some have claimed that Alois must have had foreign blood flowing in his veins, because he was the first social climber of his clan. Mostly peasants and lower artisans populated the Waldviertal, the northwestern region of Lower Austria where Döllersheim is located. Alois impressively rose to become a customs inspector through a determination and ambition that did not distinguish those in his family or community.

So who was the father of Hitler’s father? Maria Schicklgruber married Johann Georg Hiedler five years after the birth. Almost 40 years later Alois Schicklgruber changed his name to Hitler, a variation of Hiedler, and had Johann Georg written into the baptismal certificate as his father. The official Nazi genealogy recognized Hiedler as the Führer’s paternal grandfather. However, Hiedler never legitimized his son during his lifetime and in fact Alois moved in with his uncle after the death of his mother. Very curious. Why didn’t Hiedler’s name appear on the original birth certificate? Why didn’t he ever legitimize his son, who until 1876 went by the name of Alois Schicklgruber? Why was Alois raised in another home?

As it turns out, Hans Frank’s story does not hold up to scrutiny. First of all, there is no evidence of a Jewish family living in the entire Waldviertal. Also, Frank alleged that letters were exchanged between Hitler’s grandmother and the Jewish family, but they have never turned up. Also, Hitler’s alleged response to Frank’s discovery has problems. For example, Frank has Hitler saying that he spoke to his grandmother about the situation, but she had died decades before Hitler’s birth. Another fanciful claim independent of the Frank story that Alois was the son of Baron Rothschild, of the famous Jewish banking family in Vienna, has no basis in fact.

Johann Georg Hiedler could indeed have been Hitler’s paternal grandfather. But I personally favor another candidate not unknown to historians, Johann Nepomuk Hiedler a.k.a. Hüttler, the brother of Johann Georg. If he was indeed the father, we would have answers to many questions. Why did Nepomuk adopt and raise Alois? Why did he bequeath his will to him? Why did Alois (pictured above) adopt a form of his name, “Hitler,” that comes closer to his uncle’s name? I think that Nepomuk is Hitler’s grandfather, but there is no definitive proof.

What about the Jewish ancestry? There is no evidence whatsoever. Why did Hitler destroy the place of his father’s birth? Was he afraid of some embarrassing revelation about his past? Was it something particular? Or was it a general fear that something, he knew not what, would turn up and discredit him? For example, when he took over Austria as the Führer of Germany, he tried to obtain embarrassing records about his evasion of military service, but to no avail. They were published in the 1950s.

While Hitler had no Jewish background, his opponents within Germany and his critics abroad could not avoid commenting on his non-Aryan features. In German newspapers and in the cafes people joked about the ideal Nazi: as blond as Hitler, as tall as Goebbels, as thin as Göring, and as straight as Röhm! (Goebbels was short and had a clubfoot; Göring, like Henry VIII, became increasingly obese during his reign as Number Two; and SA leader Röhm was a homosexual). Perhaps a case could be made for Slavic ancestry, almost as anathema to Hitler as the charge of being Jewish. A bold Munich journalist, Fritz Gerlich, mockingly examined Hitler’s nose in an article published on the eve of Hitler’s rise to power. He suggested the nose was very Slavonic, not Aryan, and in fact hinted at a Mongolian ancestry. Making racial assumptions on the basis of facial characteristics can be tricky, if not Nazi-like, business. But Hitler’s family tree is rooted in that part of Austria that borders Czech-speaking Bohemia. If he grew up in an ethnic borderland, it’s not far-fetched to question his alleged Aryan purity. Word to the wise: If you aspire to become an omnipotent dictator of an ethnically pure empire, make sure that the ideal citizen of your utopia looks like you.

Let me briefly discuss Hitler’s mother, Klara Pölzl (pictured). She was Alois Hitler’s third wife and twenty-three years his junior. Alois’s relationships with women was in fact rather sordid. He likely married his first wife, who was fourteen years older than him, for money and career advancement. When his wife discovered that Alois was having an affair with a young maid, she got a legal separation. After his wife’s death, Alois married the young woman with whom he had openly lived and sired a child. While his second wife was dying from tuberculosis at age 23, Alois got their nanny, Klara, pregnant. Not long after the death of his second wife, he married the 24-year-old Klara. Adolf, born in Braunau am Inn in 1889, was their fourth child and only two of six kids to live into adulthood. Klara was the granddaughter of Johann Nepomuk Hüttler, Alois’s uncle (or father!).

There is no evidence of physical, emotional or sexual abuse in the home, but Alois Hitler was an authoritarian and domineering master of his household. In Mein Kampf Hitler describes a drunken father beating his wife before his kids. Is this autobiographical? Later in life he said that he hated his father but respected him.

“Psychohistorians” have had a field day with psychoanalytical theories and complexes to account for Hitler. In general, we can surmise what Hitler’s home life as a child and young teen had on his future development, but we are in the realm of speculation, not clear facts that we can state definitively and dogmatically. Clearly, the unconventional circumstances behind his parents’ marriage had something to do with Hitler’s sexual and social oddity. Klara called her husband “Uncle,” who in fact was indeed her uncle! But while Adolf, the daydreamer and aspiring artist, had a rocky relationship with his father, the humorless and self-made customs official, he had nothing but deep affection for his mother, whose visage one can discern in photos of Hitler as a child and young man. As Ian Kershaw writes, Hitler’s mother may “have been the only person he genuinely loved in his entire life.”

The death of his mother and rejection from the Viennese Art Academy in the fall of 1907 dealt a severe double-blow to the teenager. But the origins of Hitler’s genocidal hatred of Jews and his desire for world conquest, both of which would bring untold suffering and misery to millions of people, the likes of which the history of this war-riddled world had never known, lie elsewhere—in the streets of Vienna, the trenches of the Somme, and the beer halls of Munich.

Main Sources:
(1) Ron Rosenbaum, Explaining Hitler: The Search for the Origins of His Evil (1999)
(2) Ian Kershaw, Hitler: 1889-1936 Hubris (1999)
(3) Robert Waite, The Psychopathic God: Adolf Hitler (1993)