THREE
Some months back I began a research project to better understand the concept of liberty. Inspiration sprang from my belief that the Rierdon campaign had seized upon the banner of freedom simply to rally its own cause. Certainly, no self-respecting American would question the fact that freedom, or more precisely its synonym, liberty, is a guarantee the Constitution makes to every citizen. But my thesis suggested that, by invoking freedom as a campaign slogan, Rierdon had shamelessly cast a line to hook voters, though fully aware he could not personally guarantee anyone’s freedom, once elected. In reality, or so I believed, the emblematic designation Colin Rierdon chose for his campaign was strictly a euphemistic device, fashioned with the singular purpose of capturing votes. Regrettably, though, I sensed that proving my theory and ultimately exposing Rierdon’s calculated deception, would be all but impossible. Still, I went ahead with my research.
During my regular trips to the MSU library to confirm facts and compile historical detail for my writings, I spent a few extra moments digging around the non-fiction stacks and rifling through periodical articles on liberty, freedom and rights to gather grist for my mill. At a minimum I believed the discipline of this exercise would give me more insight into the right-wing political consciousness. Unfortunately, all my efforts to date have only exacerbated my perplexity. Far from de-mystifying the quandary, the deeper I’ve dug, the more the concept of freedom has resisted orderly definition. Understanding this notion, it seems, is like trying to get a firm grasp on fathomless infinity.
Consider the bipolar aspects of this enormously complex issue — Individual rights versus group rights and states’ rights versus federal rights serve as perfect examples. For years these prerogatives have been the focus of rancorous debates in our enlightened but factionalized society. Plus, history reveals how deeply the hearts of the country’s early leaders were stirred by this very topic. Through their representatives at the Constitutional Convention in 1787, the states narrowly avoided deadlock regarding the definition, reservation and defense of rights. Final agreement on many related points had to be deferred from the original draft of the Constitution and taken up later in the formulation of the Bill of Rights, ten amendments that got appended to the Constitution before its final ratification. Historians tell us that consensus on these points was only achieved by compromise, a condition where all parties could live with the results, but no one was truly happy. And the struggle continues more than two centuries later, erupting volcano-like whenever the pent-up frustration of those claiming to be deprived of their “rights” boils over in streams of scorching discourse, or worse — through overheated, riotous backlash.
Furthermore, as though caught in the sway of the most diabolical communist regime, the deeper I have delved into the concept of liberty, the more I have lost my ability to discern the truth.
Freedom seems to lack a center of gravity. It has swung like a pendulum from one side of the political spectrum to the other over the years, controlled by the power brokers of record and their proprietary interpretations of constitutional intent. Moreover, the courts have further muddled the issue through judicial activism and modern interpretation, expropriating power from the legislature to make laws, and thereby tipping the scales of freedom that were constitutionally balanced at the founding of our union. Curiously, a look back over the short history of our nation reveals that, where liberty, rights, and freedom are concerned, what was once considered truth has now become a shadowy anachronism. What a cruel irony, that these foundational tenets of our republic would become shrouded in paradox. As light is separated from darkness, freedom should not be turned into the most deplorable bondage.
Yet one need look no further than the federal revenue bureau to see how far out of balance our nation has fallen from the original, equitable model of a constitutionally limited republic, whose main purpose was to protect the rights of its citizens. The money-hungry IRS bears little resemblance to the original intent of Madison, Jefferson and their patriotic colleagues. I wonder how we got here from there.
Though a final indictment is far from being handed down, I fear that, in pursuit of our so-called rights, we have perverted the definition of freedom out of all reasonable recognizability. So nebulous has its meaning become through casual overuse and purposeful misapplication, freedom can mean today whatever one may wish to ascribe to it. The same goes for its synonyms: “liberty” and “rights.” It makes little difference that practically every American can quote these words, penned with soul-wrenching poignancy, “We hold these truths to be self-evident that life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness...” because truths, whether absolute or relative, possess no power of self. They cannot assure or defend their own evidentiary nature, nor can they argue their own case when abrogated out of their epistemological origins by clever hustlers with self-serving ambitions.
Who then should defend these truths, if not the citizens who have received an inheritance, bought by generations of labor in the fields of democracy? Yet, like ungrateful sons of royalty who need not work for a living, modern Americans have carelessly, perhaps even purposely, stretched, twisted and remodeled the truth to accommodate their personal goals and selfish ambitions. Having armed themselves with the power of self-determination and the force of language, they, or maybe I should say we, have gone to war against our very own heritage.
Now, what all this has to do with the Rierdon administration and the sovereign state of Michigan, I am not entirely certain. But I aim to find out. It particularly irks me, for example, that by quoting religious doctrine, Rierdon and the Republicans can guiltlessly legislate away rights in the name of freedom, a slight of hand technique that is both the purpose and the theme of my column today on abortion. I will concede, however, that the abortion issue may not be the ideal example of this misuse of power. It is, nonetheless, a shining illustration of my point.
In Michigan, and all across the country, a woman’s right to choose to have an abortion will be lost if these “freedom” fighters achieve their ends. If measures such as the legislation on the RLA here in Michigan are passed in thirty-eight states, a Constitutional Convention on the Right to Life Amendment will be invoked. The U.S. Congress will be obliged to vote on the issue, and, though far from a fait accompli, it is realistically possible within a year or two that the rights and freedoms of women in America could be set back over a quarter century.
On the other hand, the actual procedure — D&C, vacuum, RU-486 — and the corresponding results of abortion, the stoppage of pregnancy and termination of embryonic or fetal life, can only be morally supported if you disregard the rights of the unborn. So the key question then becomes: Do the unborn possess rights?
Rather unfortunately, both the U.S. and the Michigan Constitutions are mute concerning this question. But that did not stop the United States Supreme Court from rendering its judgment on the issue when it decided Roe v. Wade on the basis of a woman’s privacy, twenty-six years ago. Now, with the pending constitutional amendment, that landmark decision would effectively be put into receivership, and, with such a prospect, there remains no legal anchor to keep this issue from drifting out onto shark-infested, political waters.
Alternately, examining abortion from a moral or ethical point of view, one might consider that the unborn truly do possess life. Obviously, to me at least, it is upon this question that the entire, deeply emotional and highly politicized issue is about to turn. Personally, I cannot imagine that anyone would consider murder an acceptable practice. Therefore, in order to support a woman’s right to choose an abortion in good conscience, one must categorically deny the essential life of the unborn.
Once again, in true existential fashion, I seem to be arguing against my own hypothesis. One could easily conclude from my line of reasoning that the activists of the Religious Right are on the correct course since, on so-called biblical grounds, they have chosen to view the unborn as possessing life and abortion as murder. Thus, it would be quite appropriate for this vociferous band of activists — considering their deeply held, spiritually-rooted beliefs that frame abortion as the taking of a life — to continue pitching their decades’ long battle to change the abortion laws here in Michigan and all across America.
Today, finally, with the impending vote in the Michigan House of Representatives and a roll call sure to follow in the state senate, it appears that the devotees of the New Freedom are going to have their opportunity to weigh in on the subject of abortion. Yet, regardless of who is essentially correct, as it should be in a self-governing society, the senators and representatives we have chosen and empowered as our surrogates are about to put their individual votes where their political consciences have been holding rhetorically forth. At long last, they will be on the record with their views. And predictably, some citizens will see support of the RLA as a vote against freedom while others will praise it for restoring the rights of the unborn. Legislators will be simultaneously praised for their courage and ridiculed for their callous disregard for the right of privacy. A victory for the conservatives could be a cause célebrè for the pugnacious and unrelenting army of pro-lifers, but it would undoubtedly be continuously plagued by challenges from the conquered opposition, rallying under the battle cry of “infringing the rights of women.” So the issue turns: “…round and round and round in the circle game.”
Presently, the freeway has straightened out before me and the only obstacles in the path of my Bravada are the concrete expansion strips that thomp-thomp as the tires roll over them at 75 MPH. I have departed from my usual travel plan which, when time permits, routes me along back roads for the aesthetic appeal of the pleasant Michigan countryside. Capturing pastoral and village scenes in the camera of my mind simply cannot be done from the interstate, especially not when rocketing along in a high-speed blur. Although my normal routing usually wastes time in small town traffic boondoggles and reduced speed zones, I consider such delays a worthy investment toward the preservation of my sense of connection with the rural Midwest. Nevertheless, upon weighing the options this morning, I chose the bland and monotonous I-69 in order to compensate for my late departure and the lack of a direct rural route to Fair Hills.
Shortly after our early breakfast, Maryanne and I were captivated by a most remarkable sunrise that washed our woodsy landscape with brilliant burnt-orange hues. We hurried outdoors to view the quickening panorama of nature alight with its own electric power. I took some photographs of the scene and of Maryanne as she basked in the umber glow. Invigorated by the beauty of our private world, we sat around drinking coffee and chatting about our mutually exclusive careers and how she was about to drop dead-center into mine with tonight’s engagement at the governor’s place — she being not at all comfortable with the thought of it. I, on the other hand, have been feeling extremely thrilled for both of us, not because of any awe for the governor or his rank in society, but because she and I will share this rare opportunity together and because it will probably provide a big boost to my career.
Time slipped away, and before I realized it, I was running late for my noon appointment. Fortunately, the Bravada was fueled up; no stops would be required. The trip could probably be completed in an hour and ten minutes at this time of day via the freeway. After grabbing my micro-cassette recorder, notepad, and computer, I kissed Maryanne and left in a flurry. My watch said 10:34 — plenty of time.
Rolling along to the brassy, percussive sound of Michael Camilo’s big band, I am mentally reviewing the history of the Fair Hills school controversy which will be the main focus of my interview with Peggy Graham. Peggy will gladly share with me the latest local gossip, as well as the recent developments with the school board, administration, faculty and parents — at least as much as she knows, which should be about everything. Entrenched as a member of the opposition, she does her share of sniping against the right-wingers and, when necessary, even squares off for some hand-to-hand combat with a zealot or two. She can hold her own in a battle of wits.
The lunch hour should be sufficient to bring me up to date. Peggy can talk almost without any prompting on my part, a talent she has honed over the years to a fine edge. I’ll keep the recorder going and throw in an occasional question just to let her know I’m paying attention. In the event that we run overtime, she has already cleared a late return with her boss, the library administrator. With any luck I may have an hour or two to spare before I head home around 3:30 or so. Rather than trying to find an isolated spot to replay the interview and type up my notes, I am considering a stop at the rectory of St. Anne’s Catholic Church for a possible impromptu interview of Father Joseph Davidovich — if he’ll see me without an appointment, that is. His rather conservative stance will help to counterbalance Peggy’s view of the local politics.
The pastoral scene streaming past my window has begun to change character as I approach the city of Flint. Golden fields with tree-lined fence rows have dissolved into an industry-painted skyline of corrugated metal buildings. Arrays of vent stacks in multiple sizes spring forth from asphalt jungles, populated by row after row of parked cars and light trucks. While changing CD’s on the car stereo, I swing right, onto southbound I-75, for the quickest approach to Fair Hills. I will take the back way, winding between the woods and lakes into the village. It is now 11:15, and Fair Hills is no more the thirty minutes away, proving once again that the shortest distance between two points in Michigan is always the freeway.
Majestic old sycamore trees entwine their upswept branches as they guard Main Street like ageless sentinels in gilded September array. The Victorian village seems somehow stuck in a time long forgotten and only yearned for by a progress-jaded generation of nostalgia seekers who cannot actualize their hearts’ desires in a modern world. Almost as though state and municipal planners dodged around a little corner of the map when highways and industrial zones were burned into their blueprints, this community of old clapboard period homes, leafy neighborhoods and brick-faced shopping blocks has remained just as it was a hundred years ago. Preserved by successive, uncompromising village councils and well-entrenched, influential families, this is one town among a thousand that has successfully resisted modernization and its lucrative companion tax base. Instead, Fair Hills has grown defiantly rich through the ever-swelling property assessments on its lode of residential real estate.
Many local residents commute to work in metro-Detroit, enduring the hour-plus drive both ways. Those fortunate enough to work locally and the large number of non-working spouses have the ideal setup right here in the village. They can shop and dine downtown, relax in one of the well-groomed parks or simply amble about the quiet neighborhoods while breathing unpolluted air. Most residents are not averse to paying premium prices locally to avoid a harrowing drive through the congested lake district over to Pontiac. Further to the south, upscale Bloomfield Hills caters to unabashed, new money aristocrats and their glitzy imitators. But, getting there from Fair Hills also requires a drive through or around Pontiac’s metropolis. Forty minutes to the north, Flint is arguably “middle-class” and therefore not on the trend-minded shoppers’ hit parade. Fair Hills measures up just right for the locals, and they keep it alive. Visitors are always welcome here, though certainly not needed. This is a town smugly content in its own serene elegance.
Downtown is beginning to show signs of the usual daily lunch buzz as well-groomed, smartly dressed young men and women stroll to one of the restaurants in town. Some may have opted to skip the meal in favor of a walk on this gloriously bright day with the temperature hovering around 65 degrees. I stow my truck on a side street, plug the meter for the full two hours and hike the remaining half-block to the library. Ordinarily I would plan a meeting such as this in a less public place, but Peggy insisted I meet her at work.
The library’s fresh coat of paint glistens in the noonday sun, its gunmetal gray exterior bleached to bright white. In response to a summer-like breeze, an oversized “Old Glory” gently stirs along its mast, providing colorful contrast to the black-shuttered, colonial frame building. As I enter the library, the dank odor of decades-old books assaults my senses, and it takes a moment or two for my eyes to adjust to the indoor light. Peggy has been anxiously awaiting my arrival as a kid would anticipate a visit from a favorite cousin. She instantly descends on me from behind the checkout counter.
“Hi, Chip. How are ya? I see you’ve arranged perfect weather for your drive down.” Though her shape is a remarkable complement to her pleasant, outgoing manner, Peggy is showing the effects of many years of lunching on bratwurst and potato salad. Standing about five feet tall in heels, she has short brown hair, fashioned in a style most any hairdresser could fix blindfolded on a bad day. Her round face is accented by bright hazel eyes and an effortless smile. Today she is dressed in a colorful, generously proportioned shift that thirty years ago would have been called a muumuu.
“I can’t take credit for the weather, Peggy, but I wouldn’t change a thing if it were in my power. Ready for lunch?”
“Just let me grab my sweater. Where are we going?”
“How about Shultz’s?”
“I love Shultz’s. How’d you know?”
I stifle a self-effacing response in favor of propagating the magical mythology of my trade. “It’s my business to know such things, besides, I could really go for some sauerbraten and red cabbage.”
“Yeah, me too.”
Schultz’s Rhinelander Restaurant is a bustling quasi-cafeteria restaurant where you can opt to queue up for a quick lunch selection or get a table for full service. Service-oriented customers like me head for the full menu dining room which is done up in a half-timbered, German folk art style. The wait staff is festooned with red and green traditional clothing: dresses for the women, lederhosen and feathered alpine hats for the men. Aromas of grilled sausage and potato pancakes draw patrons off the street and assure a profitable till.
Well known by the hostess, Peggy is greeted with enthusiasm and we are seated in an out-of-the-way booth of carved, hand-painted pine. This morning’s bucket load of coffee has nearly burned a hole through my stomach lining and, having been further victimized by the steady, sumptuous breeze from the kitchen, I can think of no better cure than a couple of greasy potato pancakes. I’ll be sure to request a side order to go with my sauerbraten lunch. Peggy seems at home here, even though her feet cannot reach the floor due to the overly high bench seats. She sports a toothy grin as she watches me peruse the lunch menu. No doubt, she has it memorized.
“I know you’ve been busy following the governor and his happy little revolution up there in Lansing, Chip, but you should know that things here have gone from bad to worse.”
“Really…how’s that Peggy? By the way, if you don’t mind, I would like to tape our conversation, so I don’t have to take notes. I promise not to use the information you provide me in a way that could compromise your excellent reputation.”
“Oh sure, Chip. No problem, I trust you. Besides, my reputation is shot. I’ve spoken up one too many times.” She looks around the room to see who might overhear, then continues in half voice, “Sorry to say it, but I no longer trust most people around here. You think you know people, but you never really do. Over the past few weeks, I’ve about come to my wits’ end. First, the recall initiative failed, then Stew Jorgesen caved-in to the right-wingers and brought on this new superintendent of schools, J. Michael Stevens — I think the “J” stands for jaguar ’cause he’s as wily as a cat. Then I started getting threatening phone calls right at the library. I mean these people are bold. It’s as though I am not entitled to my own opinions anymore. And where are the poor students in all this? Lost, I tell ya. Nobody thinks about them.”
Peggy has been so focused on venting her spleen she hasn’t seen the pretty, blonde waitress approach our booth.
“Hi, my name is Amy. Would you folks like something to drink?”
I gesture toward Peggy.
“Diet Coke for me.”
“How about a root beer?” I add.
“Sure.” She scribbles on her pad and then shoves it down into the front pocket of her ruffled apron. “I’ll be right back to take your orders.”
“We’re ready now, if you like.” I’m thinking that we had better order right away. It may be impossible to get Peggy to stop her monologue twice in the same five minutes.
“Okay, sure. What will you have?”
Peggy appears ready to burst with excitement, occasioned by either her lunch choice or an opportunity to tell her story. “I guess I’ll have the Combination Special.” This is a veritable heart-stopping collection of knockwurst, bratwurst and schnitzel, with assorted home-cooked side dishes, including the popular shredded-spud pancakes.
“Sauerbraten for me with a side of potato pancakes.”
“Great. I’ll be right back with your drinks.” Amy flutters off toward the kitchen.
“Where was I?” Peggy asks.
“The students, I think.”
“Right.” Her eyes roll, and she wiggles about on the bench for a more comfortable position. “They are the real losers in this thing. People like me don’t matter. I think I’d be better off not running for re-election next time anyway. It’s no use fighting City Hall, so to speak. You know, there have been six teacher resignations since June, and two more of our administrators have taken positions elsewhere. And poor Dr. Wyatt, he’s been through the mill. He was a good man, Chip. You knew him, didn’t you?”
“Not very well, I’m afraid. But he seemed like a gentleman to me.”
“Oh, that he was. He only wanted the best for the kids. He tried to follow the course laid out by the state board and the legislature, and that’s where he got into trouble. Can you believe it? That obeying the laws and your superiors can get you fired? What has this world come to?”
“I often wonder that myself, Peggy.”
“Well, there is no stopping them now. Next thing you know, we’ll have religion classes in the core curriculum. I’ve talked till I’m blue in the face but they’re on some kind of a mission. And now, they have a majority on the board and a shill in the superintendent’s office.”
Amy has returned with our pop on a tray. She serves us and walks off again to try and keep pace with the lunch crush.
“Are they really that one-sided in their approach?” I would like Peggy to focus on something I can use in print.
“They’re positively audacious. I suppose they figure that, since they’ve been held in check for so long, now they can hammer in their entire agenda. For example, last week they railroaded a resolution through the board over my and Sharon Miller’s objections that forbids the practice of mastery learning.” She breathes in, audibly. “You know about mastery learning, don’t you, Chip?”
“I have a rudimentary understanding of the concept.”
“Well, they are so afraid that there is some kind of conspiracy to “dumb down” the student body that they’re throwing out the baby with the bath water. They would rather flunk a kid than give him time to learn the material. And, of course, they believe their own kids are little Einsteins who have been unjustly held back by a system that, they claim, has been geared to the low achiever. I’m telling you, it just makes me sick.”
She is obviously on a roll now.
“They brought in this woman, Clarice Hodges is her name, who spoke at a board meeting and got them all whipped up into a frenzy. She talked all this mumbo-jumbo about J-curves and dropping SAT scores, effectively laying all the problems with education at the feet of our so-called liberal Dr. Wyatt. People went nuts and applauded her like she was Rush Limbaugh.
“In the next order of business, they voted in more money for football and shot down the entire middle school drama program. You see, their agenda is focused on control of the money and programs. They like football, so anything the football program requires is in, regardless of the cost. Drama, on the other hand, is not on their priority list, so it’s out, at least where the middle school is concerned.”
Peggy went on and on, quoting chapter and verse from the playbook of the Religious Right in the form of lamentations and conceding that there was little she could do to reverse the current trend of bashing the former education establishment with which she still identifies. She admitted to me that there were some minor excesses and abuses of power and funds under Dr. Wyatt’s supervision, but these seemed even more insignificant now in the shadow of the present state of unbridled, revenge seeking, religion-dominated madness.
Listening to her, I came to understand Dr. Wyatt’s great flaw. He was too straightforward with his opponents. He was not a ball player. He couldn’t spin the facts and issues — beliefs he held sincerely and thought were in the best public interest — into a universally appealing position. He was an educator, not a politician. Yet it was now publicly known that the remaining year- and-a-half of Dr. Wyatt’s contract (though suspended) would have to be paid by the district since he was dismissed without cause. The lawyers had been sparring on this point for months and finally agreed that a costly trial would not vindicate the district and nullify the ex-superintendent’s claim to future remuneration. So they settled out of court and the district will have to pay out a couple hundred grand in salary and benefits to Dr. Wyatt in addition to their costly legal bills from the past several months. Naturally, this “travesty of justice” was being cited by the right-wingers as additional evidence that Wyatt had been a self-serving crook all along. With this argument as sword and shield, they can justifiably hold their heads high as the innocent do-gooders, fleeced by the evil Dr. Wyatt of a major portion of their treasury, and hampered in their goals of improving the community through higher-quality education. Peggy worked up a prizefighter’s appetite relaying the details.
Our lunches arrive piping hot. In between bites I want to question Peggy about the governor, himself a native of Fair Hills, and his lack of visibility here in recent months. She had already volunteered that the town didn’t need another conservative around to muck things up any worse than they already were, but that the prevailing view sees him as simply too busy with the affairs of state to worry about local politics.
“Do I detect a note of bitterness in your attitude toward Governor Rierdon?”
“Not bitterness, just disappointment.” She pauses momentarily from eating, and her troubled countenance signals that I may have found a soft spot. “Colin and I grew up together; we were friends. Don’t get me wrong. I’m happy for him, for his success and all. It’s just that, well, while we were growing up, I always thought he was somebody special; he had character. See, he was brought up very strict — in church three times a week, no drinking, no smoking. His parents didn’t even like it when he went to the school dances. Back then, Colin went steady with my best friend, Kathy Nichols — for a couple of years actually. And… Look, Chip, I don’t want to open up old wounds. You need to talk to Kathy. In fact, I just spoke with her yesterday by phone. She lives in Ann Arbor, been a nurse at the U of M Hospital for years. She has something to say you will definitely want to hear, about Colin, I mean. And she’s ready to say it after all these years. She told me so.”
Peggy shovels in another pile of red cabbage. I am temporarily lost for a response since she has, of her own accord, opened up a door to what seems like a long-buried treasure of insight into Rierdon’s past, then shut it again suddenly. I will respect her wishes and not press her on the topic. But I will follow the trail.
I simply ask, “How can I get in touch with your friend, Kathy Nichols?”
Upon leaving Peggy at the door of the Library, I glance back up Main Street where the clock tower in the center of town serves as a handsome reminder that only fifteen minutes remain on my parking meter. The rectory of St. Anne’s is a two-block walk from here, so I head off, first to fill the meter, and then to pay a visit to Father Joseph Davidovich.
When Peggy gave me Kathy Nichols’ phone number, she graciously promised to call her first as an introduction. Admittedly, Peggy’s words “...she’s ready to say it after all these years,” piqued my interest, though, thinking about it now, I am clueless as to what the big secret could possibly be. We talked more about the school district and things like creationism vs. evolution, charter schools, schools of choice, all the current hot topics, but I was distracted and unengaged. I couldn’t help wondering what lay around the next bend for me to discover about the ever-interesting Governor Colin Rierdon. If I knew it already, I could fashion a question or two in order to get his personal reaction tonight at the reception.
This is what I love most about my job: I continue to uncover greater and more colorful depths of knowledge. And knowledge is what the entire society seeks more than anything else, except for sex, perhaps, although knowledge tends to last a bit longer. Plus, the full power of our majestic language can be brought to bear on the unfolding of all that can be known, and must be known if we are to properly communicate with one another and advance as a civilization. Unqualified as I may be, I have the notable privilege of working with this language every day as a tool of my trade, shaping it like clay for the public.
At the risk of drowning in my own ego, I occasionally allow myself the luxury of such thoughts. But I quickly return to the reality of my struggling and callow self. I might just as easily be one fateful step away from the land mine that blows my entire budding career to smithereens. This I know from agonizing experience. And I don’t imagine that the public will be any more kind and understanding than General Motors was. The consumers of news seem to have an aggregate will of their own. When crossed, they are capable of delivering a coup de grace to even the most respected journalist’s career. So far, I’ve managed to walk on the side of acceptability and popularity, and, apart from the occasional crank call to the paper or letter from some implacable subscriber, I’ve not become the object of the wrath of my readership. Thank God for that.
St. Anne’s Church is an imposing Gothic edifice of cut, gray limestone. It hardly looks at home though, squeezed as it is into the first block beyond the commercial section of Main Street. Surrounding the church are numerous multifamily dwellings and a modern concrete and steel public parking garage, all erected nearby during a brief wave of urban renewal in the early seventies. Regrettably, these now-dated, utilitarian structures only serve to detract from the majesty of the old church building. Immediately next door and predating the church, the rectory stands as another monument to the Gothic era.
I ascend the concrete stoop of the rectory and ring the bell. Advances such as this into the unknown always leave me feeling nervous and stiff, with a lump in my throat. Rejection is not something I am accustomed to, though it can lurk behind any door, especially this door, which I have approached without so much as a phone call or letter of introduction. And I’m not even Catholic. I momentarily consider abandoning my plan and walking off when the door opens and a plain-looking, middle-aged woman greets me.
“Good afternoon. May I help you?” She is wearing a simple, brown dress with nylons and comfortable shoes, completely unadorned.
“Uh, yes, I hope so.” I quickly collect my thoughts and attempt to look friendly and non-threatening by painting on a little smile. “My name is Chip Halick, with the Lansing Ledger. I don’t have an appointment but was hoping to see Father Davidovich, if he can spare a few moments. I promise to be brief.” Immediately, I wonder if I could have sounded any more insipid.
“Oh, Mr. Halick, of course. I’ve read some of your articles in the Free Press. Please do come in. I am Sister Lydia, the parish administrator.”
“Thanks…and please call me Chip,” I say as I step into the black and white tiled foyer. “I’m honored that you would remember my byline.”
“Well, I do read the papers, and you’re the reporter who wrote a series of articles about the Fair Hills Schools last year, right?”
“That’s correct.”
“As a local resident, I have a keen interest in that topic.”
“I see.” I wonder if residing in the village was her only reason for tuning into the local education debate.
“Let me find out if Father can see you. You may have a seat here if you like.”
She directs me to a small, wooden chair with an embroidered seat where I obediently sit down. For some inexplicable reason, the sense of what it must be like to go through parochial school floods over me. Her manner is kind and warm, not at all pushy or demanding, nevertheless, I am seized by a feeling of adolescent impotence. Too late now, the deed is done; I must await my punishment here in the dungeon.
This anteroom is simply yet elegantly appointed. There are detailed, crown moldings shouldering a high ceiling that reflects light over chartreuse walls from the entry door transom and two small, square windows. Portraits of aged popes with compassionate faces hang by wires from loftily anchored hooks. Hallways proceed off to the left and right beyond arched doorways. A third arch leads directly into an unlit sitting room containing pre-depression style furniture and a fringed, crimson, print rug. I wonder if the adjacent room is ever used. It certainly doesn’t resemble any living room I’ve ever seen before. The indoor temperature feels to be about 60 degrees, which is lucky for me since I am sweating bullets underneath my shirt.
Sister Lydia appears again in the doorway to my right. “Father will see you now, Mr. Halick. Please follow me back to his study.”
Here goes nothing. I am either extremely fortunate or in real trouble. I hope the former.
“Thank you, Sister.” Where did that come from?
Father Joseph Davidovich is a mature and distinguished man of about sixty. I distinctly remember him from the school board meetings I attended here about eighteen months back. He sat quietly in the rear of the auditorium, expressionless. Once, after being granted the floor, he asked a well-articulated question about whether the high school administration could provide better curriculum guides for him to use when counseling his eighth grade students, prior to their registration for Fair Hills High School classes. The response from the board was rather perfunctory as I recall: We are working on a current schedule of classes and academic requirements, and copies will be available within a couple of months. In his follow-up he expressed evident disappointment in the Fair Hills academic standards and the average SAT test scores of the student body. For years he had been striving to produce top-notch high school candidates in his parochial grammar school, only to find that these students were not being challenged by the high school’s academic program. It was clear to anyone present that Father Joe supported the new wave of right wing school board leadership. He said as much without being overtly defamatory of the Wyatt administration. He allowed his parishioners to carry that flag.
“Do come in, Mr. Halick. I’m glad you dropped by. Sister Lydia and I were going over the receipts from our annual outdoor carnival that concluded last Saturday, a tedious bookkeeping task, indeed. I have never had the patience for money matters, but Sister Lydia on the other hand — now here is a person who may have missed her calling, so to speak.” He chuckles, obviously amused with his double entendre turn of the phrase. Then, leaning toward me, he half-whispers with the good Sister doubtless able to overhear, “Then again, perhaps it is fortunate for her that she took a vow of poverty; you know what they say about the love of money.”
“Next year, perhaps you should sort it all out yourself, Father,” she says, evenly.
“Only if you want to send me to an early grave from heart failure and then have negligent homicide on your conscience to boot.”
I could see that this was home for the major league of guilt trips. Politics cannot begin to compete on this level. Here, the stakes are eternal.
Maintaining her dutiful servant posture, Sister Lydia turns toward me. “Would you like some coffee or something cold to drink, Mr. Halick?”
“Thank you for the offer, but I’ve just come from lunch.”
“Do take a break, Sister.” Father Joe conciliates.
“Certainly. I’ll be out on the patio if you need me.” She departs, shutting the door behind her.
Father Joe smiles self-assuredly and stands to the cracking sound of his leather chair. He offers me a handshake. “Pleased to finally make your acquaintance, Mr. Halick.”
“The pleasure is mine, and please call me Chip. Everyone does.”
“Fine. Make yourself comfortable, Chip,” he says, gesturing to one of the two side chairs, arranged before his desk. “What brings you here to Fair Hills, and for that matter, to St. Anne’s?” He re-seats himself and leans back with his hands folded behind his head. “We surely cannot be in the news again, can we?”
“Not news really, just a follow-up visit to check on the school situation. Plus, I needed an excuse for an early color tour.”
A sparkle in his blue eyes reveals some boyishness within.
“Actually, I’ve been working on a series of pieces relating to the governor and his religious roots, and naturally, I had to come here for research.”
“Why here? To my knowledge, Colin Rierdon has never been a member of the Catholic faith.”
“Right. But you have known him over the years, haven’t you?”
“That is correct.”
Apparently, this was not going to be easy. “Well, I must confess to being somewhat ignorant of religious doctrine, but it seems to me that there has been a sort of unification of Catholics and Protestants on certain, political issues. Do you see it that way as well?”
“Certainly, there are issues that concern all believers. I couldn’t begin to speak for the Protestants, however.”
“I wouldn’t want you to, Father. I myself can’t even begin to speak for my own wife of over twenty years.”
“Women do tend to like to speak for themselves these days.”
“How true. In fact, more and more women seem to be getting politically active, especially when it comes to the abortion issue, for instance.” I drop this political grenade rather indelicately into the conversation.
“And well they should. But it is strictly a matter of conscience as to how they stand on abortion.” His armor plating remains intact.
“Let me ask you this, Father. Do you think a law banning abortions would shift women’s consciences away from the pro-choice position many of them hold today?”
“I am under no such illusion. But the government will have rightfully come to the defense of the unborn who otherwise have no means of self-preservation. That, in my view, is one of the primary functions of government.”
“Your point is well taken, especially when you frame the abortion argument around preserving the life of children. In fact, I applaud you for your efforts which appear to be succeeding in that regard, Father.”
He warms a little. “I fail to see how else the argument can be framed, Chip.”
“Well, a lot of folks don’t see it that way, exactly. Now, please don’t get me wrong — I am only trying to understand both sides of the issue — but pro-choice advocates seem to insist that unborn fetuses are not actually lives, and that the prerogative over their existence remains with the expectant mother until birth. Furthermore, no one to my knowledge has been successfully prosecuted for murder in this country because of an abortion, which seems to indicate that, legally at least, there is no evidence of life being abrogated by abortion.”
“That is precisely why the laws need to be changed, Chip.”
“Are you advocating, Father, that pregnant women who get abortions should be prosecuted for murder?”
“I shouldn’t wish to see any woman placed behind bars for having an abortion, but if that is the only way to have an impact for life, than perhaps it must be, if only to serve as an example for those who would consider denying life to their own children.”
“Isn’t that a bit harsh, Father? I mean, what about the problems of underground, unsafe abortions and unwanted, abused children that will undoubtedly result from the ban?”
“Surely, Chip, there are unintended consequences with everything. But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t do what is right. If you read through the Bible, you will find plenty of examples of God dealing harshly with His people in order to correct their behavior and purge them of their wrongdoing. Good government should be no different. In fact, the Apostle Peter taught us to submit ourselves to governmental leaders because they are sent by God for the punishment of evildoers and for the praise of them who do well. However unfortunate for the law-breaker, sometimes punishment is the only way to assure a decent society for those who want to live in peace and harmony with God’s will.”
“So, you see government as an extension of God’s very own arm of justice.”
“Precisely. And His arm of benevolence as well.”
“What do you do about those in government who are out for their own interests?”
“Well, Chip, we certainly do not live in a perfect world. Corruption is a part of the human condition, and government officials are not immune from such flaws. It is up to us as citizens to be vigilant in our oversight of those we elect. We can turn them out of office if they prove unworthy of their positions.”
Father Joe is giving me chapter and verse of the democratic ideal. The trouble is, great theory doesn’t always translate into exemplary practice. In my view, that cake doesn’t always rise.
“Which brings us to Governor Rierdon. Do you think he is an honorable soul?”
“Who can say for sure, Chip. Only God knows what Colin Rierdon is really like on the inside. My experience with him though seems to indicate that he’s a good man at heart, with good moral intentions and the public’s best interest in mind.”
“I see.” If I expected heavy revelations to fall trippingly off the good Father’s tongue I misjudged the potential of this visit. Maybe he is just playing it safe, not knowing what my real intentions might have been in coming here today. However congenial he may have appeared initially, his disposition toward me could now only be described as guarded, although he has appeared eager to ladle out pro-life slogans as appropriate. To carry this interview any further would be a waste of both my time and his. “I hope you’re right, Father. That is just the sort of man we need in Lansing.”
“Time will tell for sure if you have such a man,” he concedes.
“I suppose it will.”