Perhaps she’s a little bit racist, but the Founding Fathers were as well.
I want to see her home. I want to see one hundred guns with my own eyes. I want to see a home, not an army base, with one hundred guns and thousands of bullets in it. I’m intrigued. It takes her time to think it over, about four minutes, and then she says: “Follow me.” She goes to her truck. I go to my Malibu. And we drive. Fast. Yes, she’s fast!
It’s a nice house and a lovely home, simply but warmly decorated. Her husband is home today and he’s glad to show me around. In the living room, a cozy living room, there are two really big safes. He opens one, then the other, and he shows me the different guns: handguns, shotguns and rifles. With immense pleasure he teaches me what to use when, the differences between the various bullets and firepower. He loves his guns. He holds each of them with a display of kindness mixed with kinship. He knows each of his guns personally.
These two safes are just part of this couple’s gun collection, he tells me. They have more in the other rooms. Guns are all over. They don’t have children, but they have guns. The guns are their children.
I have one little request: Could I shoot?
Of course.
We go to their porch, and I am given a Benelli Super Black Eagle II, valued at $2,000, and I shoot. I love it. Don’t ask me why.
They see the smile on my fat face after shooting, and the man walks out fast and lays a shooting target in the backyard. I shoot with the same shotgun. I score five out of five.
Next, I take an Ithaca side-by-side .410 to play with. I score four out of four.
And now I get upgraded: he hands me a Ruger Mini-14 rifle. I score five out of five.
Lastly he gives me a handgun, a Ruger SR40. I score four out of five. I am devastated. But they comfort me. With only one miss, they tell me, my score is fantastic.
When we’re done and I’m about to leave, I feel a certain bond between us. We share a close mutual friend: the gun.
• • •
I go to a hotel and relax a bit. What’s new today? Here’s Reuters reporting: “The Boy Scouts of America lifted its outright ban on openly gay adult leaders and employees.”
It’s interesting to see how public opinion is shaped and how the crimes of yesterday are the virtues of today. In fifty years or so, I think, every gay person will own at least ninety guns and no Republican will even dream of owning one.
I fall asleep dreaming of one hundred black lesbians doing yoga at the Chicago Jewish temple.
• • •
I am paying tons of money for the right to use Malibu, which includes all kinds of insurances and other fine print, and I better not leave white Malibu parked in some lot, alone and cold.
We unite and drive west. While driving, I see a little memorial monument on the road, and I stop to check it out. Under the name Battle Island, I read this: “Of the 1000 Sacs [Sac Indians] who crossed the river from Iowa in April 1832, not more than 150 survived to tell the story of the Blackhawk War.”
The people who came to this continent, whether for a better life or because they were fleeing persecution at home, paid dearly for the right to be here. Yes, this land was won with blood and much suffering – and there is a history to this land predating the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence, a history written by flying souls, a history where European and Indian sought each other’s destruction, a history covered with rivers of blood flowing between corpses.
Back in the white American car I drive until I reach La Crosse, Wisconsin. I stop at a store on the main road to get me a Diet Coke and I meet Dan, and he tells me that the city of La Crosse is a great city. I think I should hang around here.
Dan’s specialty, I learn, is political science and education. La Crosse, he tells me, is 97 percent white Christian and 3 percent “other.” Who are the others? Blacks, Jews and Muslims. He knows much about Jews and Muslims. Not only the ones in La Crosse but also those who live thousands of miles away from here. In 1947 or 1948, he is not sure what year, the United States and the United Kingdom decided to put Jews in the State of Palestine and then they created a new state, the State of Israel. When I ask him what year the State of Palestine was founded, he gets a slight headache and can’t remember anything anymore.
He feels much better, and has no headaches, when he speaks of blacks and whites in La Crosse.
Blacks and whites, he tells me, live here in perfect harmony. Are there some poor neighborhoods around with crime problems? Oh yes, he says. I ask him if the crime areas are in poor white neighborhoods, and he shakes his head. Are they where the blacks live? He nods yes.
It’s politically incorrect to say anything negative about blacks, but perfectly okay when you use your head, not your tongue, to express what you really feel about them.
After parking Malibu in a local hotel – got to park again, that’s life – I walk the streets of La Crosse. Nice city. When I pass by the Weber Center for the Performing Arts, which houses La Crosse’s community theater, I enter the complex.
There I meet David, the executive director of the theater company. David is a nice white man and he takes the time to show me around. He’s proud of his theater. First, he shows me the view one can see from the theater’s lobby: the Mississippi River. Good for theatergoers who come to consume culture and can enjoy nature at the same time.
Then David shows me the main auditorium: the rows are a comfortable distance from one another, offering a wide leg space, and there are even cup holders in front of every seat so that theatergoers can sip some liquids while their brains are working full speed watching high culture. Do you perform political theater? I ask David.
“No.”
Why not?
“We are dependent on ticket sales, and people don’t want political theater. People want comedies. Theatergoers come to the theater for ‘escapism,’ not to think, but to be entertained. That’s the only reason people go to theater.”
People in Europe love political theater. Even Shakespeare was political!
Well, could be, he admits, but not in America. “Americans don’t like political theater.”
How do you know? Did you ever try?
Not exactly. Actually never.
Why not?
“Our sponsors will pull out. No corporation will sponsor political theater.”
Politicians are beholden to their donors, I learned in Chicago. Artists, David says, are beholden to their sponsors. No wonder the Donald, independently wealthy, says whatever will pass through his lips.
Are you a Republican or a Democrat? I ask David.
His face hardens, nervous ticks kick in, and then he shoots back, extremely upset: “I won’t answer this question!”
It is a sight to behold.
As the center’s name implies, the theater has one main donor: Donald J. Weber. I should get to know him.
After leaving David I inquire about Donald. He is, I find out, the founder and CEO of Logistics Health Incorporated (LHI). What kind of business is this? I read: “LHI’s experts provide customized health care solutions supported by a national network of more than 25,000 medical and dental providers.” And the list goes on.
That’s money.
• • •
Come next day I go to visit Donald, the local celebrity of La Crosse who, I slowly learn, has quite a number of other businesses in addition to LHI. Donald looks like a nice guy, someone you’d like to be your father or grandfather. I read somewhere, I tell him, that Governor Scott Walker describes you as an American patriot. Do you view yourself as a patriot?
“You know, I grew up on a small family farm and then I went to the Marine Corps, so, you know, I’ll say that that probably shaped my life more than anything. I have been blessed in many ways.”
Do you view yourself as a patriot?
“Well, I don’t know, you know.”
The answer to this is very short: yes or no.
“I am – I – I’m very patriotic. Yes. Very much so. And I t
otally, totally support the men and women who serve. Because, you know, they volunteer. Every day we get up we have so many freedoms. You know, we can choose to live where we want to live, we can send our kids to school wherever we want. I have started nine businesses, just from ideas that I had. I lost everything. I lost my home, you know, I didn’t have a place to live. I found a place to live, an old house, a shelter, you know; I milked the cows – and I found a way to come back. I took a lot of risk and I’ve been blessed.”
If the election were held today, who would you vote for? I ask. Donald won’t say.
What makes Donald proud is this: thousands of people in La Crosse wake up in the morning and have a job to go to, and he’s the one who made it happen. Donald is Catholic, a man of faith, and he thinks that he walks in the way of Jesus: he cares for and helps his fellow men and women.
I ask Donald about the theater in the building named after him.
“You know, I don’t go to the theater. I’m not a theater person. I mean, I support them because I think it’s good for the community. I grew up in a farm.”
David won’t do political theater for fear that Donald would withdraw his support, but Donald couldn’t care less.
Oh, David!
If you had a university degree, would you be as successful? I ask Donald.
“No.”
The secret to his success, he tells me, is this: “I always hired people a lot smarter than I am. I don’t feel threatened. I can’t think in these terms, I only have a high school education.”
And he is proud of his children. They don’t ask him for money; they work for it. His son just came back from Israel, where he stayed for one week.
What did he tell you about Israel?
“Listen: America must help Israel. What they are facing out there is not easy, you know.”
How Israel, a tiny country far away, manages to sneak into the minds of so many Americans is ever surprising.
I ask Donald what I should do while in La Crosse.
“You like steak? We have an excellent restaurant downstairs. Go and have dinner there in the evening. It’s on me! They have tenderloin; they have crabs. Excellent fish that they fly right in here.”
I certainly will go there. Germans like me love free food. Donald has another suggestion as well: “Go and see the Shrine of Our Lady of Guadalupe. It’s just gorgeous. You would never believe it’s here.”
I bid Donald goodbye and go to see the shrine. Spirit before food, baby.
• • •
The Shrine of Our Lady of Guadalupe, completed in 2008 at the cost of $30 million, was built with donations from private individuals and is not part of any diocese.
Despite attempts by the local bishop at the time, Raymond L. Burke, who initiated the building of the shrine, the Vatican doesn’t want to have anything to do with it “because it’s too costly,” one of the monks here tells me. Instead, and to pacify big Catholic donors, a letter “from the Vatican” which was signed by “+G.B. Re Substitute,” was sent to the bishop. It states that “as a pledge of abundant divine graces, the Holy Father cordially imparts his Apostolic Blessing to you.”
No apparitions of the Holy Virgin have been reported at this location as of yet, but parishioners have reported miracles happening to them at the site. “Barren mothers bore children after coming to the shrine,” Raymond Burke, now a cardinal in Rome, tells me.
For the record: no political theater is performed here at any time, but this place is much better than any show. The shrine is amazing in its beauty, and the windows are lovely. The Shrine of Our Lady of Guadalupe is a 350-seat church built in the old style of Catholic cathedrals, but it’s all new.
What I find quite interesting here is the American angle of it: rich people, be they top bankers or big-shot lawyers, sit at their posh saloons and decide to build a church from which miracles will happen. And, guess what? The miracles happen. Even the Virgin Mother, mind you, is beholden to the super-rich.
America!
• • •
As for me, my AT&T cellular service doesn’t work here no matter how many times I point my smartphone in Our Lady’s direction. Our Lady will create babies for you, but can’t provide connection. I am paying good money to get coverage across the United States, as the AT&T saleswoman promised me, but the No Service signal comes up quite frequently when I’m out of urban areas.
I enjoy the beauty surrounding me, smoke a cigarette or two, and slowly walk back to have a nice meal at the restaurant that Donald recommended, the one that he will pay for.
I order crab cake, Canadian Walleye and cheesecake. All are good, but nothing outstanding. There’s money in America, much of it, but not much good food. Not even in expensive restaurants. Virgin Mother, can you do something about it?
Perhaps, just perhaps, what’s happening to food in America is what happened to culture here. If all you’ve got is a melting pot, don’t expect the food to be anything but bland.
Should I keep going northwest, or should I go south to Iowa?
Before I go to sleep for the night, a birdie whispers in my ear that Minnesota has got lots of culture. I am a sucker for culture. To the state of Minnesota I shall drive come the morrow!
Gate Eight
Somalis are human beings like anybody else and they, too, should be allowed to shoot you in the head
IN GOOD TIME, AND WITH EXCELLENT WEATHER, I REACH SAINT PAUL, Minnesota. Nice name for a city, don’t you think?
Of course, when I hear “saints” I immediately think of Jews, the folks who gave Saint Paul to the world.
I find myself a sizable Jewish temple. Today, it turns out, they have a lecture/training session about race and racism, which I assume is about anti-Semitism, given that they are Jews.
The event is organized, I learn, by the Jewish Community Action in Saint Paul. Good to know that the Jews here are active. About seventy people attend, two of whom wear skullcaps. The attendees sit around tables that are spread around the room, and I join one of them.
The Jews seem deeply worried. I didn’t even see sad faces like these in any of the ’hoods. What happened?
I don’t know. What I do know is this: on each table there are numerous envelopes, for use by those seated around the table who would like to stuff money into them. Starting amount suggested: fifty-four dollars.
The Christians asked for fifty-two dollars; the Jews want fifty-four dollars. No problem.
The first speaker, a young lady, goes to the podium. She speaks about “our system,” referring to the American justice system, and says that it is stacked against blacks. This event, I quickly realize, is not about anti-Semitism but white racism.
The Jews here, I slowly find out, feel guilty about the white guy who killed nine blacks at the black church in South Carolina. No, Dylann Roof isn’t Jewish, but he is white, and these Jews feel responsible.
Why? Ask them.
Time passes slowly, and then a black lady comes to the podium.
American Jews, I have found long ago, love to have at least one black person at their events.
They’ve got one here. A good one. She’s not just black but also a “Jew by choice” black, as she introduces herself, which means that she is a convert. She is, in other words, a black lady who fell in love with Jews.
Well, not exactly.
She has a big problem with Jews, she tells the audience. American Jews, she has discovered since becoming Jewish, are racist, and she wants all Jews present to know that she has blown their cover. As if this is not enough, she adds that racism also exists within the Israeli Jewish community. Ethiopians in Israel, she says, are 2 percent of the population but 30 percent of them have a police record. Who’s to blame? Everybody in Israel, including the Israeli government. Israel publicly invited French Jews to come to Israel, she says, but will not do the same for black Jews.
She of course neglects to mention that Israel sent planes to Africa to bring black Jews to Israel, and that that’s how the Ethiopia
ns are in Israel to start with. But this is a minor detail, too minor to mention.
When she is done with accusing the Jews, the Jews present here applaud her. Don’t ask me to explain.
Next on the agenda is the training part, where people learn how to talk to each other about race. Two people from the audience go to the podium and practice talking about race.
It goes something like this.
One person says: Wow – This is – Wow – This is –
And the other person replies: Yeah. Right. Yeah. So true.
Who is the dumb head who said that Jews are smart?
• • •
Once the event is over I sit down with the executive director of the Jewish Community Action, a guy by the name of Vic Rosenthal, and ask him: Do you think that somewhere out there blacks sit together and discuss how to help Jews against anti-Semitism, just as you are doing about them?
“No.”
Does that bother you?
“No.”
If I’m not mistaken, Jews have done more than any other group in America to help blacks – in the ’50s, in the ’60s and ever since. Yet blacks do not reciprocate – and you’re okay with it. How come?
“We have not done enough. Maybe we did more than other communities in America, but I expect Jews to do more!”
Why should Jews do more than any other group?
The answer that I get, a long one, could be summed up with one word: because.
To me, the very idea that Jews should do more than others is by itself racist, but I don’t think I should say such a thing in a temple.
I also meet Peggy, who is actually Lutheran. Why is she here? “I wanted to see how the Jews deal with racial issues in our country and perhaps do the same in our church.”
What did you learn?
“I was very surprised to learn that the Jews are also racist, against the black Jews; I didn’t know that.”
A good lesson to share with her fellow Lutheran churchgoers.
The Lies They Tell Page 13