Category Archives: Culture views

“Maternity dooms woman to sedentary existence, and so it is natural that she remain at the hearth while man hunts, goes fishing, and makes war.” Simone de Beauvoir, The Second Sex

One of the more pernicious effects of the post modern culture in which we find ourselves is the undermining of motherhood, indeed of parenthood. “Undermining” evolved from ancient times as a siege tactic to bring down the staunchest of walled cities. Medieval aggressors dug a tunnel day and night over many weeks under one stone battlement of the stronghold, propping the tunnel as they went with wooden beams and posts to prevent detection. If undiscovered by the defenders, upon completion, the besiegers would lay in more wood and incendiaries to the tunnel, and set it afire. When the wooden supports burned through and the tunnel collapsed, so, too, would the wall on top of it, exposing the previously impregnable city to conquest, plunder, enslavement and ruin.

“Ideas have consequences.” The tunnel digging of the last century and a half evolved from the supremacy of will and self philosophies of Schopenhauer, Neitzsche and Sartre; the reductionism of human beings to the merely chemical and biological by Darwin, Freud and others; the demeaning of human sexuality by Margaret Mead, Margaret Sanger and Albert Kinsey from lifelong commitment and love to casual pleasure seeking; and the utilitarian ethics of Peter Singer, Jack Kevorkian and their ilk, corroding the dignity of the human person into a subjective quality of life standard, which is defenseless against self serving interpretation. [i]

“All the women were captured and chained

And national suicide was proclaimed

And new America fell to the ground

And all the children lay crippled lame.” When the Walls Came Tumbling Down, Def Leppard

After the tunnel was set afire in the “sexual revolution” of the sixties, “the walls came tumbling down.” We walk in our neighborhood: first time parents are now older with their one or two children; many couples have chosen to keep a couple of dogs in lieu of children; annoyed grown men with plastic baggies in their hands walk sweatered mutts, and plush veterinarian clinics outnumber and architecturally outshine both pediatric and child care centers. Children of single parents and of divorce are the norm. American birthrates have dropped below that which is necessary to sustain our population; the Social Security and Medicare programs are in danger of collapse as too few children grow into contributing workers.

“Mother”, especially a full time mother, has diminished in clever cocktail banter into sniping “new speak” for a failed career woman. Simone de Beauvoir, long time lover of Jean Paul Sartre, and darling of the most extreme faction of the feminist “movement” died alone, chain smoking and embittered. She had this to say about mothers and motherhood: such women “are not so much mothers as fertile organisms, like fowls with high egg-production. And they seek eagerly to sacrifice their liberty of action to the functioning of their flesh.” She becomes a “menstrual slave” victimized by her own biology. Ideas do have consequences and take many years to emerge fully. Once hatched, they metastasize into our concepts, morality and worldview, often without our awareness or consent.

“O, brave new world that has such people in’t!” The Tempest, William Shakespeare

The natural consequence of these ideas was brilliantly foretold over eighty years ago in Aldous Huxley’s dystopian novel[ii] set six hundred years in the future. Some of his science fiction devices, such as sound waves recorded as digital light, are already commonplace, and perhaps some are in our future. In this future, the words “mother” and “mammary” are obscenities that make citizens blush, while nothing else does; sex is ubiquitous, pneumatic, loveless and fruitless. Recreational sex and multiple partners are mandatory; marriage or even long term relationships are forbidden as sources of angst and discontent. Fatherhood is unheard of.

Babies are fertilized exclusively in hatcheries; they are “decanted” from bottles, not born, and then moved to conditioning floors where they begin their habituation to “happiness” as alphas, betas, gammas, deltas and epsilons. Alphas are decanted to lead; epsilons poisoned while still in their bottles with alcohol to near morons destined only for menial work, but happy in it. The rest are planned and designed to fit into civilization in their predetermined slot. All are molded into acceptance of their lot and conditioned to despise the messy, overemotional and imperfect family. Under constant “hypnopaedic” sleep learning, they are cloned, cut and pasted into their proper place. Any misgiving or dissatisfaction is remedied with nightly “vacations” for all citizens with “soma”, a euphoric mild hallucinogenic with no hangover that wipes away all anxieties, anger, doubts and questions.

Mustapha Mond (Regional World Controller to students)

“’Try to realize what it was like to have a viviparous mother.’

That smutty word again. But none of them dreamed, this time, of smiling.

‘Try to imagine what ‘living with one’s family’ meant.’

They tried; but obviously without the smallest success.

‘And do you know what a ‘home’ was?’

They shook their heads.” Brave New World, Aldous Huxley

Gianna flies free

Angela the same age as Gianna and little sister Meg

Our five year old granddaughter, Gianna, hit a milestone last weekend with her family in attendance. Her Mom, our daughter Angela, ran behind her with her guiding hand, aiding her balance, teaching her to look ahead, to peddle steadily, to gain confidence, to advance another step like all her prior and future steps. Then Angela let go as all parents must and ran beside her. I was fortunate to see her on one of her earliest runs. Both were grinning widely, Gianna doing a grown up thing, utterly joyful. I apologize for the limitations of my cell phone camera, but the image is there. Gianna told us later that night she felt like she was ten years old. Angela emailed us that “G” was a ‘big girl’ all night, well behaved, helping with dinner and clean up – the felicitous consequence of maturity.  Angela is doing as Rita did for our kids and what mothers have done for millennia – loving and training her children to fly on their own.

Angela is an accomplished young woman with a post graduate degree and certification as a Creighton practitioner, aiding others with natural family planning and infertility. Recently, she testified to a hostile Rhode Island House of Representatives committee and a packed hearing room about fetal development, in which she is well versed. A full time mother of three young girls, she is the furthest one can imagine from a “menstrual slave.” She and her husband, Peter, choose to live on Peter’s income for the most part. They will have fewer things, toys and accoutrement. They will be less obsessive consumers and more focused parents. She is home schooling their children, Gianna, Elena and Mary. They are not an Ozzie and Harriet fifties family, but Pete and Angela choose to be countercultural to a culture distorted by the now established, dysfunctional “counterculture” of the sixties. She is a heroine. She is a mother.

Link to interviews for the ‘toughest job in the world.’

“This afternoon was definitely one of the best moments of my life. Letting go of that bike, I will never forget it, hard to describe.” Angela Barek (my daughter) about her oldest daughter, Gianna, first time flying solo without training wheels or a net.

[i] See the excellent Architects of the Culture of Death, Donald de Marco and Benjamin Wiker, Ignatius Press, 2004

[ii] I recently reread Brave New World, Aldous Huxley, Chatto & WIndus, London, 1932. Still much worth your time.

“I can’t look at hobbles and I can’t stand fences” from “Don’t Fence Me In”, Cole Porter

Constructing wood fence in the early sixties was my first grown up job.   Having moved on from paper boy, caddy and haying on a diary farm for $1 per hour cash when I was fifteen, my father introduced me to three brothers and their father, Vito.  Each brother practiced a specialty with their own companies, but they conferred daily, so that an employee once hired shifted from installing fence to installing swimming pools and driveways or framing houses, all of which I did when I turned 16.  I settled into the fence business primarily and worked through high school and most of college.  When I turned eighteen, I was awarded my own small crew, a large stake body truck and got paid by the foot.  In a productive week, I could earn two hundred and fifty dollars, a modest fortune in 1965.

We were expected every day to put in twenty sections of six foot cedar picket fence with a gate or thirty sections of post and rail a day.  Each post for a six foot fence was buried roughly thirty inches deep.  If it was sandy and light, a hole could be dug with our hand posthole diggers in under ten minutes.  If we ran into what we called “hard pan” – packed clay that felt like rock – and ran into large stones in our hole, one post could take a half an hour of sweat.  For this tough digging, a posthole digger alone was inadequate, and we would thump away with a heavy iron bar to loosen each grueling scoop.  The bar was hexagonal in section, weighed fifteen pounds, about fifty inches and sharpened to a point on a stone wheel grinder.  No power augurs for us.

Each day we would be assigned to a customer’s home, loading up in the morning the right amount of fence panels, line posts, end posts, corner posts and gates to erect in wood the sketch and specifications agreed to in the contract the owners signed with our salesperson, Eddie.    We built calluses and muscle; and many days were an adventure.  The north shore of Boston, where land was dear and the ground hard, was most challenging.  Once a neighbor came out and spotted the thick string we stretched along the lot line and against which we planned to dig holes and install a fence.  He ran into his house, came out with a hatchet and cut our line in five or six pieces.  I told our customer we’d come back when he sorted out his border dispute.  No extra charge for the lost line.

Occasionally a big job would take more than one day, and we would return to a site. One such project was over four hundred feet of six foot fence around a oversized lot in Revere in which a new in ground swimming pool had been bedded.  Most people with a new pool surrounded it with an unassuming enclosure to meet the building code and prevent uninvited kids from drowning.  This family wrapped their entire yard.  One motive for this barricade became apparent the first afternoon, when the seventeen year old daughter came out to tan in a bikini that failed to cover much of anything.  My distracted crew soldiered on.  They hoped the next day would be sunny.

“A bikini is like a barbed wire fence.  It protects the property without obscuring the view.” Joey Adams

Her parents remained on the property all day, which seemed odd to us.  In 1965 most men who had money enough for pool and fence were at work themselves.  The father was a handsome Italian in his early forties, unpretentious, reserved, but friendly, who brought us cold drinks and snacks.  The second day he charcoal grilled us hamburgers for lunch.  I respected customers who took care of the crew – not only for their kindness – but for their intelligence to extract quality workmanship from the young men who wanted to please them.  When we finished, he tipped us generously in cash.

I told Eddie about the family (including the daughter), and he responded with a cautionary tale.  The father made a lucrative business out of killing people.  This affable soft spoken father would get on a plane from time to time, fly to Las Vegas or Detroit or Kansas City, spend a day or two and come home with a lot of cash.  Some other father in Las Vegas, Detroit or Kansas City wouldn’t come home.  Although locally affiliated, he never worked close to home.  I accused Eddie of making up one of his frequent stories, and he remained silent and unsmiling.  Eddie knew things. A few months later during an outbreak of the murderous gang wars between the Italian mob and Whitey Bulger’s Winter Hill gang, I read in the Boston Globe of a body dumped in my old fence customer’s driveway – not his.

“Don’t ever take a fence down unless you know the reason it was put up.”  Robert Frost

I was reminded of the story this week when reading about the Federal circuit court decision upholding the new Texas law that required doctors doing abortions to maintain admitting privileges in a hospital within thirty miles of their clinics. (Bear with me for the connection.)  Supporters of unfettered abortion claim this law is restrictive to a woman’s “right” to take her child’s life, even though the law specifically states it is to protect women’s health when there are complications, such as excessive bleeding, sepsis or a perforated uterus.  The defender’s rationale is that abortion doctors often come from other states or at least from a far flung part of Texas, so they don’t admit enough patients to qualify for hospital privileges.

Elaborating, they contend that it is necessary for these doctors to live other than where they ply their trade because abortion protesters make it uncomfortable or even dangerous for them.  We’ve know many of these “abortion protestors” who “intimidate” these doctors.  Almost all of them are armed with rosary beads or an occasional sign.

Could it be that they live in other states or locations hundreds of miles away because they prefer to fly in from their home environs, do their work for a day or two and fly home, while at least half their patients won’t ever go home?  The neighbors and their daughters may never know how their parents pay for the pool.

“Euphemism is a human device to conceal the horrors of reality.”  Paul Johnson

Angela and Meg on Lake Webb, Weld, ME circa 1988

Music is well said to be the speech of angels.  Thomas Carlyle

Twenty five years ago we were walking the neighborhood with our two youngest daughters, Angela and Meg, when three year old Meg took note of sewage back up.  “Dad,” she said, “someone is having a yucky cookout!”  I had been pondering the science that concluded that all smells consist of millions of tiny particles spewed from their point of origin; she was trying to make sense of a new experience as all children will do.  At first I was confused, and then all became clear.  Meg’s experience of outdoor smells was mostly of hamburgers, hot dogs and chicken on the grill.  This was an outdoor smell, but made her queasy, therefore….

“Yucky cookout” wasn’t Meg’s mistake; it was someone else’s misfortune.

Without music, life would be a mistake.  Friederich Nietzsche

Our first grandchild, Gianna, is now five, the daughter of Peter and our next to youngest daughter, Angela.  They live a couple of blocks over, and we see them often.  When a car passes with windows down presumably to assault the rest of us with make-believe gangsta toughness, she takes note of the pulsing onslaught at decibel levels which would require OSHA approved ear protection.  Occasionally, she will mimic Peter’s response, “Thank you for sharing,” but she adds her own refinement to this auditory mugging, “Thank you for sharing the broken music.”  Much young wisdom lies in this analogy.

Gianna and Ellie on Lake Webb 2013

Since well before she was born, as her mother had, Gianna listened to magnificent sounds that are sometimes elevating, sometimes spiritually stirring, sometimes peaceful. Mozart, Verdi, Tchaikovsky, Debussy, Chopin, but also an eclectic medley of Norah Jones, Doc Watson, bluegrass from Alison Krauss or old Nitty Gritty Dirt Band albums like “Will the Circle Be Unbroken”, Nat King Cole, Dave Brubeck and many others.  She is in her second year of ballet lessons – her teacher, Jamie, danced as Sugar Plum Fairy for the same “Nutcracker” Christmas productions in which Angela and Meg danced.  Our parish is lively – the whole congregation at Sunday Mass, including the children, sing uplifting songs.  Her whole young life has been immersed in beautiful music.  Gianna’s response to music often is to break into spontaneous dance; her two year old sister, Ellie, imitates her as she sweeps into the living room with kindergarten chassés, petit jetés and demi-pliés. This is so reminiscent to us of her mother and Aunt Meg at that age.

“Broken music” wasn’t Gianna’s mistake; it was someone else’s misfortune.

Music expresses that which cannot be said and on which it is impossible to be silent.    Victor Hugo

Admittedly, hip-hop and rapping are estranged from me, and I remain ignorant of their nuance (if nuance isn’t a bridge too far for them); they evolved from and were a reaction to the dismal disco of the seventies. Disco also spawned the early sampling of rave techno and house music.  These genres are contrived offshoots, but allegedly reflect an alienated culture: outraged anger or frenetic coupling — joyless, addictive, frequently drugged out, adrenaline fueled thrill and pleasure-seeking without succor or respite or ascent of the spirit.  They seem to me to stink of stale sweat, testosterone, hostility and lust void of love. For your edification, here’s a small sampling:

Smoke any as***le that’s sweating me
Or any motherf**ker that threatens me
I’m a sniper with a hell of a scope
Takin out a cop or two they can’t cope with me
F**k the Police – NWA (Dre)

And I’m gunning for your spouse
Tryin to send the b***h back to her maker
And if you’ve got a daughter over 15
I’m gonna rape her!

X is Coming for you – DMX

So I f**ked your b***h you fat motherf**ker!
Hit ‘em up – 2pac and The Outlaws

Music is intended and designed for sentient beings that have hopes and purposes and emotions.  Jacques Barzun

Angela posted a video on her Facebook page this week, which is well worth the four minutes it takes to watch, about the Landfill Harmonic Orchestra.  Brimful of gratitude for the many blessings in my life, I marvel at the elegance brought up like precious stones from the refuse.  The creators of the video tell of an enormous landfill in Cateura, Paraguay, on which thousands of people live and rely upon for sustenance, recycling trash and selling it.  Some of the youth have been organized by volunteer musicians and teachers into an orchestra; they play instruments fashioned from other people’s junk.  Bebi is a nineteen year old who plays a cello, he tells us, made from an oil drum and salvaged wood; the pegs are made out of an old tool used to tenderize beef. He plays a credible version of the J.S. Bach Prelude from Unaccompanied Cello Suite No. 1 in G Major, which you may recognize from the Galapagos Island scene in the Russell Crowe movie, “Master and Commander.” These children play Handel’s Water Music and many other pieces.  From out of the most wretched conditions, they draw beauty.

The machine nature of hip-hop and techno music draws alienation from what was once meaningful:  sampling and repeating and hammering away with no instruments made by hand out of real materials – wood, gut and steel string, reeds, brass and craftsmanship.  The derivative nature of hip hop requires not as much musical ability as some sophisticated electronic gear – a DJ and a recurrently angry and misogynist MC.  Where the Landfill Harmonic Orchestra recaptures harmony and beauty from deprivation; the rappers distort into depravity what was once harmonious.

Rita and I played guitar and banjo when our kids were small and sang a lot with them; Rita also plays an accordion, a legacy from her childhood.  Angela and Meg played piano and flute; Gianna this morning told us she wants to play piano or violin.  She has lovely hands with long, strong fingers that will help her to do that.  She has expressed no interest in learning to “scratch” a turntable or to “play” an electronic beat maker or synthesizer.

For Gianna and for me, sadly, there is “broken music” without redemption or real meaning to draw us closer to one another or to lift our souls.  Perhaps this brokenness exposes a broken culture; if so, it is a culture Gianna chooses not to embrace.

My life would be worthless without music….. People realize that we shouldn’t throw away trash carelessly; well we shouldn’t throw away people either.  From two of the players in the Landfill Harmonic Orchestra

If music be the food of love, play on.  William Shakespeare