But One Lesson in History

About 800 words or two pages

Keywords: history, debate 

In 22 years of formal education, I had but one course in US history.  I’m not sure how that  exactly came to be—and I wonder more on the extensive 22 years part than the one history course part. Why the one US history course part I know:  I read the book and took the US history exam at UGA, so then my obligatory history courses became more juicy elective classes which featured Henry marrying another wife (it was three Catherines, two Annes, and a Jane, right?) or Alexander the Great’s warring escapades through South Asia (there were concubines too numerous to mention here). 

The one US history course came in eighth grade, at a junior high right outside Washington, DC, and was taught by a little old lady from New York, Mrs. Rotkin. It was in the late 1960’s, and Mrs. Rotkin seemed about 84 years old then, but she implanted in our class a curiosity for how things came to be in history.  She did this by having many classes as a debate between at least “two sides.”  It was a forensics approach--and more than that--it was in reality us confronting ourselves instead of us being moralistic about figures from the past. We learned to explore what those people then probably thought about, and hence faced something about our own lives.

Even though I had been living in the DC area for a couple of years, having lived nowhere else but Georgia before, I still had the hint of a southern drawl.  Because of my twang, when it came to dissect the US Civil War, I got cast as the slave owner in the mock debates over that horrible issue.  Interestingly an African-American classmate had volunteered to take the slave owner’s side in the spirit of curiosity—truly a young man ready for the diplomatic corps—but Mrs. Rotkin instead gave the dreaded role to me. 

Thus, I began to prepare, already knowing something first hand of the Jim Crow South, but knowing very little about the slavery debate. There was not much to find on defending the owner’s side from a morality perspective, of course:  the biblical argument tilted toward slaves’ rights and freedom (Jubilee), and in fact the Middle Ages had basically eliminated slavery from Europe during the millennium of the Church’s direct social superintendency (AD 400 - 1400). By the way, that Old World’s slavery which was done away with was mostly about punishment, either booty of war or prisoners of debt; an ancient king as well as an ancient pauper lived but one battle or one debt away from slavery. After the Plague, it was the so-called era of Enlightenment and Age of Discovery that eventually restarted the despicable institution of slavery in yet an even more heinous commercial way, based conveniently--at least for the owning class--on skin color.

My eighth-grade self fretted over the upcoming debate. I was angry at the casting, but somehow had some trust in Mrs. Rotkin’s decision.  The debate came, and I yielded completely and immediately on the moral ground. But then I offered the only defense I could think of:  economics.  How willing were you, oh Northerners, to pay twice as much for cotton?  Did you boycott and wear only wool in protest?  And then I threw in the cost of war:  even though only a small minority of Southerners were slave owners, do you not expect all those living in the South to defend their land with vigor once an invading army comes?  Thankfully, I lost the debate, but got an A.  And I learned a lesson about looking for answers.

I remember one more lesson from Mrs. Rotkins’ class:  the student teacher disappeared.  I forget her name, but she seemed almost as young as we were, had long dark hair and dressed in the sort of hippie fashion of the day.  Mrs. Rotkin had some errand to run, so the student teacher filled in on a lecture about the contentious event of the time—the Vietnam War.  She was to prepare us for our upcoming debate assignment. The young teacher concluded the preparatory talk, wrote summary notes on the chalkboard, and started to assign the teams for the debate.  Mrs. Rotkin suddenly entered the classroom and glanced at the notes on the board and surmised what was going on. 

“Does this [pointing to the chalkboard] represent all you’re going to tell them?”  asked Mrs. Rotkin, and the young teacher nodded and said proudly, “Yes. It’s all very true.”

Mrs. Rotkin breathed deeply, fixed her piercing eyes on the student teacher, and stated loudly, “Maybe so, but it’s only one side of the truth.”  The student teacher retrieved her denim purse and left the room.  We never saw her again; she left having taught us but one lesson in history. It was not forgotten.

©Copyright 2023 by John P. Harrison. All rights reserved.

Remember Who's Always Right

 

900 words: about 2 and a half pages

Keywords:  church vs state, flags

Remember Who’s Always Right

                The great debate came up in the context of a church service:  which side is right?  The debate is even older than our country; it goes back to, well, biblical times. It’s a debate which pits traditionalists against reformers, priests against laity, those on the right versus those on the left.  The debate, of course, is the perennial one:  on which side of the room is the US flag placed in a house of worship where there is also another flag (for instance the Christian flag, the papal flag, Israeli flag or some  denominational flag)?

It’s not as cut and dry as it seems since it has the element of a strictly correct answer, but can also evoke the God vs. Caesar question.  Let me take a stab at the right answer.

First, the correct answer according to the letter of the law:  the US flag always gets the place of prominence on US territory. There can be two issues around this: 1) ignorant or lazy folks don’t know what the place of prominence is, or 2) even if they know, they want to tinker with it for other purposes.

Let’s tackle number one. The place of honor or prominence in the case of standing flag on display in a room is always to the right of the beholder; that is, to the right of the speaker.  Some will no doubt remember when it was a bit more complicated: it used to be that it was to the right of the speaker, only if on the podium level--please remember the podium is the whole speaking platform (riser, stage, etc., not to be confused with the lectern or pulpit)—and was to be to the right of the audience if on the level of the audience.  That was too confusing for all but the unflappable, so in 1976, the US Code was updated and now it describes only to the right of the speaker (regardless of level). 

So, let’s take a theatre for instance.  You sit in a seat facing the stage, like you’re going to watch a movie.  If the US flag is displayed, it should be to your left at the front of the room as you face forward (this would be to the speaker’s right). 

This is not that complicated and comes from the following rule, (US Code Title 4, Chapter 1, Section 7k): “when used on a speaker’s platform, the flag of the USA should hold the position of superior prominence, in advance of the audience, and in the position of honor at the [speaker’s] right.”

That’s not hard, US flag gets the honor. Like most things in life, it gets just slightly more complicated when others join in  (that is, other flags).  The other flags get second place. That is they are  to the left of the US flag (if on the same side) or to the left of the speaker if on the other side of the stage or room.

 

So, now let’s take the situation where one wants to place another flag, presumably a Christian or denominational flag in the mix. This brings in the God vs. Caesar question alluded to earlier. We know the place of honor because it is stipulated in the US Code, but some might not want to appear to honor country over Providence. The flag code writers (in 1942) thought of this:

 

US Code Section 7c:

No other flag or pennant should be placed above or, if on the same level, to the right of the flag of the United States of America, except during church services conducted by naval chaplains at sea, when the church pennant may be flown above the flag during church services for the personnel of the Navy.

 

I could find no clear background on the committee’s debate, proceedings, or other deliberations on why the exception for ships at sea, but I would surmise that ships at sea MUST by international law always be flagged. Perhaps the flying of the “church pennant” along with the US flag represents that the ship is in a temporary status of worship (i.e., don’t shoot at us right now, we’re busy praying); if it were a permanent state of thought, then why not have it above the US flag at all times? Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition.  As an aside, in researching this topic, I uncovered that a real estate association (homeowners, etc.) where each unit is independently owned cannot prevent individual units from flying the US flag. 

I’m hereby OK with rendering to Caesar here since flags were derived from state military banners anyway; however, I do understand those wishing for some symbolic victory over the state (other than the church’s tax exemption). Here’s my compromise if you want the flags of church and state in the same room:  put the US flag on the podium to the speaker’s right, and the church flag on the audience level to the audience’s right. Those remembering the old days when the flag’s level (podium or floor) was important will see it to be a crafty compromise.  Those too young or clueless to care will see it as completely correct according to today’s rules.  Ta-dah, everyone’s honored.  The audience—if they notice at all and find their minds drifting—can then try to remember either what used to be right or who’s currently right. Either way is alright.

Copyright ©2022. John P. Harrison. All rights reserved.

More FDR and Less Q

 

Keywords:  argument, rhetoric

About 950 words or 3 pages

Occasionally one gets called on to address some topic off the cuff. This happens more frequently if you’re head of an association and especially if you have “Dr.” as a title (and here’s a secret: a doctorate is a credential of stamina, not of intellect).  I got marked recently to spontaneously address a crowd at church in answer to a question about a controversial topic. The topic is not of consequence here, for I speak to you of the method of argument—no matter the subject.

                First, here’s an acronym for you to memorize:  FDRQ.  Just think FDR and then add a Q. This approach is a concise use of the classics with a smidge of modern legal rhetoric thrown in, and I borrow from Jay Heinrichs’ amusing treatment in Thank you for Arguing. 

                You may have heard this method from a lawyer:  if the facts aren’t with you, argue the definition; if the definition isn’t with you, argue the relevance; and if the relevance isn’t with you, question the other side.  That’s it in a nutshell (the facts), now let’s unpack it a bit (the definition), see how it’s used (relevance), and try to avoid any ad hominem attacks against you personally (questions).

                In our scenario here, I was called upon to analyze a topic in the Bible without any preparation time.  I applied our little acronym, which is useful for quick analysis of most any content.  What are the facts?  As applied to literature, this really becomes what is the face value.

I said, “I don’t know off hand all of the verses dealing with this topic, perhaps someone here can list them for us, but let’s get those out on the table,” then we have the “facts” or “face value.”

                The next step is obvious, but costly.  We now try to define those facts. What do the words actually mean?  And for this we must know something of the context?   This is where a lot of behind the scenes research would often need to be done—and done with respect.  For example, the four words “Thou shalt not kill,” would need to be understood in the Hebrew; do we mean ‘kill’ as in take the life of anything (a plant, an animal, a microbe?) or is it only meant as murder?  The original language and content must be understood.  Another example would be “follow the science.”  As one from the sciences, I chuckle when I hear this. Which science?  Define that please.  Ah, you must mean settled science?  Well, it might take a long while for the precipitate to settle in that test tube. 

                This brings us to relevance. Be careful, this is when the disingenuous—if they failed to attack well in the F (Fact)  and D (Definition) phases—will now fire their last bullets of reason. 

I said, “You asked how those rules in an old, limited section can even be relevant anymore?  An analogy of what you ask:  I’m driving down the road in New Jersey and get pulled over for speeding. I appear in court. Your Honor, please show me in the law book where speeding is illegal. The judge opens the book and points to the section in the code. Suppose I know my stuff and then say, Your Honor, please turn to section such and such in that same book, and you’ll see that it is illegal to milk a cow on the second floor of a house here in your garden state. Now how can you possibly enforce anything in that silly book?”

                In the F and D moments, the argument was only on the actual text/idea in question by itself (in vacuo). Now, all sorts of analogies and tricks of argument come forth. Try to make sure those tricks are limited to this R (Relevance) phase—delay them until the F and D phases are explored. Otherwise, one never explores fully the topic, but gets derailed by some polemic (i.e., tricky method). Churchill was a master at this (I paraphrase):  “remember, madam, I may be drunk and you may be ugly, but I shall be sober in the morning.”  In other words, he ceded the fact and definition of his being drunk, but this is irrelevant to the permanence of her ugliness.

                Actually, this quip does double duty: shows irrelevance and moves into Q territory, that is, it Questions the speaker. In today’s world, especially with barely literate social media, the first three phases of what could be intelligent debate are skipped altogether.  We go straight to questioning the validity of the other side. These are labelled ad hominem attacks (Latin for “to the man”). Things get made personal right away. Arguments with familiar people or a pre-labelled “side”  can move quickly to this phase. This is regrettable; yes, it may save some time, but leaves all intellect behind. It replays what happened before on an endless loop and allows for little progress. 

                Let’s take the real FDR (that is Franklin Delano Roosevelt) as an example. Someone touts the New Deal as policy successes, and the response comes in argument, “you mean those policies enacted by the same president who locked up all our Japanese citizens in concentration camps?”  Now there’s an irrelevant R and Q, but illustrates a popular tactic today.

                As an association exec who argues on the Hill on occasion (back before Zoom calls proved much more lucrative for Members of Congress than meeting folks in person), I recognize a clever form of Q in how bills before Congress are labelled.  Some proposed legislation might be titled the Save-the-Universe Act--meaning that if you aren’t for it, you then must be against saving the universe, you slimeball!  No matter how you feel about his policies or war time actions, we need more FDR and less Q.

©Copyright 2022. JP Harrison. All rights reserved.

A Clue to Go On

 

About 1,000 words or 3 pages.

                A lot of mistakes are happening these days—summer of 2020—because we don’t have much of a clue as to what we’re doing. Oh, there are a few highly educated types who think they have a clue:  just hide out until you starve to death; and there are some at the other end of the spectrum who say to throw all caution to the wind.  Where is the via media, the great middle way of navigating which normally leads our daily lives? 

                The historian, Barbara Tuchman, came up with her famous law: “the fact of being reported multiplies the apparent extent of any deplorable development by five- to tenfold” (or perhaps an even greater number).”  In today’s world, there are no journalists, just megaphone holders, and everyone’s got a megaphone in social media.  I’ve taken to reducing the vehicles of news reporting that I observe to just one:  the printed daily Wall Street Journal.  No twitter or other social media, and no reading of bathroom walls (and have you noticed that those bathroom walls have gotten a lot cleaner now that the types who used to write on them now use social media instead).  Life looks a lot saner with at least no megaphones yelling at me.  However, even from what I read what we’re doing seems rather clueless.  

                There are the Ivy Leaguers who think they have a clue. To take a stroll down an unfortunate memory lane, in my lifetime, I remember our country being led by a room full of Harvard types who masterminded the Bay of Pigs incident.  To their credit, they did learn something and crafted a naval blockade of Cuba that averted a thermonuclear war.  That was good. But that same room full of brains then turned around and get us into Vietnam. Which in turn became the downfall of a certain cowboy school teacher as president.  That president said something to the effect of (and I paraphrase), “no bunch of little Commie bastards in Indochina are gonna push us around…”  Barbara Tuchman, in her work, the March of Folly outlines the great mistakes of history, and (along with the Trojan Horse and several others) this included the Vietnam War.    

                Does this pattern sound familiar?  The nerdy Harvard types tell us to hide under the bed and perish, and the backwoods types tell us to ignore it all and go belly up to the bar:  “no stinkin’ little virus is gonna make me wear a mask over my face.” 

                Don’t get me wrong, there’s a time for the more brawny type, like when you need to get your car out of the ditch or open a can of whoop ass on that pesky terrorist trying to light a shoe bomb on the airplane.  And, of course, we need a few Ivy League types too, like when you need to brag about the neurosurgery you just did, or if you want to impress those in class by asking a sesquipedalian[1] question.[2] 

                What we don’t seem to have on hand is a lot of decision makers somewhere in between those two pillars.  It’s simple enough to say sit home and perish in the face of stagnation, and it’s also quite simple to go the other way and just try to forget it all.  We get either macho BS or erudite BS.  Where’s the in-between mix?  Or does fostering the in-between not work in an era of millions of social media megaphones? 

                After this current unpleasantness passes--and it too shall pass--there will be a new school of thought with studies, white papers, and pundits galore to analyze it all.  Models will burst onto the scene which have the epidemiology on the same graph as the economics (gee, what a thought). 

                Perhaps that research is already out there, but there are few takers.  The attention is going elsewhere like to the contingent protesting and promoting a culture intent on cancelling any research if they don’t like what it says:  sort of their own version of spouting macho BS.  I guess that odd political culture-- if we can measure it-- is another variable on the graph with epidemiology and economy; and three simultaneous variables and their interactions are about all that humans can successfully try to read. 

                Where are the great heroes of today who have fine minds and tested leadership in the field?  We need, say, a Henry the Fifth, who in addition to being the inspiration for Shakespeare to write arguably the greatest speech in history (St. Crispin’s Day)[3] also led England to its greatest victory until Churchill took up the mantle a few centuries later. Both those men studied at fine schools and were tested in battle.  Somehow they knew the middle of the extremes.

                I read the St. Crispin’s Day speech again. It is given before the battle on the field at Agincourt where the English were terribly outnumbered and outgunned.  It doesn’t whine about not having more troops on hand or wish for better conditions or even a better leader. It doesn’t complain about never having been on the awful terrain before.  It simply declares the happy willingness to give it everything with only what is here. To not just go through the motions, but instead to live or die—and to be all in and all in with each other as we are-- and to be glad to be in the fight with the scorecard we have and to hold it dear:

…And gentlemen in England now a-bed
Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.

                They didn’t know if they would win, but with courage they followed King Henry and did so.  We have had in the past great leaders among us—those of sharpness and strength meant to save us in the moment.  But they don’t really save us, they only remind us of our better selves.  

               

         

              

©Copyright 2020 by John P. Harrison. All rights reserved.   

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[1] Sesquipedalian is a great word.  Sesqui means one and a half in Latin (hence sesquicentennial is 150 years), so sesquipedalian means one and a half feet, as in using words that are one and a half feet long.

[2] I had a friend at Harvard business school who said they spent a class learning how to raise their hands just so and formulate questions in such a way as to make one look impressive—getting the answer was irrelevant. 

[3] The speech is in Shakespeare’s history, Henry V (Act IV, Scene 3); there have been excellent film adaptations (Kenneth Branagh’s Henry V, and Netflix, The King).  The speech has been used by many to rally strength and is a shining example of courage exemplified in the Western Cannon—for those who still learn from such great works. 

Both Sides Not Against the Middle

Both Sides Not Against the Middle

About 700 words (approx. 2 pages)

                I try always to read both the pro and con op-ed columns when they’re lined up near each other in the newspaper.  Yes, I still read the printed newspaper, and I don’t know if they can pull off the liberal/conservative side-by-side layout as well in the digital version.  Since more and more people get their news electronically, this tells us that perhaps fewer and fewer people read both sides of the issue.  They don’t readily find both sides of the issue next to each other.  Take some time to read both sides;  visit the one side labelled “From the Left,” and then the other, “From the Right”. 

                In the Atlanta Sunday paper, it is frequently Leonard Pitts of Miami (in the left corner) vs. George Will of Washington, DC, (in the right corner).  If you don’t know about Leonard, he’s a Pulitzer Prize-winning columnist who writes mostly about racial grievances.  I can’t get on board with what he says, but dang he says it well and weaves a column that’s tight and mighty.  George, on the other hand, can’t craft a decent story line but man can he ante up the big words, and his old economics clearly make sense to me.  Thus, every Sunday I get to read an activist’s diatribe versus the sesquipedalian ramblings of a Washington insider. 

                During the weekday there is an even more intriguing lineup:  the Pulitzer-Prize winner from the left is Clarence Page from Chicago, and the academic from the right is Walter Williams from California.  These two fine gentlemen, both black, sometimes rock my world by railing on subjects near to me, and sometimes I agree wholeheartedly with them both.  Here’s an example.

                Clarence Page took on the last decade, the 2010’s:  “It was a media decade that began with the birth of Instagram and ended with me still trying to figure out what Instagram is good for.”  It appears to me that that whole phenomenon is just ephemeral distraction—touch it and it’s gone.  Poofery instead of poetry or prose.  When I was in Atlanta public schools in the 1960s, we had to memorize the 23^rd Psalm to pass fourth grade.  That’s right, public school.  The idea of memorizing, the idea of poetry, and the idea of something sacred are no longer acceptable ideas.  We have poofery instead.  Poofery soon turns to chicanery, but who can tell the difference?   I’m with you Clarence.

                And Walter’s column takes on the “diversocrats” in higher education.  “Diversity officials are a growing part of a college bureaucracy structure that outnumbers faculty by 2 to 2.5.”  He talks about grievance studies and each newly recognized problem leading to a call for more programs and staffing, of course.  A bureaucracy once spawned is like any organism, it seeks to thrive and expand for its own sake. 

                “One wonders just how far spineless college administrators will go when it comes to caving in to the demands of campus snowflakes who have been taught they must be protected against words, events and deeds that do not fully conform…”  You’ve seen the analogies:  modern day McCarthyism, Big Brother and so on.  Most of us probably agree that there’s a lot of non-sense going on, but what’s new and different is that there are now jobs and money depending on making the problems bigger.  Meanwhile the end result, education, is diminished in importance.  I don’t know if Walter would agree with me, but it seems analogous to valuing the diversity score of an NBA team over the team’s win-loss record. 

                As a trade association executive, I’m frequently on Capitol Hill to attend some committee or subcommittee hearing.  In case you are wondering, these are all scripted events.  Everyone knows exactly who is going to say what; it’s a play, and it would be more efficient to just publish what has been planned and skip the performance.  However, some things happen behind the scenes—those of us who read both sides make some compromises, we do some predictive math and the like, and I’m honored to be in the company of those like Clarence and Walter as we seek to figure things out—and then the theatre comes back on, ready for Instagram so those who don’t bother to read both sides have something to see.    

©Copyright 2020 JP Harrison. All rights reserved.       

The Gift of Hermeneutics

Key word:  hermeneutics

About 700 words or 1½  pages

                Decades ago, when I was a young worker at the YMCA in Jerusalem, I had the duty to take small tour groups around parts of the Holy Land.  These groups were a mixed bag of Jews, Christians, agnostics and general run-of-the-mill folks.  They toured the usual sites, attended a lecture or two on politics and religion, and toward the end went out with me to a local dinner in a small village, and I’d then take them out into the desert after sunset.  

                “I hear in your lecture today you talked about hermeneutics,” I said to the group of four or five as we bounced down the highway at night.  They were tired but relaxed, having just finished our celebratory dinner on the last night of their tour.  I heard grumbles, and one asked what was hermeneutics anyway.

                “Ah, hermeneutics, the ancient art of interpreting and understanding what’s really meant by and what’s behind the text.  I hope to show you something of this in a moment,” I said.   

                After a time of driving straight into the rocky, barren hills--the van’s headlights barely lighting far enough ahead to see the way---I pulled off onto a dusty side road and stopped.  I ushered them out of the van, down the road to a clearing about 50 yards from the van, using my trusty flashlight to light the trail. 

                I gathered them in front of me, facing away from the hills, and they were already looking up at the night sky.   Thousands upon thousands of stars shone, and the Milky Way formed a nebulous but visible streak.

                “Who reads Hebrew?” I asked.  One guy half way raised his hand.

                “I’m not a practicing Jew or anything, but I was bar mitzvahed and was a pretty good student.  I can still read Hebrew although I’m not sure what I’m saying,” said the man, Michael.  I slipped my hand into my pocket and fished out a small Tanach--the Old Testament in Hebrew.  I handed it to Michael, and I asked him to read the first few lines of Genesis, where I had put a sticky note to mark the spot. He opened the book left to right out of habit, and then remembered and opened it right to left. 

                “Ba-reshit barah Elohim et ha shemaiyim…” he began, and I translated for the group, “In the beginning created God the heavens,” and I stopped, and we all gazed up into the sky.  I nodded for him to continue.

                “…Va ha Eretz hiyatah tahu va vahu…” he read, and I said, “and the earth was without form and empty. Listen to the wind,” I said, “Formless and void:  tahuuuu, vahuuu,” And the wind cooperated by  softly whistling huuuu.

                “Va ruach Elohim marhevit,” Michael continued, and I said, “The wind of God gently turned about.  The Hebrew word for spirit or wind is Ru-ach.” 

                “Go ahead,  and gently turn about and face the mountains,” I said to all of them.  I stood behind them now.  “Hear it?” I said over their shoulders, “the wind changes sound and becomes Ru-achhh or spirit.”   I heard an un-huh or two from our small crowd above the soft achhhhh of the wind.  Michael, however, did not look up, his head down strictly on his task.

                “Va amar Elohim, ye-hiyeh ohr,” he read, and I translated, “and God said, let there be light,” and they looked around and saw that my flashlight had been extinguished.  Their eyes had had time to adjust to the darkness.  Scotopic vision—night vision-- is a wonderful thing; it is all about black and white and can detect even the slightest motion from the corner of the eye.  I had done this exercise a few times, and night vision always seemed to fully kick in about the time we get to the verse where light first appears. 

                “Look at the page, there is light,” I said.  And he saw that it was now softly reflective, and the words could be read by starlight.   Michael stopped reading.  He got the point.  It was beginning to get chilly, so I motioned for us to head back.

 

                “I’d like to keep this copy,” said Michael while holding the book, “I’ve..um..gotten a tear drop on it.  Let me buy it from you.”

                “Please just consider it the gift of hermeneutics,” I said, and we walked dutifully back to the van; I put the flashlight back in my pocket.  We seemed to be able to see the path even in the darkness.          

©Copyright 2019 by  John P. Harrison. All rights reserved.

Welsh Poets and French Food

Key word:  eisteddfod

About 1,000 words or 2 pages

It’s good to be put in your place every now and then, and by that I mean being cut down to size by those more clever than you—whether at work or at home.   Here are a couple of glaring examples from yours truly to help you make it through your day.

First, a tale from Toastmasters.  This is that famous group to help one sharpen public speaking skills.  It’s a great program especially for executives, and we had a chapter which met at our office every week or so with about 20 of us in the group.  In the usual program, Toastmasters has a “word of the day” where an individual is assigned to bring a word to the meeting that all then try to use in their impromptu one-minute speeches.  I watched as the usual suspect words were brought in by my peers:  inculcates and prevaricates and bloviates and so on.   My turn came for word of the day and I offered up raison d’être -- a bit of a show off word, but still useful as “reason for being.”

One of my colleagues, ever fast on her feet, handled this word with alacrity during her minute:  “my mother, being of French extraction, was a great cook; I remember the mouth-watering aromas of the kitchen, for she truly made the best raison d’être anyone has ever had.”   She had no clue what the word meant, but she wasn’t even flustered and fielded it well.  In fact, she got laughter and applause.  Next time, I would have to come up with a better word. 

And it happened.  I was flipping through a concise version of the end-all-be-all of dictionaries, the OED (Oxford English Dictionary) to ready myself for the next word of the day opportunity.   There it was:  eisteddfod.  I said it out loud, ees-ted-fod, which means, of course, a congregation of Welsh poets.  Nothing could beat this.  I envisioned cheers, confetti, the medal around my neck:  yes, all the accolades of word-of-the-day stardom were to be mine. 

And all was as it should have been--for a while.  All were impressed with my great word, and no one could quite fit it successfully in a sentence off the cuff.   It was an afternoon triumphant, and then came an office reception that evening.  Many of my Toastmaster colleagues were there.  And so too was the visiting Consul General from the UK.   Our office even arranged for a picture of the Queen and a welcome “HM Consul So-and-So” sign at the entrance. 

We were ready.  It was my duty as a good executive to make small talk with the diplomat.  After finding out he had studied at fine universities like Oxford and the Sorbonne, I asked him if he’d been on any interesting trips lately.  He said he’d recently been to Wales.

Wales!  He didn’t just say Wales, did he?   My friends, the moment was mine.  I perked up, looked about, and came in for the kill, “Ah, Wales.  Did you happen upon any, uh-hum, ees-ted-fods?”   I asked, delicately letting the word flow from my lips like silk on a breeze.  Conversations stopped, Toastmasters in the crowd turned in amazement.  Boy howdy, he’s done the impossible, they thought. 

And then, Her Majesty’s Consul looked at me, and it was a moment, no, a year, before he spoke, “My dear man, the word is eye-sted-fud.”   I did not speak.  In fact, I was now exactly one half the height I was a moment before.  My choices seemed to be to make haste to Wales, find an eisteddfod, and self-immolate before them, or to quietly sneak out of the building, head home and dismember the OED. 

Now to the home front.  My daughter, filling out college applications, said she planned to self-designate as American Indian hoping to improve her odds of getting into some prestigious university.  She had heard the family story of Great-great-grandmother Matilda who was full-blooded Cherokee and married my great-great-grandfather, just off the boat from Ireland.  This is why my grandmother and my Aunt Wylene both had high cheek bones and red hair, of course.  So, I started doing the math on what the fraction needed to be to claim this ancestry and promote my child to some great school (Hmmm…I envisioned her at Oxford or the Sorbonne, so she could learn to do battle with consuls, but no, I was over that incident). 

My wife scoffed at this whole thing.  First, we shouldn’t be claiming something just for selfish gain, and secondly, didn’t we know that half the stories of Cherokee lineage turn out all confused.   No way, I said.  This has been passed down to me painstakingly through the generations.  My son even tans oh so easily and we were all quite at home in the woods.  Something in the cell memory, I explained to my wife.   Why don’t we leave it all up to science, she suggested.  So we got the DNA test.  

In no time, I sealed up the tube of spittle, and off to the ancestry lab it went.   A few weeks went by, and my daughter, now close to an Indian princess for sure, was busy putting the final touches on the college application essays and the like.  It looked very promising.  Then the mail arrived.  Well, email actually, to my wife’s account.

“Gather round, and let me announce the results of the great heritage test,” she said, but she sported this wicked smile.   “Let’s see,” she began, “mostly English with a good bit Irish and some Welsh even [no comment], and the percentage you thought to be American Indian turns out to be from—well, from Senegal.”  I was incredulous.  Senegal?

                “Oh, maybe that explains why we all took French,” said the daughter.  I shrugged and went off.  To eat some raison d’être.     

©Copyright 2018 by JP Harrison.  All rights reserved.