DC Reflections

George Washington and Michael Jackson: What a strange Fourth of July

When "George Washington" refused to shake my hand today, I could only shake my head: It had already been a very peculiar Fourth of July -- and it would get more bizarre before it was over. After studying and admiring the man for many years, I naturally leaped at the propitious moment to greet the general as he stood not far from the entrance of his Mount Vernon home.

"A gentleman from Virginia does not take the hand," he explained when I asked for the honor. "It is only from approximately Pennsylvania north where men engage in such a greeting. Where are you from?" 

"Georgia," I said. "I guess I should know better. So ... how do I greet you?"

"We bow," the courageous and patient commander said.

I immediately turned my head down and bent forward but saw out of the corners of my eyes he hadn't moved.

"But we are not monarchs," he said, gently. "There is no need for you to avert your eyes. Let us try this once more."

Feeling slightly ill at ease because of my thought that I was not worthy of the general's gaze but appreciating the lesson in equality he was trying to teach me, I maintained eye contact and bowed -- though the striking difference in our heights still made it difficult to keep him in my sight.

He nodded his head affirmatively and gave me a quick smile.

"Thank you, " I said.

Moments later, Washington's troops along with modern-day security forces jumped onto a new mission: A panicked father was screaming at the top of his lungs for his son, Teddy, last seen wearing a yellow shirt with "Nantucket" on it. The troops began their search.

Ten minutes passed, no Teddy.

Everyone on the front lawn repeated to each other the description of the boy we were looking for to make sure we had it right. Our stomachs tightening, we put down their slices of America's birthday cake as we all joined the search.

Five more minutes, no Teddy.

The father walked by, muttering to himself, "I've got to call my wife. I've got to call my wife."

Fearful tears broke out like the plague, jumping from one person to the next as the hunt continued. A voice from nowhere screamed, "We've got him! We've got Teddy!" Mount Vernon staff grabbed the father and told him they would take him to his son. He was safe.

We all breathed a hugh sigh of relief. I then went to do what I had come for -- paying my respects to the real George Washington at his tomb. I visit his home and his grave often; America would not exist today without him. As a student of the American Revolution and as a patriot, the Fourth of July means more to me than any other holiday. I well know what that whole generation endured to give us the country we have today.

My Independence Day got off to a strange start, though. First I opened The Washington Post and saw that it had published a letter I wrote last week in response to its absurd, sycophantic and worshipful coverage of the death of pop star-turned-freakish-pedophile Michael Jackson. Though I do media outreach for a living, I don't think I had ever written a letter to the editor for myself. Considering all I could say about the Fourth of July, I wasn't quite sure what to make of the fact my letter appeared today but was on the subject of the vile media and public praise of the once-talented entertainer who should have died in prison rather than in his mansion. A man does not pay $17 million to the family of a child he "allegedly" molested if he is innocent.

The Post also contained the story about Alaska governor Sarah Palin stepping down a year and a half early for no apparent reason. The Post reporters could make no more sense of the incoherent non-press conference than I could when I saw it last night. In typical Palin fashion, she took no questions -- choosing instead to ramble in so many directions with mal-formed thoughts that the viewer was left with as much clear information as before the event started.

The hormones inside me want me to like Palin because she is a very pretty woman. My conscience outweighs my porcine predisposition, though, and I just can't embrace the bubbly circumnavigator. I don't know that her departure from office, like Jackson's from the Earth, leaves any real void in our society, but I am at least happy for the wolves Palin is fond of allowing cowardly men with big guns to slaughter from airplanes. Maybe the Canis lupus will catch a break.

Paper perusing done, I hopped on my bike and headed to my first stop at the National Archives for what I thought was going to be a deeply moving ceremony that climaxed with a public reading of the Declaration of Independence. I stood ready for the air on my arms to stand up readers hit my favorite line about how "we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor."

Instead of an uplifting moment, the National Archives started well with music from Revolutionary War soldier re-enactors but dropped the ball with too much speech making. Adding insult to injury, the National Archives selected three children to do the reading. There is nothing more cloying than having children read a document that surpasses their understanding and that was written by grown men of great intelligence. I gagged when the first child approached the podium looking like he had just left an event at a private golf club. I left before the kid could even get to "laws of nature", giving the National Archives an "F" for its effort. Probably an F minus considering the poor quality of the sound system.

The ride out to Mount Vernon, though, was beautiful. I gave a triple thump on my heart (my own non-military version of a salute to something worth honoring) to the men buried in Arlington National Cemetery. I took in the view of the monuments sitting across the Potomac. I appreciated more than even usual the freedom to ride my bike anywhere my legs are willing to take me.

Despite the crowds, though, more odd things kept happening. Families walking on the trail kept themselves to just the right lane. Joggers only ran two to a side instead of in formation blocking the whole trail. Packs of bikers even rode single file. Weird.

On my return trip from Washington's home, I went back through security and, unlike during Inauguration Week, found LOCAL, courteous policemen and other security officers who were able to tell me how to get around security fencing to streets I needed to take. One even offered to inspect my water backpack while it was on my back so I didn't have to spend five minutes taking everything out.

With 50-plus miles under my belt on the day, I hit my own neighborhood and passed under the tracks that are but a few stone throws from where nine people died on the Metro crash last month.

Not long afterward, I saw an old man who had apparently collapsed on his driveway next to a cheap bike. He was motionless and I thought for a moment he might have had a heart attack. He sat up as I approached, and I opted not to mention the advice that a better bike would put less of a strain on him. Especially at his age.

I got home and replayed the beauty off the strange ride in my head. I thought of all the people I saw out having fun ... families of all races and melting pot mixes making all kinds of things on their grills, women jogging with their dogs, boaters cruising along the Potomac, men fishing on its banks. Friends throwing footballs and kicking soccer balls. A father pitching a Wiffle ball to his son. 

I sometimes get upset on the Fourth of July because I don't think people pay it or the generation of men and women that first gave us our freedom enough reverence. I do realize my own favorite founding father John Adams wrote that he expected this day to be commemorated with "Bonfires and Illuminations from one End of this Continent to the other".

Though I take my history pretty seriously about every day of the year, maybe I should lighten up a little on this one. Maybe I should give my fellow Americans more credit. After all, it's almost time to watch the District's fireworks on TV while getting ready to walk over to Takoma Park's rendition.

Wait, no ... ABC News is STILL talking about Michael Jackson and bragging about the live coverage it will provide of his funeral. It's also "reporting" that staggering numbers of people are registering to obtain free tickets to his funeral service.

I sense Washington himself rolling over in his sarcophagus.

Confessions of a 2008 National Book Festival rookie

I totally blew it today. Bombed. Dropped the ball. Didn't plan the work and work the plan. Came up short. Failed.

I move to Washington D.C. in part to take advantage of the unending sea of new intellectual opportunities this city offers -- then I fumble away my first visit to the National Book Festival sponsored by my beloved Library of Congress. I could have spent the whole day on the Mall soaking up the festival, taking in the whole experience of it. I normally squeeze every last drop of enjoyment out of events like this.

Not today.

My bumbling started with my failure to clear my calendar for this morning. I had an appointment I could have changed but it was already, well, on the books, so I figured I'd just head down to the event and enjoy whatever struck me once I got there.

What a doofus.

The author I most wanted to see was scheduled to speak while I was at my other commitment. This denied me the chance to listen to historian Gordon S. Wood talk about his newest book -- The Purpose of The Past: Reflections on The Uses of History. I am still new to a lot of contemporary history written about the American Revolution because of my affection for all things antiquarian and original, but Wood is a writer I wanted to hear. No better way for me to start the festival than by listening to an accomplished writer talk about the uses of my favorite subject, history, that I'm so passionate about.

I missed his lecture but did intend to make it there in time to buy a couple copies of his book and get them signed. That's when I made one smart decision -- not taking the Metro. Wood's signing time ended at 12:30. I was already pressed for time and I couldn't take the chance that I'd catch a quick red line train from Takoma and an equally prompt transfer to the blue to get to the Smithsonian stop. I would have considered the eco-friendly route had more time been available. Instead, I threw my bike on my car and zipped to my office parking garage downtown and then raced over to the Mall.

I hitched the bike to a tree, ran to the book buying tent, gobbled up the books, and sprinted over to the signing area. I made it to him at 12:25 and got my prized signatures. Wood himself was not much in the mood to acknowledge his readers, though. Or at least not me.

I made several efforts to say hello while he was sitting right in front of me signing my books. He made no eye contact, didn't look up at any point, and just dutifully penned his name and inscription -- while looking around me, seeing only one other person remaining in line, and saying with glee that he was about done. I thanked him for taking the time to sign my books but he still didn't acknowledge me.

Kind of made me mad, to be honest.

I've never been to a book signing in which the author didn't even make eye contact with his readers as he signed. I had to bust my tail to get there and shell out the dough for the books; I wasn't looking for an invitation to his personal library to discuss the late 1700s over brandy, but a "hello" or "you're welcome" would have been nice. Word of mouth marketing is, after all, the best kind of publicity any author can get. Even if you are already a Pulitzer Prize winner.

I decided to try to give Wood the benefit of the doubt: He had been there for an hour. He's an old man and his signing hand had to hurt. It was a bit nasty outside, and it was lunch time. I told myself that I'd try not to let the personal slight affect my ability to read and enjoy the book.

Then it was back to the consequences of my poor planning.

I turn into a great big monster when I miss my feeding times. Or more like a salmon-starved grizzly bear in New Balance sneaks. I had to eat quickly and the only place around was the concession stand, which forced me to drop about 14 clams on a steak burger, fries, and, horror of horrors, a Pepsi. I normally walk out of any restaurant that sells Pepsi instead of America's number one fizzy beverage -- Coca-Cola. I knew a migraine would hit me if I didn't get my mid-day caffeine injection, though, so I had to swallow the Pepsi and hope I'd later find a Coke to wash out that tongue-repulsing taste.

Studying the schedule for the rest of the day, I realized I didn't really have it in me to hover around waiting for the other authors that might be interesting. Again, had I studied the schedule before today, I would have moved my morning appointment, gotten down to the Mall early, and settled in for the long haul knowing I could pop over to museums when there was not an author on stage that I wanted to hear. Probably would have brought a lawn chair or blanket for some book and tree cuddling.

I also would have bought multiple books in one trip through the book store part of the event. I could only grab the Wood books because I was racing against the clock, and the line at the Barnes & Noble checkout stand was mighty long. I didn't feel like going back in and hitting it a second time. 

I was antsy at that point, and probably still a little annoyed by Wood. Didn't feel like experiencing that twice, either. So I passed on the Library of Congress pavilion and the chance to talk about preserving my own antiquarian books with a real professional. I whiffed on the chance to see Walter Isaacson, author of a book I read on Benjamin Franklin. I didn't get to hear Bob Schieffer, an old-school TV journalist and anchor whose rock steady and false-drama-free delivery I've long appreciated.

I missed the chance to learn about the life experiences of authors that would have been new to me, like Immaculee Ilibagiza, a woman from Rwanda who lost most of her family during a 1994 genocide. If I had gotten really crazy, I might have even left the history and biography pavilion and tuned in to other genres. (Anything is possible.)

Marisa de los Santos would have captured my attention by surname and dust jacket photo alone. I certainly would have wanted to meet her. Belong to Me ... well, don't mind if I do.

Yes, I could have done all those things and more if I had only planned to attack the event the way I normally do. Instead, the guy who spends much of his free time camped out in the caverns of the Library of Congress tasted but a bite of what could have been one of the best meals I've had all year.

I know one" purpose of the past" is to provide guidance on not repeating mistakes, and I do know one thing for a fact: This doofus will be ready for the 2009 National Book Festival long before the tents go up next fall.

President's Day Parade: Americans all in Alexandria

[Ed. Note: All photos by James Navarro.]

Danny McCullough sat on a curb near King Street in Old Town Alexandria today ready to celebrate two things: his country and his family.

"This is a celebration of America," the 21-year military veteran said as the annual parade to honor George Washington began. "People forget about the good things sometimes. And Washington was one of the Founding Fathers, the first general, the first president. It's appropriate to honor him."

Sitting next to wife Maria and surrounded by some of their children, the Washington Redskins fan had something else on his mind.

"My daughter is in the parade," he beamed. "She's with the Twirl Factory of Virginia. This is an opportunity for our family to be together, to enjoy doing something together."

Unfortunately for him, his 7-year-old was scheduled to be among the last to march -- meaning the black clouds rolling in would, well, rain on his parade.

A few feet away, a man named Louie watched as the parade kicked in to the next gear. The City of Alexandria Pipes and Drums strolled by, the bagpipes and booming beat bringing people to their feet. A local fire truck let its siren rip.

"This reminds me of growing up in Boston," he reminisced. "We had all these parades ... it was very patriotic there. This gives me that same feeling."

It was exactly the kind of sentiment that brought me there. I wanted to take advantage of another  opportunity to experience and celebrate the bonds that hold the red, white and blue together. It's often hard to feel a sense of community and country in the rush of daily life. Parades take us back in time, and closer to each other.

The people lining the streets all felt it. Adults and children alike waved American flags and cheered every group that walked by. African-Americans, Caucasians, Hispanics, and Asian-Americans spoke to each other without the slightest barrier between us. Biracial couples and their children bore testament to the slow but steady progress we're making toward an America in which color genuinely does not matter.

The canine-Americans in attendance might have a head start on their upright walking companions, though. Black Labs, white bulldogs, Golden Retrievers, German Shepherds, big 'ol Newfoundland mixes, itty bitty Beagles ... all took in the parade without so much as a growl.

Maybe they sensed their owners' reverence for more of the parade's participants. A group of people representing the Military Order of the Purple Heart went by -- all but one of our gray-haired heroes riding in shiny new cars. One man wanted to show his heart was still strong, however. The crowd applauded ever more loudly with every gimpy step he made.

We gave it up for the T.C. Williams High School Marching Band, American Red Cross, U.S. Postal Service, Freemasons, Sons of the American Revolution, National Park Service and more. Shriners in midget cars raced by. A gaggle of clowns hit the streets making kids and the young at heart laugh out loud. One raced up to a man with a home video camera and stuck his big red nose right into his lens.

"Is that TV?," he asked. "I'm so excited. I'm going to be on TV! I'm going to be on TV!" The man's grandchildren couldn't get enough.

The next group in the procession was the one I most wanted to see: Revolutionary War re-enactors marched in perfect cadence. Their sharp blue coats and crisp white pants, though, gave them away a bit. So did the fact that they all had shoes. Many of Washington's men weren't so lucky. The soldiers who gave us the nation we have today were often tattered twigs that walked barefoot. They ate tree bark to fool their stomachs into keeping them alive for one more day.

An 18-month-old named Page stared at the modern-day version's shiny buttons with parents Lori and  Chris.

"This is about American history," Lori said. "Children need to start becoming aware of history. The George Washington parade is educational but fun. And Page, she just likes waving flags."

 

Trying to warm up to Al Gore

Taking a break from some house cleaning on Saturday, I sat down for lunch, flipped on the tube, and surfed around a bit. Several excellent movies I had been meaning to see were on. So was Al Gore's film "An Inconvenient Truth".

Urrr, I groaned -- opting to skip the entertainment and go for the heavy brain lift. "Take your medicine, boy," I told myself. "Not fair for you to keep criticizing the man when you haven't seen the film."

To be perfectly clear, I have been very slow to embrace the global warming movement and am exceptionally skeptical of many ideas promoted by die-hard Democrats and Republicans alike. I figured the idea of global warming and the need for American and global response were just more big-government blather because of the spokesman for the cause.

As the past few years have gone by, though, my brain and my conscience have been poking me. They keep making me go back to an issue that is big, complicated, scientific, and detail-oriented. In other words: boring. Talk to me about defeating racism, educating children about history, saving wolves or getting government off our backs and I'm all ears. But big, boring science stuff that doesn't boil down to a soundbite -- by God, it's my duty as an American to try to ignore it or oppose it.

Then there's Old Al and my cognitive dissonance.

On the one hand, I certainly wouldn't treat my body, house or neighborhood the way my apathy condones the way we treat the whole planet. I'm green friendly. I care about public lands, wildlife, clean drinking water, and fresh air. Conserving our natural resources just seems like the right thing to do. Global warming or no global warming, I do what I can to reduce my energy use, recycle, etc. And yes, it irks me every time I see someone driving a gas guzzling SUV in city traffic. Like the driver at any second is going to need to hop the curb, enter an invisible jungle and deliver a vaccine to a dying child.

On the other hand: Al Gore. Tax-and-spend, government-is-the-answer-to-everything Al Gore.

But take your medicine, boy, I think. It will be good for you.

So I try to read at least some of the articles in the press. I try to really listen when my ultra-green friends get into the minutiae of the science of global warming. Further to my credit, I even went to listen to Gore speak on Earth Day at the National Museum of the American Indian. There I was, having come a long way from nay-sayer to listener, someone on the verge of starting to genuinely care about the issue. But Gore just didn't deliver the goods in Washington. Bless his heart, as we say back home -- often before delivering a genteel insult -- I saw first-hand the charisma challenge that has plagued his career. Maybe my expectations were too high. Maybe I was expecting the "I have a dream" of global warming speeches.

I left the event still not grasping the facts and importance of the issue. I was disappointed, actually. Intuitively, I keep thinking global warming should be something that matters to me. Yet I rolled my eyes when Gore later won the Nobel Peace Prize, my gut reaction telling me political correctness has gone wrong again.

Still, I didn't give up trying to wrap my brain around the potential merit of his mission. I continued to read and listen, to watch documentaries by journalists instead of politicians. I continued to consider the overwhelming documentation by the world's scientific community that global warming is real and that it is made worse by human beings. I've even quizzed my own friends who happen to be scientists.

Then I catch "An Inconvenient Truth" today while scarfing down leftover Chinese food and a Coke. "This is your last chance," I told TV screen Al. "You don't further my interest here, I'll never come around."

I watched every one of the 100 minutes in the film, forcing myself to sit there without distraction. I quickly realized that the film praisers who have used phrases like "intellectually exhilarating" were  smoking something I don't have access to. Fortunately, I had the caffeine. But Al and his barnstorming global warming slide show methodically made the points that held my attention.

I began to gain a significantly better understanding of what contributes to global warming, including humanity's role in it. The film walked this journalism major through the science I hadn't been able to follow before. It showed before and after pictures of glaciers that are disappearing in a hurry and a ton of other eye-popping graphics.

More importantly, "An Inconvenient Truth" connected many of the dots I had not been able to put together. I now see how global warming makes hurricanes worse. I see the link between polar bears drowning in the sea because they have no ice to inhabit and water supply for humans. I'm starting to grasp the extraordinary range of dire consequences we face by not doing more to overcome the bad habits and outdated technology that have turned up the heat on the planet. Global warming is not a phase; it is a fact.

I'm starting to get why we need to act, and that the situation is not yet hopeless. We can, all of us, make a difference.

Here's the thing: we can't worry about what the other 6,648,239,520 people on the planet are doing, or even the other 301,139,947 Americans. One of the great episodes of the TV show "M*A*S*H" that changed my life perspective was a story about Hawkeye putting a stop to one bad guy -- a man who scoffed at the surgeon and told him he would never be able to change the world. Hawkeye agreed but said he took satisfaction from doing his part to change his small corner of it. I never forgot that lesson.

That's all most of us can do. It's not going to be easy to fully grasp and embrace global warming. You've got to really want to get your mind around it because it's not something you can accomplish between commercials of "Lost".

I know I owe it to myself and the natural world I care about to keep studying global warming and to  consider the host of steps we can take to make a difference. I already know my next step, though: TV screen Al gave me a lot more information than I could absorb the first time. I'm going to go back and watch "An Inconvenient Truth" again. There's plenty of Coke left in the fridge.