Imbeciles

Trump and his posse — so much more civilized a word than “mob” — are on a route they believe must  lead to the future, the future where America is great again, where disruptive and un-American groups like immigrants and losers are denied entrance or if inconveniently already in place are denied public voice and then are branded and finally simply expunged. I like that word “expunged.” It gets rid of undesirables quietly and bloodlessly, a simple lexical gimmick. Sterile and trouble-free. And no man of the people — or his people — will dispute the need for such procedure.

But I digress. Or do I? Get rid of undesirables. It seems at first a defensible goal. I mean, if they are undesirable, we don’t want them. That’s what the word means. Yes. So we close our borders and then our laws and then our eyes and then our hearts. It becomes heartless, mindless, this America of the future, the one shown to us by those who would make us great again.

And I come back to the start, a book review about the delusions we must buy into if we want to preserve AMERICANNESS. It’s covered in Imbeciles where I find “Our research on eugenics was so sophisticated that we became the envy of the Germans; our Immigration Act of 1924 earned praise from no less than Hitler in Mein Kampf.”

And music playing in the background now. It’s Borodin’s Symphony #2. Russian. I like Russian composers. Borodin. Shostakovich. Rachmaninoff. They make me feel as if maybe I’m really more Russian than Irish. After all, the Irish haven’t produced any big-name composers, have we? But then on a per capita basis we’ve turned out a lot of writers, some of them pretty good. But why did I think then of the Irish? Oh yeah, I know. It’s because of the line that used to appear in help wanted ads, No Irish Need Apply. Was it their Irishness, or the likelihood they were Catholic? I wonder how my great-great-grandfathers ever got a job.

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