News

Sept. 11 and the forever war: An anniversary and a presidential address

originally published in The Herald

Americans mark the 13th anniversary of the 9/11 terrorist attacks against the backdrop of last night’s on-the-offensive ISIS address by President Obama.

Thirteen. When today’s seniors at Everett High School fumbled in kindergarten, panic flickered on a screen.

History takes years to come into focus.

That week in September, Gov. Gary Locke reassured Washingtonians that the Hanford Nuclear Reservation and the Columbia and Snake River dams were secure. Secure? After 9/11, we could suddenly conjure worst-case images. Fear migrated from the ruins of the World Trade Center to Naval Station Everett.

This was no ordinary attack, presaging no ordinary war. In his 2014 documentary “The Unknown Known,” Academy Award-winning filmmaker Errol Morris asks former Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld about Dora Farms. That’s the forgettable place in Iraq where the U.S. tried but failed to kill Saddam Hussein prior to the 2003 invasion. Would Hussein’s death have averted war?

Continue reading

Bergdahl tests public values: Guantanamo and ‘Dirty Hands’

originally published in The Herald

The tempest over former Army POW and Idaho native Bowe Bergdahl teases out two themes: The problem of “dirty hands” in international relations and the madness of an American gulag, the Guantanamo Bay prison.

There also is the question of Bergdahl himself, and the circumstances of his 2009 capture by the Taliban. In a blink, the ecstasy of a POW homecoming morphed into a mouth-foaming hatefest, magnified by TV’s chattering classes. The rumoring is a public version of the kids’ game “telephone,” as the message gets progressively mangled. Was American blood shed in searching for then-Pvt. Bergdahl? As New York Times’ Charlie Savage and Andrew Lehren reported last week, there is no evidence to suggest a link. Still, Bergdahl’s former army “buddies” loathe him, and peg him as a deserter or, worse, a traitor. There will be a resolution, perhaps in the form of a court martial.

The “dirty hands” question is more complex. First, we negotiate with terrorists, a violation of moral norms. As columnist Charles Krauthammer reminds readers, we always negotiate with terrorists: “Everyone does, while pretending not to. The Israelis, by necessity the toughest of all anti-terror fighters, in 2011 gave up 1,027 prisoners, some with blood on their hands, for one captured staff sergeant.”

Continue reading

Hagel’s budget, NW realities: A Leaner Military

originally published in The Herald

The trouble with peace, it seems, is it doesn’t always pencil out.

Defense Secretary Chuck Hagel’s preview of the administration’s shrinking postwar budget is a sober reminder of what the United States sacrificed after more than a decade of extended ground wars in Afghanistan and Iraq. It also foreshadows the evolving face of battle: More technology, cyber-warfare, smaller, nimbler forces and (we hope against hope) less bloodshed.

The new normal of a leaner military could transform the American century into the multipolar century (or the Chinese/Russian/American century.) “We are entering an era where American dominance on the seas, in the skies and in space can no longer be taken for granted,” Hagel said Monday.

The new reality includes reducing the active-duty Army from 522,000 soldiers today to between 440,000 and 450,000. It’s a circa-1940 force level that’s likely to tick up. The Army National Guard would shrink by 20,000 and the Army Reserve by 10,000. The Navy will see a reduction in combat ships, but not its 11 aircraft carriers. The Air Force will lose its A-10 “Warthog” tank-killer planes and the venerable U-2 spy plane.

Continue reading

Hope for the waterfront: Sale of the Kimberly-Clark site

originally published in The Herald

Everett’s future is anchored to a shoulder of industrial land that fronts Port Gardner. The old Kimberly-Clark mill is an invisible outline, spare and flat, devoid of life.

These 66 acres of central waterfront are a metaphor. Realists steeped in local history say that Everett will break your heart, that the city was built on shattered promises and backsliding investors. So what to make of a plan and a company seemingly harmonious with a working town? Pinch thyself?

On Wednesday, Everett learned of a new investor and a new promise. Not the grandiose 1890’s John D. Rockefeller who skedaddled, but the Northwest parent company of Foss Maritime, Saltchuk Enterprises (Chinook jargon for “saltwater.”) The promise is for 250 living-wage jobs, of an invigorated working waterfront.

Norse pessimism notwithstanding, there is cause for hope.

“We wanted job re-creation when Kimberly Clark closed,” Everett Mayor Ray Stephanson said. “This fits perfectly. ”

Continue reading

No more ‘Stop the presses!’: The End of an Era

originally published in The Herald

Late Saturday night. The unnatural ca-chug of presses unnaturally silent. From the last days of the Eisenhower Administration to the second term of Barack Obama, industrial walls amplified the mechanical thrum of ink on paper.

At the corner of California and Grand Avenues, the presses are still.

The Herald’s print edition lives on farther down Interstate 5, at Sound Publishing’s Paine Field facility. Something new, like a house uprooted, feels unreal. No middle-aged editor racing breathless from the newsroom, “Stop the press!” Today, it’s empty stools, a cavernous room reeking of blanket wash.

Places of work, the intersection of human and machine, create a kind of sacred space. Four walls and a shared experience of people coming together in common cause like a secular house of worship.

Ask a millwright from Kimberly Clark what they see as they look west across Port Gardner Bay. The imaginary outline of a brick monolith blasting with life; a razed building that ignites memories of shouting, triumph, boredom, exhaustion, hitting quota. Work. As poet Philip Levine wrote, “You know what work is — if you’re/old enough to read this you know what/work is, although you may not do it.”

Continue reading

The teen-bandit saga: It’s hard to turn away

originally published on Crosscut.com on July 12, 2010

The Colton Harris-Moore saga is flypaper. It insinuates itself, an umbrella-drink version of Bonnie and Clyde.

After his capture on Sunday in the Bahamas, the Camano Island fugitive foregrounded the news. Don’t turn away: The Northwest’s teen bandit will quickly muscle past bulletins on Sakineh Mohammadi Ashtiani, the Iranian woman sentenced to death by stoning.

At the same time that Harris-Moore was collared by police, the White House’s David Axelrod was on CNN backpedaling on the Obama Administration’s promise to close Guantanamo Bay by the end of 2010.

You won’t find news about Guantanamo Bay or Sakineh Mohammadi Ashtiani on Page One of this morning’s Seattle Times. Killjoy topics, we know, alienate readers.

Is Harris-Moore, like Lindsay Lohan, who headlined ABC’s once-venerable “Nightline” last Tuesday, emblematic of the decline of Western culture?

Well, maybe just a little bit.

Or it could just be a sign of Preston Sturges Syndrome. In Sturges’s 1941 film, “Sullivan’s Travels,” Joel McCrea plays John L. Sullivan, a movie producer who longs to create a socially relevant film that captures the Steinbeckian dignity of the struggling masses. What does McCrea learn after traveling in the shoes of the shekel-less? People seek comedy and spectacle in hard times, not droll morality tales.

Fluff stories cheapen the public sphere. All the while, we shouldn’t fret over escapist schmaltz. According to one scholar, in fact, culture is independent of the more serious, critical issue of human rights.

In June, Jack Donnelly, the Andrew Mellon Professor at the University of Denver, lectured at the University of Washington’s Tacoma and Seattle campuses (a visit sponsored in part by the UW’s Law, Societies, and Justice program and the new Center for Human Rights). Donnelly’s core message is that social structure, not culture, is decisive to the exercise of human rights. The link between human dignity and human rights, something Westerners take for granted, is a relatively recent phenomenon, he argues.

It’s an elegant thesis, catholic in scope, that rings true because there’s something to rattle everyone. The pre-modern West and the pre-modern East were both inegalitarian (oh no, the fallacy of moral equivalence)! The “Asian values” excuse for sidestepping human rights is invalid (oh no, cultural imperialism)!

Let’s hope that Donnelly is right: It means that at least for now we can have our “Barefoot Bandit” and human rights too.

Our man in Snowmaggedon

originally published on Crosscut.com on February 7, 2010

A Yard-Man Snow Blower looks like a lawn seeder. It has a swing handle that helps rooster tail the powder, and it sometimes tommy guns like an outboard. This I know because I’m shoveling (or, more accurately, snow blowing) for my supper.

I’m in DC for a conference and a board meeting and now I’m the Bartleby-like house guest who ain’t budging. “I’m overstaying my welcome,” I say. “No worries,” my hosts say. They pause and look at each other. “You can shovel for your supper.”

Thankfully, snow blowers aren’t carbon neutral, so I have the consummate Northwest excuse. (“Carbon footprint” sounds more meaningful than an ungrateful, “I prefer not to.”) It’s a get-out-of-work strategy not without risk. Let me put it this way: My hosts serve drinks in wine glasses that read, “George Bush President’s Dinner, June 13, 1991, United States Tobacco Company.”

“It’s an electric snow blower,” my hosts reply. I get handed an orange utility cord and the Yard-Man and off I go. Should I confess my fear of death by snow-blower shock? Not if I’m hungry.

The two feet of snow that dropped on Washington, quickly dubbed “Snowmageddon,” is something to behold. Stranger still is the quiet circulation in the city, the low-metabolic hum of snow plows, of delivered newspapers (at least The New York Times), and of a route-limited, closing-early Metro system that’s nevertheless moving people.

A massive snowball-fight meetup at Dupont Circle was scheduled on the Internet. The camaraderie, the volunteers with four-wheel drive shuttling patients to hospitals, the neighborly service ethic — all offer some evidence for Rebecca Solnit’s >thesis in A Paradise Built in Hell: The Extraordinary Communities that Arise in Disaster. Disaster and trauma stir the best in us, Solnit argues. Washington’s Snowmageddon isn’t utopia, but there’s something un-Hobbesian and communitarian and worthy about it. At least for now.

And so the dormer window flies open. My hosts’ 12-year old son shouts, “Shovel for your supper!” I can’t feel my skin. It’s very sweet. Sort of.

A personal memory of Ted Kennedy

originally published on Crosscut.com on August 25, 2009

My father, like my father’s father and my father’s mother and all of my father’s Norse-American siblings (from the teenage Agnes, a victim of the 1918 Spanish Flu pandemic, to a redoubtable elementary school teacher, Gertrude) is buried on a shoulder of land overlooking Interstate 5.

I didn’t expect it, my father’s death. I was a teenager, petulant and awkward. You see, my Dad waited a long, long time to get hitched. And he waited until he was well into his fifties to have children. He was a good soul, his nuptial-commitment-aversion notwithstanding. So, his death felt abrupt and horrifying to me. To any kid, I assume.

I spoke at my father’s funeral and afterwards I stood in a receiving line for several excruciating hours. It was 1983, an early summer afternoon in Everett. Three people touched my shoulder and were comforting: Pete Wilson, then a Republican Senator from California, Admiral H.G. Rickover, the legendary father of the nuclear Navy, and U.S. Senator Edward M. Kennedy. From that time onward, I rarely made a joke at Ted Kennedy’s expense (and God forgive me those few times that I did make a joke). He was a stand-up fellow, I told friends. He eulogized my Dad at Everett’s First Presbyterian Church.

Here’s a brief excerpt of what Ted Kennedy said about my Dad:

On that day Jack died, he was a friend who comforted me. On more days than I can count, I felt his happy clasp on my shoulder; I saw his crinkled smile; I enjoyed his counsel and his company.

I won’t expound on Ted Kennedy’s personal and political legacy. Many folks, much smarter than I, can and should debate away. Therefore, I will keep it simple: When I was a teenager, my father died unexpectedly. Edward Kennedy was kind to me. I’m grateful to him.

What was Shawna Forde thinking?

originally published on Crosscut.com on June 15, 2009

There are times when the arc of Greek tragedy morphs into horror. On Friday the saga of Shawna Forde, 41, birddogged and recounted by the Everett Herald, abruptly turned into a perverted cross between Euripides and the Coen brothers. On May 30, authorities allege, Forde, along with fellow Everett-ite and Minuteman American Defense honcho Jason “Gunny” Bush, and another man, Albert Gaxiola, committed a home invasion in rural Arizona that left a nine-year old child and her father dead.

It was a ferocious crime with an overlay of hate (the family was Mexican), but an apparent motive as old as Eve: the cardinal sin of greed. One more “God no!” layer was added Monday when the Herald‘s Scott North reported that Forde’s compatriot, Jason Bush, has also now been charged with the murder of an Hispanic man in Eastern Washington a dozen years ago.

For months the Herald has ably tracked Forde’s cascading bad luck, legerdemain, and conspiracy. Her ex-husband was mysteriously shot in December of 2008, and Forde herself was allegedly raped and beaten the subsequent week. In January of this year, Forde suffered a bullet wound to her arm. Was she the target of pro-immigrant forces incensed by her border-watch activism? What emerged instead was a clouded picture that appeared part X Files and part paranoid drivel.

Forde’s straight line from the banality of a lost soul to the evil of American terrorist now seems preordained. She was the unstable leader of an Everett-based nativist fringe group, Minutemen American Defense. A classic misfit and troubled kid searching for a higher calling, she became a hate cliche, emblematic of the mass-movement absolutists described by Eric Hoffer in his 1951 masterpiece, The True Believer.

Hoffer observed how nationalists, Communists, and extremists of all stripes are curiously interchangeable. True believers feel oppressed and gravitate to movements that portend a new day in the stark clarity of pure beliefs.

Shawna Forde and her American Minutemen Defense aren’t an historic blip to be dismissed as outliers that evolved in a vacuum. Time “streams,” as Richard Neustadt and Ernest May have argued. Tease up the thread of Shawna Forde and the long seam of nativist bigotry begins to unravel, much of it here in the Northwest. There were the Aryan Nations, the Militia movement of the 1990s, the anti-Indian-fishing forces, the John Birch Society, executive order 9066 to intern Japanese Americans during WWII, the Fascist Silver Shirts active on Whidbey Island, the KKK, the American Protective Association, and anti-Chinese pogroms to name a few. They all stood on the shoulders of the Know Nothing movement of the 1840s and those perennial forces that scapegoat and deal in xenophobia.

The leaders of these groups wrote a kind of lesser-angels’ catechism that indoctrinated the credulous and the vulnerable. As Hoffer wrote years ago, “It is by its promise of a sense of power that evil often attracts the weak.”

One of the best books written about any community, Norman H. Clark’s Mill Town, documents some of the history of Everett’s nativist elements. John W. Frame, a progressive news editor and politico in the 1890s, tried to fight the bigoted American Protective Association (APA) which extended its tendrils into both political parties and the populist movement. Clark writes:

When Frame first settled in Everett, the APA had already applied pressures to have the federal government close a Catholic school which had for years served Indian families at Tulalip. The APA controlled the city school board and was making the most of the confusion in county and municipal politics…”Apaism,” as Frame called it, easily infected every dispute or debate. Frame was infuriated by the political behavior of many recent immigrants from Norway, Sweden, Germany, and England — some of them unable to speak English — who had swallowed “Apaism” and were incanting “American for Americans” against the local Catholics, most of whom were native born.

It all sadly rings true. My own Norse grandparents bolted from Everett’s First Lutheran Church in the early 1900’s because they feared it had grown “too damn much like the Catholics.” (Someone at church must have brought in a poinsettia or, worse, smiled at them.)

Everett, like most Western towns, is chiaroscuro, weaving together the forces of light and dark. The 1916 Everett Massacre marked the culmination of the city’s radicalism and class conflict as the Industrial Workers of the World (IWW) battled a sadistic county Sheriff, Donald McRae.

On Friday the PBS program NOW cited a Department of Homeland Security report predicting an uptick of right-wing domestic violence. The Forde story now falls together with the shooting of abortion doctor George Tiller and the murder of security guard Stephen Johns by white supremacist James von Brunn at the Holocaust Memorial Museum.

It’s easy to bemoan Shawna Forde’s self-styled end. It would be better, however, to conjure something remedial and creative to anticipate the Northwest’s future Fordes. Everett-ites, for example, might use the peace-park conversion of the Aryan Nations compound in Hayden Lake, Idaho, as a template. We could pool our money, purchase Forde’s house, and turn it into a center for tolerance training or dispute resolution. Perhaps it could house the Snohomish County Human Rights Commission — presupposing that the county council passes the enabling human rights ordinance.

The facility’s name would be the one decision not requiring debate: The Brisenia Flores Center, in memory of a very innocent nine-year-old girl.

Banner week for hypochondriacs

originally published on Crosscut.com on April 30, 2009

On Monday, Governor Gregoire weighed in on the swine flu crisis. “There is absolutely no reason whatsoever for the people of this state to panic,” Gregoire said, “but we all need to be vigilant.” The undertow from the Governor’s use of “vigilant” should trigger fear in the immuno-deficient hearts of hypochondriacs everywhere. It’s a sentiment best reduced to the favorite Czech saying of University of Washington professor Bruce Kochis: “Situation is hopeless but not serious.”

Fatalism, especially for hypochondriacs, is a self-preserving virtue. I had an Aunt Agnes who died in Everett from the Spanish Flu at the turn of the century. I had a Dad who contracted but survived small pox in the 1920s. It doesn’t require a tragedian to connect the apples of the poisoned tree and appreciate that I’m next.

Which brings me to my girlfriend who arrived at Sea Tac Airport at 11:36 PM Tuesday night from Mexico City. What’s a self-respecting hypochondriac to do?

Laurie has a robust immune system which is one of the reasons that I’m so attracted to her. By day she works for an international development organization that is not, contrary to appearances, a CIA front. She labors nonstop, takes frequent overseas trips, and occasionally shouts into her cell in bursts of fluent Spanish like a Latina version of Alden Pyle in Graham Greene’s The Quiet American. (The Company, I’m confident, would not have sent her to Mexico City).

She is clearly more than a petri dish, or a throat culture, or a potential incubator of the swine flu. She is a human being. That’s why I’m so heartsick that the Mexican government didn’t detain her or throw her into quarantine for just a few days. On this side of the border, why not deposit her into a hermetically sealed bubble like the Apollo 11 astronauts? What’s good enough for Neil Armstrong should be good enough for a non-astronaut Idahoan. It seems pluralism and civil liberties trump epidemiological common sense.

Conscientious hypochondriacs have already bookmarked the CDC’s swine flu website. It’s instructive, includes various podcasts from in-the-know docs, and offers up several gems from the hypochondriac’s Bible, e.g., “Try to avoid close contact with sick people.” No-contact behavior dovetails with the broader notion of “social distancing” which sounds like code for “act like a Northwesterner.”

And so I arrived at SeaTac sans protective mask (read: John Wayne-style) to pick her up. She’d kept her mask on in Mexico City, she said, except to eat. “Why did you need to eat?” I wanted to ask, but I couldn’t muster the nerve.

Today Laurie has the sniffles. “Just like I always do after a long trip,” she says. To echo those sanguine Czechs, “Situation is hopeless but not serious.”