Back from Vacation with Politics and Sadness

First, the Politics

What Homeland Security Advisor? Did you know we have a Homeland Security Advisor? Did we just get one? Why can't Tom Ridge be the Homeland Security Advisor? Why can't we just consolidate the National Security Advisor and the Homeland Security Advisor? Who is this Frances Fragos Townsend, anyway? When did she pop onto the scene? Well, I'll tell you. According to the White House press release on April 30, 2004,

President George W. Bush announced his intention to appoint Frances Fragos Townsend to be Assistant to the President and Homeland Security Advisor. Ms. Townsend will fill the position held by General John A. Gordon who announced his retirement after 36 years of public service.

Ms. Townsend previously served as Deputy Assistant to the President and Deputy National Security Advisor for Combating Terrorism. She reports to the Assistant to the President for National Security Affairs and to the Assistant to the President for Homeland Security with respect to matters relating to global terrorism in the United States. She will continue to serve in this role in addition to her new responsibilities until blah blah blah.

"Frances Townsend has been a trusted advisor on global terrorism . . . as we face the continuing challenges of protecting America from the terrorists who seek to do us harm," President Bush stated.

Okay? Got it?

And now, the Sadness

Have you seen M. Night Shyamalan’s The Village? Each Shyamalan movie had been worse than the previous one, so I didn't expect to like this one. I understand some of the criticism of The Village. Yes, inhabitants speak of “Those We Don’t Speak Of” all the time. Yes, some dialogue invites satire (“You needn't be scared. We have the magic rocks. They will keep us safe.”). Yes, growing up with a religious devotion to the Twilight Zone prepared me to guess the big twist halfway into the movie. And yes, maybe it is too silly to be taken as serious allegory. But for me, the allegory struck home. Or on vacation, anyway. I saw it while on vacation, appropriately, in rural Pennsylvania. In the movie, red is “the bad color” and must be hidden lest it invite “Those We Don’t Speak Of” to enter the village and eat them or whatever. Red is passion, suppressed by the yearning young. The village elders are hiding their own guilty secrets. And everyone avoids discussing any of it, in their contractionless, puritanical Americanese. I thought of my family, my village. As a youth, I assumed that it was normal for families to use proper English, all the while avoiding the unpleasantness life offers: politics, death. A few days ago, I learned that a relative is dying. This person, who married into the family before I was born and divorced some years ago, is included in some of my favorite childhood memories. When I try to get details from my family, there is simply an acknowledgement of the sadness, and I am astounded to be faced with their acceptance that nothing can be done. “They don’t just send people home!” I say. “We have the best hospitals in the world! Of course something can be done! For cryin’ out loud, we have stereotactic radiation therapy! Etcetera!” But the subject is changed to something more pleasant, like radios and eggplant and magic rocks that will keep us safe.