How Woke was Mark Twain?

Once again, the works of Twain are being banned by people who have obviously never read them.  When I hear of book banning, I immediately envision puritanical zealot in Boston or a group of Appalachian hillbillies so poor the whole town shares a single set of teeth, but this time the books are being banned by an overly woke group of do-gooders in California.

Naturally, the offended/offending group is a school board—an institution whose universal nature was aptly summed up by Twain, himself: “In the first place, God made idiots. That was for practice. Then he made school boards.”

Calling Mark Twain a racist is not exactly new.  (Okay, technically his name is Samuel Clemens, but brain patterns set by the age of ten are not easily overcome six decades later.)  Lately, calling anyone a racist is not even unusual:  the term is thrown around so liberally that it no longer has any context.  This blog receives a fair amount of hate mail.  I was once called a racist for a post about the history of a naval ship.  A more accurate term would be ‘shipist’.

It is amazing the number of fools who think Huckleberry Finn a racist novel.  I’ll admit to being somewhat biased, as I reread the work at least once a year.  I regularly refer to the book in my writings, and discover that it is almost impossible to check a reference without getting caught and reread the entire book.  Having read the book, I know that it is impossible to label the author as a racist.

There must be some minimum IQ level for someone to understand and recognize satire.  Below that, you have the religious fundamentalists, school boards, and the people who read the National Enquirer for the news.  These are the people who somehow read Huckleberry Finn and don’t realize that the star of the novel is Jim, the runaway slave, not Huck.  

Huck Finn has always been condemned by the small-minded, but not always for the same reasons.  Early on, some libraries refused to shelve the book because it supported racial equality.  The Brooklyn Library objected to the verb ‘scratch’, deemed offensive at the time.  When a New York librarian objected to the book as unsuitable material for the young, Twain promptly answered:

I am greatly troubled by what you say. I wrote 'Tom Sawyer' & 'Huck Finn' for adults exclusively, & it always distressed me when I find that boys and girls have been allowed access to them. The mind that becomes soiled in youth can never again be washed clean. I know this by my own experience, & to this day I cherish an unappeased bitterness against the unfaithful guardians of my young life, who not only permitted but compelled me to read an unexpurgated Bible through before I was 15 years old. None can do that and ever draw a clean sweet breath again on this side of the grave.

If you have read the above paragraph and are unable to discern the satire in it, you probably work for the New York Times, the federal government, or the College of Education at Enema U.

Mark Twain seems to have known everyone.  He was a close friend of President Grant and he entertained General Sherman in his home.  Helen Keller devoted a full chapter of her autobiography to Twain (who coined the phrase ‘The Miracle Worker’ to describe Anne Sullivan, her teacher and companion).  Twain was one of the few people who were friends of both Edison and Tesla.  He knew Kipling, Stevenson, Bret Harte, Conan Doyle, and when Winston Churchill made his first speech in America, he was introduced by Twain.  (In addition, Mark Twain and Teddy Roosevelt both knew—and despised—each other!)

Perhaps those who are so quick to label Twain a racist might be interested in the story of Warner T. McGuinn, one of the first black attorneys in America.  McGuinn was born in Virginia in 1859, to free black parents—a relative rarity in the pre-war South.  Education for slaves was illegal, but as a free person, McGuinn was able to attend a small segregated school, then after the war, when educational benefits expanded slightly, McGuinn excelled as a student.  In 1884, he graduated from Lincoln University, an all-black college.  (Ashmun Institute, renamed Lincoln College in 1866, was the first degree granting college for blacks in America, and for over 100 years, was the alma mater of more than 20% of the nation’s black physicians and more than 10% of its black attorneys.)

McGuinn briefly attended a black law school before receiving an incredible offer:  he was accepted as a student by Yale University.  Though the cost of the tuition seemed impossible, McGuinn accepted.  Working as many as three jobs at once and living in a tiny room in the home of the school’s janitor, McGuinn struggled to raise the funds necessary to stay at Yale.

When Yale University conferred an honorary degree upon the famous author, he was escorted on a tour of the campus by McGuinn.  Impressed with the young man, the two began conversing and Twain learned about the varied jobs the student was working to pay for his tuition.  Weeks later, on Christmas Eve, Twain wrote a letter to the Yale Law School Dean, Francis Wayland, offering to pay McGuinn’s expenses for the year.  The author actually paid McGuinn’s expenses until he graduated in 1877.  Twain closely followed the well-being of the young student, regularly corresponding with Dean Wayland for almost two years.  Later, Twain would maintain a correspondence friendship up until the author’s death in 1910.

Relived of the necessity of working multiple jobs, McGuinn could concentrate on his studies, and graduated number one in his class.

As a lawyer, McGuinn had a distinguished career, working as both a lawyer and as an editor of a Black newspaper.  In 1892, he moved to Baltimore, where he opened a very successful law practice that, among other causes, worked to give the vote to women.  McGuinn’s most notable case was in 1917, when in a federal court, he successfully challenged the city’s segregation policy, setting a legal precedent that was used in subsequent court cases.  Elected twice to the Baltimore city council, McGuinn was also a director of the regional NAACP.

Working in the law office adjoining McGuinn’s was a struggling young lawyer, who was also a graduate Lincoln College.  McGuinn became a friend and mentor to the young man, helping him establish a successful private practice.  Eventually that young lawyer would prevail in his own landmark legal case, overturning segregation in public schools in Brown v. Board of Education.  A decade later, that young lawyer became the first African American on the Supreme Court.

Justice Thurgood Marshall later said that McGuinn was one of the finest lawyers in the country, and that had he been white, he would have been a judge.

The Clock is Ticking

Has the word “normal” lost all meaning?  Does it seem like reading about wildly impossible events is now a daily occurrence?  I’m not talking about fake news…. I talking about actual events that defy logic and math by actually happening.

Here are a few random examples:

• A $200 investment in Bitcoin ten years ago is worth over $6 million today.
• Douglas Tompkins, the founder of North Face (the premier source for premium winter outdoor clothing), died of exposure.
• On the day Jimi Heselden took over control of the Segway company, he reversed his two-wheel scooter to make way for a dog walker and drove off a cliff, backwards and died from the fall.
• 
  A digital photograph of a copying machine by the artist Mad Dog Jones is being auctioned by the Phillips auction house.  Anyone can have a copy of the digital photo—though I don’t know why you would want to—but this auction is for the original NFT version.  The current bid is $2.4 million.  I’d show you a copy of it, but the whole thing terrifies me, so the photo at right is of my copying machine.  I will sell you the original photo for the bargain price of only $100,000.  I’ll even throw in the copying machine.
• An Italian doctor, Silvano Gallus, has found evidence that eating pizza will help prevent cancer, but only if the pizza is made in Italy.  
• The governments of both India and Pakistan have confessed that they have on numerous occasions ordered embassy personnel to ring their rivals’ doorbell in the middle of the night and run away before the door is answered.  (If nuclear capable nations prefer to settle differences with Ding-Dong-Ditch, I suppose this is a good thing.) 
• In a group project, scientists in England, France, Poland, Brazil, Chile, Colombia, Australia, Norway, and Italy are currently researching to find a relationship between a country’s national income inequality and the average amount of mouth-to-mouth kissing.
• A 36-year-old California man lived for more than three months in the highly restricted security area of Chicago’s O’Hare airport for fear of catching Covid on the flight home. 
• A Connecticut man bought a small blue bowl at a garage sale for $35.  In a story similar to a blog post a few weeks ago, the Ming porcelain bowl sold at Sotheby’s for $721,000. 
• And lest we forget—as I mentioned just last week—the New Mexico legislature actually passed a sensible piece of legislation ending the illegal liquor license cartel in the state.  Astronomers are still searching for the bright star in the East.

If you are wondering what the actual probability of any of those events were, all I can tell you is that according to Heisenberg, nothing can be verified to a probability smaller than Planck's Constant (roughly 6.6 divided by 10 to the power of 34), where absolute certainty has a probability of 1.  Well, that’s what the probability was before the event happened.  After the fact, the probability is 1.

Which brings us to another incredibly unusual event.  A while back, I wrote about the Paris guerrilla art group, UX, and their activities at the Paris Pantheon.  You can read the full account here, but to summarize their actions, the group surreptitiously created a clandestine workshop in the dome of the Pantheon where they slowly repaired an ancient clock that authorities had allowed to remain broken for decades.

Note.  Guerrilla art is nontraditional art, usually created by anonymous artists and tied to a specific geographic location.  Banksy’s graffiti art is an example of guerrilla art.  Gorilla art is completely different.  Koko’s acrylic painting of a bird ( below right) is an example.  

It is widely believed that the daily chore of climbing a long flight of stairs to wind the clock mechanism led to someone’s administering some “preventive maintenance” by way of several blows with a crowbar.  The clock was neither repaired nor maintained, so for decades, the stopped clock simply gathered dust while the delicate machinery was allowed to rust.  Still, compared to the rest of the French government, the clock was a miracle of effectiveness, for it still managed to be correct twice a day. 

The artists of UX (Urban Experiment) labored secretly for almost a year to repair the ancient clock, in the process fabricating from scratch a replacement escape wheel—an essential clock part.  When the clock was finally repaired and set in motion, the ever-alert officials in the mausoleum failed to notice…. even when the chimes announced the passing of each hour.

Eventually, UX told the managing director about the repairs, who—after reporting it to his bosses at the Centre des Monuments Nationaux—was promptly fired for the sin of allowing something broken to be repaired.  The French government then removed the new fabricated part, once again stopping the clock.  The UX responded by stealing back the escape wheel and secreting it away while they waited for a more amenable government minion.

This is pretty much where my last blog post on the topic ended.  A few years have passed and I can report that the French government has been active.  First, they arrested the members of UX responsible for the dastardly repair, asking the court for long prison sentences for those responsible and demanding that the illicit clock repairman pay over 48,000 Euros in “damages”.  The prosecution failed since the defense proved that it was not illegal to enter a public facility and that, if anything, the clock had been repaired not damaged.

For over a dozen years, that was the end of the story:  The clock hands were stuck at 10:51, the chimes were silent and the directors of the Pantheon evidently went back to sleep.  Today, however, that is no longer the case.

The government finally allocated the funds to repair the clock and hired clock restorer Jean-Baptiste Viot, so that the clock has now been completely restored and is in excellent condition, once again chiming away.  According to Viot, had the UX not intervened and stopped the ongoing decay that had plagued the ancient clock, restoration would have become impossible.  In a very real way, the UX saved the clock.

And Viot should know....He was the member of UX who repaired the clock a dozen years ago.

Even A Blind Squirrel

Defying all the odds, voter expectations, and a long sad history—the New Mexico state legislature did something intelligent!

No, I’m not talking about the recent legislation to legalize recreational marijuana—this state will legalize damn near anything they can slap a tax on.    We’re taxing gambling and drugs, if we ever cure AIDS, taxing prostitution won’t be far behind.

The state legislature miraculously ended the long-standing cartel on liquor licenses.  For reasons that only a bureaucrat would understand, the state decided years ago that the total number of liquor licenses in the state would be limited to one for every two thousand residents.  Since the population of New Mexico is fairly stable—due to a lack of jobs—the number of liquor licenses has been fairly stable (currently set at 1,411 licenses).

If you limit the number of licenses, thus prohibiting competition, you have created a cartel.  And regardless of the product being sold, cartels mean an increase in price above the competition level, and a dramatic rise in the cost of purchasing one of those few available licenses.  Cartels, of course, are illegal under the federal anti-trust laws, unless the cartel is set up by the government (like Major League Baseball, gambling licenses, state run liquor stores, and in New Mexico—a license to sell alcohol by the drink).

Surprisingly, government-created cartels are more common than you think.  Businesses “lobby” elected officials to set up strict or limited licenses for the “good” of the consumer.  This is why cities have limited number of cab licenses or a state limits the number of permits to be in the home moving business.  After all, it’s not like just anyone can get a truck and hire a couple of guys to pick up boxes—you need professionals to lose your stuff!

The price of those New Mexico liquor licenses fluctuated, but frequently approached the $1,000,000 mark.  Two recently sold for $975,000 each, but remember—the purchaser is buying the license not from the state, but from a previous owner.  So, if a new bowling alley or large chain restaurant wanted to build in the state, they had the choice of either waiting until an existing restaurant went out of business and sold its license or give up the idea of building in New Mexico and just go build in Arizona.  Guess which one happened most frequently.

Everyone knew this was wrong and everyone knew that the reason you had to pay $10 for a poorly made martini was that you were helping the restaurant owner pay for that expensive license, but year after year, nothing happened.  Thi$ wa$ partly becau$e the bu$ine$$e$ holding tho$e licen$e$ were very $ucce$$sful at “lobbying” politician$ not to correct an obvious$ problem.  No one know$ how they did that.

The argument has been that it wouldn't be fair to issue more licenses, since the currently operating bars and restaurants had paid over half a million bucks for theirs.  Notice lately how the word “fair” can mean just about anything?  Those people who already own licenses didn’t pay the state or the taxpayers for those licenses:  they bought them from speculators and businesses who had invested in those limited licenses.  Investment firms in Chicago evidently speculated and bought up lots of those licenses so they could “lease” them to the highest bidder—a bidder who was absolutely not a local pub within walking distance of my house.  

Nothing makes a $10 martini taste better than knowing that about half the price goes to some out-of-state investor who’s profiting from my state’s ignorance.

Imagine the gall of a few restaurants, tearfully pleading for the right to continue their monopoly, limiting consumer choice while overcharging for a product, just because of the expense of their setting up their cartel.  It is kind of like a mugger demanding a surcharge for the bullets in his gun.  Or the Sinaloa drug cartel protesting the legalization of cannabis because it ruins its business plan.

“Wait,” you say, “Doesn’t New Mexico have an incredible drunk driving problem?  Wouldn’t allowing more bars to open just make this worse?”

No, because the state has limited liquor licenses for years and it obviously hasn’t solved the problem.  Limiting the number of bars available doesn’t reduce the desire to drink—it just forces people to either buy liquor by the bottle, or to drive farther to a bar.  And while it is extremely politically incorrect to say this, a disproportionate number of DUI-related incidents happen in a limited number of historically economically deprived areas.  If those areas are not included in the state averages, New Mexico drops down in the rankings to the level of one of those Midwest flyover states with too many vowels in its name.  

Let me put that another way.  Providing more good jobs in Grants will lower the DUI rate a lot more than preventing the opening of a new steakhouse in Albuquerque.

However unlikely it was, the state legislature acted correctly.  The time to fix a past wrong is always now.  There is no need to limit economic opportunity to a select few wealthy individuals.  The new legislation places the price of a liquor license low enough to encourage opportunity but still high enough that the holder would not willingly risk behavior that invite the state’s canceling the license.  This was smart and well done.

I commend the state legislature for doing the right thing.  Now, I’m going to go look in the backyard and check for unicorns.

Graduation at Enema U

Suddenly, I am a desirable and sought-after individual!  Just today, I have received offers from both the New Mexico National Guard and the U.S. Navy, each wanting me to consider enlistment.  And several headhunter firms would like me to sign up with them.  

Since I am old enough to remember President Eisenhower, this is relatively surprising.  Although I have been retired for years, suddenly people other than the endless horde of merchants trying to sell me canes, hearing aids, and Medicare insurance are desperately trying to get my attention.

All of this is because this May, I’m graduating from college—I am just finishing a degree in Art History.  I should explain—no, that will take too long, so let me sum up.  As a retiree of Enema U, I can take classes for free, and I thought it would be interesting to study something different.  The nice people of the Art Department have tolerated my presence, and I have really enjoyed studying something not normally in my wheelhouse.  Taking one or two courses at a time, eventually I accumulated enough credits for a degree.  (This is easier than you might think, since I have long since already finished all of the required courses, a few of which I used to teach.)

The hardest part of going back to being a student is the challenging task of communicating with my impossibly younger fellow students—and frequently even with faculty young enough to be my grandchildren.  We no longer share a common vocabulary—I don’t even have any “personal pronouns”.

Evidently, the university has sold my name and information to marketers, all of whom are interested in making a quick buck off of me.  Most of this junk mail comes in one of two forms:  People who want me to buy “Official Graduation” swag and people who want me to pay them to help me find a job.

By far, most of the offers are to sell me overpriced crap associated with graduation.  The first offer came over a month ago, addressed the “The Family of Mark Milliorn.”  I gave it to The Doc, who promptly threw it away without even considering spending $745 to buy her husband a graduation ring.   Actually, that’s for the cheapie silver ring—if she really loved me, she’d shell out $2245 for the gold version.

If I would prefer, the school will also sell me a wide variety of necklaces, cuff links, watches, and bracelets, all festooned with the school crest and each costing more than any of my first three cars.  The stores around town are still mostly closed and the town seems like it has been on an endless summer break since the thousands of students who normally crowd our streets and fill the stores have been absent during the pandemic, but the online t-shirt and trinket store for the university is alive and busy.

I can buy officially sanctioned announcements, party invitations, ball point pens, desk plaques, briefcases, hair brushes and just about anything else made in China—all emblazoned with the Insignia of Enema U.  Somehow, I managed to graduate from this university four previous times (not to mention working there for a couple of decades), without ever learning that there was an official school tie.  (I told a former colleague in the History Department about this and she suggested that it was actually 30 feet of good rope fashioned into a noose.)

This is all in addition to the cap and gown that I can buy for only $60, so that I can be suitably attired as I cross the stage at an outdoor graduation ceremony—attended by no more than two masked and socially distant relatives—at which I can receive an empty paper tube symbolizing the diploma that the university will eventually mail, suitably framed for an optional $207.  I’m going to pass on all of that, since as a former faculty member, I’ve sat through countless such ceremonies while I read a book and waited for the stupid speeches to end.  (Every single time that I pulled a book out from underneath my robe, my colleagues seated near me would give me a disapproving shake of the head, indicating that I was not displaying the proper respect for the ceremonies.  Long before the speeches ended, those sitting near me would whisper, “Don’t turn the page yet!”)

If you have never actually sat through those graduation speeches, let me sum them all up for you.  The speaker—someone who has usually contributed significant money to the governor’s political party—will excruciatingly slowly tell thousands of people dressed identically that the key to success in life is individuality.  Then, everyone claps.

Enema U holds its graduation ceremony in the intellectual center of the university, the football field.  This is Southern New Mexico in late May.  Nothing says you have earned a college degree better than sweltering under the relentless desert sun while dressed like a Sith Lord from the Medieval Ages.

The second form of solicitations I’m getting are from people who want me to go to Grad School, to enlist in the Armed Services, or to pay them to help me find a job.  I’m not terribly interested in grad school, as I’ve already been there and done that.  I’m willing to serve in the military, but doubt that I will get much further than that ‘date of birth’ question.  Ironically, if they did take me, I might be the only person in the US military who still has a draft card.

Somehow, I don’t think I need the services of a headhunter agency, either.  I really enjoyed teaching, but I don’t want to do it anymore, nor do I think that there are many corporations out there that desperately need the services of aging curmudgeon with a handful of Liberal Arts degrees.  With degrees in History, Anthropology, and Art History, the only place I’m qualified to work is in Ancient Greece.

But, one such organization caught my eye:  the one that promised to help me develop my “diversity package”.  My first thought was that I was being recruited by the porn industry.

What is a diversity package?  How do I know if I have one?  And why would a corporation want to hire one?  Will I need those personal pronouns?