Point of View

“Censorship and Abuse of Power” — WC Parent Decries Foreigner Cancellation

November 12, 2019 by Spy Desk 3 Comments

Provost DiQuinzio,
Dean Feyerherm;

Your outrageous decision to cancel the senior capstone production of the award-winning play ‘The Foreigner” at the very moment that the students were about to perform the dress rehearsal was rash, ill-justified and shameful, bringing dishonor to yourselves and to the academic institution that you represent. I am writing to you, and copying the President of the College and the Chair of the Board of Visitors & Governors, to demand a public apology to the theater students and faculty who have been traumatized and victimized by your actions.

Your November 8, 2019 email to parents and the all-campus email that preceded it only compounded your error and illustrate that your actions were made in ignorance and in haste. You were unfamiliar with the play and cannot have taken the time to read and discuss it with those in the theater department who have, or to understand the way that the issues it raises about bigotry and intolerance are addressed in this production. You have now joined a single institution – a high school in Sioux Falls, South Dakota – in censoring and cancelling production of Larry Shue’s award-winning play, which continues to win acclaim for its numerous revivals since its Off-Broadway debut in November 1984.

Your glib statement that parents should understand your decision in the larger context of an ongoing and evolving effort “to be a community that prioritizes inclusiveness and the ability to articulate one’s perspective with an effort toward finding greater understanding, effecting positive change, and strengthening communication among all of our students, staff, and faculty” is belied by your cowardice and refusal to recognize this as precisely the kind of teaching moment that could have created the “brave space” that would advance those ideals. Instead, you gutted a segment of your community – my daughter among them – and made them targets of uninformed accusations of racism from those who objected to the play and who now associate them with racist ideas simply for being part of this manifestly not racist production. You privileged “Callout Culture” and denied members of your community the opportunity to constructively engage with difficult or uncomfortable ideas. Shame on you!

Your assertion that your act of censorship “does not diminish the months of hard work, collaboration, emotion, and thoughtfulness that students invested in the production—nor does it lessen all that they have learned through those efforts” is grossly disingenuous. What they have learned may indeed be valuable, but it is not the sort of lesson that a responsible institution of higher learning would seek to engender. They have learned that their voices do not matter, for they were not among the “members of the student community” with whom you claim to have consulted. They have learned that they may be subject to the whim of arbitrary and capricious authority. They have learned that their investment in a college-sanctioned theater production can be undone whenever a community voice objects to any of its content. They have learned that they will not be protected from the backlash that your decision has empowered.

You compelled your faculty colleagues to cancel the play while the students and director were on stage for the dress rehearsal, and stood silently watching their grief and distress. You did nothing to comfort them. You did nothing to address their pain. Your only concession was to allow a closed performance of the dress rehearsal, and neither of you congratulated them on their performance. You did not even offer to come and help them strike the set. You did nothing to anticipate or ameliorate the trauma that you have caused. Your belated meeting with the director and cast on Saturday only elicited an apology from you when they told you they needed one.

I call it cowardice. I call it cruel. I call it censorship and abuse of power. I call it intellectually dishonest and a mockery of the educational and community values you cite and that Washington College purports to espouse. This is your mess to clean up. Do not sweep it under the rug. Own what you have done and apologize publicly for the unintended but undeniable harm you have caused.

Timothy B. Abbott

CC: Chair Stephen T. Golding
President Kurt Landgraf

Angels Among Us by Jamie Kirkpatrick

November 12, 2019 by Jamie Kirkpatrick 2 Comments

Two days ago, I fell into a manhole. I never saw it coming but it must have seen me because as soon as my foot hit the unsecured cover, it opened wide its maw and in I tumbled. Stunned, shocked, scared: “My leg!” I screamed; I thought one was broken, maybe both. My torso lay above ground, my legs were suspended below. The pain was intense but I managed to pull my lower half out of the hole and waited for the bees to stop stinging me. I turned my head and saw a face I didn’t recognize—an African-American man with a beard and wearing a red flannel shirt was kneeling next to me. He had soft brown eyes, a quiet voice, a calm, reassuring presence. “Did you hit your head? Is your back ok? Can you move?” he asked. I thought I could so he helped me roll over, then gently helped me to my feet. I leaned into him, our eyes locked. I could stand; my legs could bear my weight. For the first time that morning, but not for the last, I thought to myself, “There are angels among us.”

I was surrounded by friends: kind, worried, solicitous. “Should I call 911?” “Should we call an ambulance?” “Notify the police.” I could feel blood running down both legs and now those bees were really starting to sting but I was pretty sure nothing was broken. I felt faint but the good Samaritan in the red flannel shirt was gone. I remember looking around and seeing him in a car across the street with his family watching me. I gave him a thumbs up and whispered thank you before he drove away. I never saw him again.

We had been visiting my brother and sister-in-law in Rehoboth and my wife helped me hobble back to their home. She had me stand in a bathtub and helped me remove my pants, socks, and shoes. There were multiple messy cuts and abrasions as well as a large hematoma above my left shin. Gently, she hosed my legs with warm water and I watched ribbons of blood snake away down the drain. I took deep breaths. The bees really started to sting again when she poured hydrogen peroxide on my wounds. She gently daubed them clean, slathered on an antiseptic ointment, and wrapped them in gauze. I wasn’t scared anymore and for the second time that day, I knew there were angels among us.

There were a few people waiting in the ER when I limped in. I told the duty nurse that I had fallen into a manhole. She looked at me for a long moment, then asked for my name and date of birth. I fumbled in my wallet for insurance cards but she didn’t need them, just my driver’s license. She fixed a band around my wrist and told me to take a seat. It was just another Sunday in the ER but I thought I glimpsed another one of the angels among us.

When you’re in pain, waiting is hard, but pretty soon, another nurse called me into the triage room and checked my vital signs. She laughed when I told her I had fallen into a manhole, but she was both amazed and sympathetic. She made me feel better, even laugh. One more angel among us.

Some more waiting, but then I was admitted to a bay in the ER. A doctor came in, weary but gentle and kind. He helped undress me and gave a low whistle when he saw the extent of my wounds. He asked me to wiggle my toes and smiled when I could. He examined the large hematoma over my tibia and ordered a precautionary X-Ray. “I don’t think it’s broken,” he said, “but let’s make sure.” He was optimistic and he made my wife and me feel the same way. Yet another angel among us.

A technician with a portable X-Ray machine appeared and took four images of my left leg. She was gentle and professional. She told us the doctor would be able to read the X-Ray in three minutes and wished me well. I could tell she meant it and then she disappeared, one more angel among us.

In a blink, the doctor was back with us. The X-Ray was negative. He put his hand on my shoulder and told me I would be fine. He would send in a nurse to clean and redress the wounds and give me a tetanus shot “just to be safe.” Before he left to see another patient, we thanked him. He said it was his third Sunday shift in a row, but that was fine. Next week, he was taking his family to visit Japan.

Another nurse came in right away and began to clean and disinfect my wounds, She was impressed by my wife’s field ministrations. Her name was Jillian and she was a happy young woman who knew what she was doing. When she was finished, she rolled me onto my side and administered a tetanus shot in my behind. “There,” she said. “You’re free to go.” Another angel among us.

I was stiff and sore, too banged up for a long drive back to the Eastern Shore so we changed plans and returned to my brother and sister-in-law’s home. They were happy to have us back. I rested for an hour, then joined family and friends for dinner, leg iced and elevated, and oh-so-grateful to be whole and surrounded by people who loved me. A whole band of angels.

Our nation is divided, angry, scared, and confused. We seem to have fallen into a manhole. But believe me: there are scores of angels among us.

Yesterday was Veterans Day. I woke up thankful for all the sacrifices made on our behalf by all the veteran angels among us.

There are a million angels among us. Sometimes, you just have to fall into a manhole to see them.

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer with homes in Chestertown and Bethesda. His work has appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy magazine. “A Place to Stand,” a book of photographs and essays about Landon School, was published by the Chester River Press in 2015. A collection of his essays titled “Musing Right Along” was published in May 2017; a second volume of Musings entitled “I’ll Be Right Back” was released in June 2018. Jamie’s website is www.musingjamie.com

Out and About (Sort of): Can You Spare a Hello? By Howard Freedlander

November 11, 2019 by Howard Freedlander Leave a Comment

It may be a family member. It may be a friend. It may be a co-worker. It may be a neighbor.

It may be a memory.

Like most national holidays, Veterans Day—the 11th of November—passes by quickly. Town, cities and veterans’ organizations will pay homage. American flags will seem more prevalent. Patriotism will be on display.

Though some may discourage saying “thank you” to a veteran for fear of acknowledging a special class of people, sincere gratitude is always appreciated. It’s a form of wholesome human interaction. It means something to the speaker, a way of connecting to an experience with which you may be unfamiliar.

Veterans deserve recognition. They served our nation, often under adverse conditions. They endured cold, wet and hot weather—and sometimes hostile enemy fire—far from home. They left loved ones and friends for deployments to parts of the world formerly unknown to them.

Many of my friends served in combat zones. Unless prompted, they typically are reluctant to discuss their experiences. Some witnessed the death of wartime comrades. Some wonder why they survived, and others didn’t return home to live to old age.

Some bemoan war.

To follow my own instincts, I plan to call a veteran or two. While I may not express thanks, I will acknowledge their service. I will ask questions. I will probe their feelings and memories, carefully, of course. I will acknowledge their sacrifice of familiar comfort.

I’ve known veterans my entire life. I always sensed an undeniable pride, a profound sense of accomplishment. Though they always talked about their children, weddings and births, they rarely failed to mention their military service. It simply didn’t matter how much they had achieved in life in terms of material success or accumulation of power; they usually found reason to talk about their life as a member of the uniformed services.

Their pride was always close to the surface.

I’ve always been interested, in my avid reading of obituaries, to note how almost unfailingly they mention a person’s military service, whether the deceased was a waterman, shop owner or corporate executive. Service to country matters to veterans and their families.

As it should.

We Americans might wish we didn’t have veterans. That peace and tranquility permeated our fractious world. The goal is noble. Unfortunately, history has proved it’s unattainable. Best intentions run opposite to the human condition.

War is inevitable.

War is grueling and gruesome.

War hardens your soul. It may be harder to cry and show emotion.

Thank God our country has been blessed with men and women willing to serve and families willing to be supportive.

So, today, take a few moments to speak with a veteran. Respect and honor their service. They are peacemakers.

Columnist Howard Freedlander retired in 2011 as Deputy State Treasurer of the State of Maryland. Previously, he was the executive officer of the Maryland National Guard. He also served as community editor for Chesapeake Publishing, lastly at the Queen Anne’s Record-Observer. In retirement, Howard serves on the boards of several non-profits on the Eastern Shore, Annapolis and Philadelphia.

Snapshots Of Daily Life: Tides by George Merrill

November 10, 2019 by George R. Merrill 1 Comment

“The Trump Administration formally notified the United Nations on Monday that it would withdraw the United States from the Paris Agreement on Climate Change, leaving global climate diplomats to plot away forward without the cooperation of the world’s largest economy.” New York Times, November 4th, 2019

Not long ago I looked at the weather report. I saw an alert had been issued by the weather service that coastal flooding was imminent.

The news alarmed me. I went to the window to see how the tides were affecting the shoreline of my property. We are close to the water. The signs were ominous. The tide had already topped the edges of the shoreline and was reaching much higher than normal. It was encroaching on the lawn, creeping up to the house. When I looked at the tide tables I discovered that flood tide would be at four o’clock. It was only noon. The water continued to rise. All I could do was watch. My lawn was newly replanted only days before. Would it survive an inundation of brackish water?

Inordinately high tides occur regularly around the Chesapeake. They’ve become higher now and are flooding more small towns and lowlands. I had accepted this as a way of life here on the shore. This time, however, with my newly planted lawn, the stakes were higher. It’s strange how something as critical to my survival as the issue of global warming is, can seem so remote until it creeps up on my front lawn. I don’t “get it” easily.

Over the last few years I have had a dream, like a vision. Recently it’s grown more vivid. It’s not the nocturnal sort dream or vision, but the kind of dream that hope inspires. It’s a daydream of sorts, but not an idle one. I cling to it.

This dream returns again and again and I pray about it. Things happen in the natural world around me that seem so mindless and destructive and I feel sad. I pray more fervently that the dream I have will come true.

I dream that one day our abuses of the environment (and of each other) will finally create such a backlash that deniability of the abuses will be out of the question – no more equivocations. This time what happens will be immediate to us, closer than the Arctic’s cascading ice shelves falling into the sea thousands of miles away or the chemical laden streams that catch fire as if they were heralding an apocalypse.

In those days, I dream that we will have as the director of the Environmental Protection Agency a man or woman who actually loves the natural world, the kind of a person suggested in the Genesis myth.

God, having created the world thinks his creation is good, “very good.” God has a stake in its future according to Genesis. He appoints someone he trusts to look after it. This is a sacred trust. “The Lord God took Adam (human kind) and placed him in the garden of Eden to tend and to keep it.”

What does it look like to love the natural world, to tend it and to keep it, and I would add, to be its voice, its advocate? I believe it looks something like naturalist, W. H. Hudson’s tender description of a day in late April when he came upon “a shallow lakelet or pond five or six acres in extent which I had discovered some weeks before hidden in a depression in the land among luxuriant furze (an evergreen shrub with flowers), bramble, and blackthorn bushes.”

He then writes, “I sat on a branch and rested for a long time enjoying the sight of that rare unexpected loveliness. Two or three warblers we’re flitting about among the alder leaves within a few feet of my head and a dozen at least we’re singing within a few feet of my head. I listen again to the birds then let my eyes rest on the expense of red and cream-colored spikes before me, then on the masses of flame colored furze beyond. This springtime verdure and bloom, this fragrance of the furze, the infinite blue of Heaven, the bell like double note of my little feathered neighbors and the alder trees; surely this is enough to satisfy my heart.”

This new “Adam,” this Agency Director, as I imagine him or her, would have this same passionate love of the earth in their hearts, and could not be driven from their task by power brokers. This director will be wise in the matters of the material world. This person would have feet on the ground (earth, not macadam) and an eye on the sky (weather, not high-rises); they would passionately love the natural with the fervor Mr. Hudson had. Love like that may save us and heal our planet

This director will have a realistic grasp of the needs of an industrial society in which she lives. He will, like Solomon, do justice. He will weigh the reasonable requirements of industrial production and still advocate for the earth. He or she will know that the natural world is not a commodity just to be bought, sold, and traded; this new Adam understands the natural world as a sacred trust, a planet to love, tend and care for.

Too Idealistic? Too Visionary? I sure hope so. That’s precisely the missing piece in managing our present environmental realities. Currently, I see no vision, no ideals, just expediency and greed.

Since that day of the flood advisories two more extremely high tides came and went. The weather finally grew cooler and with it returned intense blue skies, filled with gray-bellied white clouds and a brisk northwest wind of about forty knots. The northwest winds around here drive the tides out, making the ebbs unnaturally low. The tides ebbed and flooded, and for a while I felt safe. The feeling is illusory.

My world, the one in which I once thought tides were predictable and would remain always within bounds, had returned but only briefly. The world of my yesterday is long gone, and even higher tides will return as they must, because they are responding in the only ways they can to the deaf ears on which their warnings have fallen.

“Listen to the earth and it will teach you,” Job instructs us. Few listen.

Editorial: Sultana Downrigging Upgrades Deliver Smashing Success

November 7, 2019 by The Chestertown Spy 1 Comment

Photo by Jamie Kirkpatrick

It would be safe to say that the Chestertown Spy staff were not the only ones worried about the dramatic changes the Sultana Education Foundation was making for its beloved Downrigging festival this year.

Over 18 years, the Downrigging has become the one event, for many, that successfully captured the true essence of Chestertown’s ethos with its unique blend of history, culture, scholarship, and sense of fun. And while The Spy understood the Sultana’s thinking that Downrigging had to evolve, there was an unspoken fear that this effort to upgrade and expand its programming, including the formal addition of dozens of bluegrass performances, would radically and permanently change the tone and climate of this town’s beloved fall weekend.

There was good reason for that anxiety. Sultana has been the pride and joy of Chestertown since 1997. Beyond pursuing its mission of connecting “people to the Chesapeake Bay’s history, ecology, and culture,” it has also evolved into being intertwined with the best elements of Chestertown itself; a subtle, sophisticated community proud of its heritage and intellectual curiosity.

So when we heard over the summer that the Sultana’s leadership had decided to shake things up for the 2019 Downrigging, it was sometimes hard to suppress the thought that while the board and staff motives were understandable, a Downrigging 2.0 concept was messing with success.

It is human nature to protect the things we love, and the idea of Downrigging morphing into a music festival was seen as a perilous proposition. While there was considerable sympathy with the fact that Sultana has lost money on this fantastic and expensive weekend of nautical programming since 2001, there were countless examples of town festivals losing their identity and purpose in their attempt to become more “hip” to expand attendance.

Undoubtedly, Sultana leaders also knew there was an inherent risk in offering a new Downrigging experience. Drew McMullen, president of the organization, along with its board members, had built this successful organization by being known for a “steady Eddie” culture, and a mature approach to change. The shift for Downrigging 2019 was seen as a bit out of character.

But like almost everything the Sultana has done since its inception, the new and improved Downrigging was a smashing success. Not only did it keep its cultural foundation in tack, but the addition of bluegrass also led to record-breaking attendance last weekend. Over 3,000 flocked to the new performance village, downtown retailers saw unprecedented traffic in their shops, restaurants and bars were full, and visitors were left amazed by the beauty of the new Cerino Center at the Chestertown Marina.

The take-home message after this remarkable weekend is two-fold. One is that taking this kind of risk pays off. The second is the reminder that never second guess the Sultana Education Foundation.

The Spy

In an Instant by Angela Rieck

November 7, 2019 by Angela Rieck 1 Comment

Last week I received a daytime call from my daughter, her beautiful smile flashed on my iphone. Immediately I knew there was a problem, my daughter is too busy to call me during working hours. I was prepared for the worst.

But it wasn’t my daughter. In a crowded room that sounded like a hospital, a woman informed me that she was using my daughter’s phone because my daughter was hurt and in the emergency room. That initiated a panicked sequence of the caller asking me to talk louder and me screaming for more information. Frustrated, the caller hung up.

Frantic, I called back, but it went to voicemail.

I texted my daughter, no response.

I sent my daughter an email, the minutes ticked by while I refreshed an empty inbox.

In that instant, I realized that I had no way to find my NYC-based daughter. I didn’t know her work colleagues and her business didn’t have a receptionist. Employees used their own cell phones.

I searched her company’s website and LinkedIn for an HR contact. I found the cell phone for an HR rep and called her.

It went to voicemail.

I found an HR email address and sent an email labeled EMERGENCY, URGENT, Help—asking them to confirm that my daughter was at work.

Within 10 minutes, my daughter called. She had been in a meeting away from her cell phone or computer.

It was a curious malicious or spoofing call. The caller didn’t ask for money or information. If she was trying to record my voice, she would have only recorded screaming and I do not use voice recognition features.

Most frightening was that the caller knew to ghost my daughter’s phone even though we have a different last name.

I mentioned this to my aunt who had recently received a call from her “grandson” saying that he was hurt and needed money. My aunt is nobody’s fool, so she told the caller to hang up. She called her confused grandson back. He was fine. Another malicious call.

I have a very cautious friend who was spoofed by an “Apple Tech rep” informing her that a virus had invaded her Apple computer and they were tasked with removing it. The “rep” only needed some personal information…in time she realized that it was a spoofing call.

My financial advisor is now notified when a client requests a suspicious wire transfer. He calls the client and talks him through the request, typically a malicious call. He has saved his clients thousands of dollars.

The FCC says that unfortunately these malicious and spoofing calls will only get worse. VoIP calls are inexpensive and there is virtually no accountability, many are generated overseas.

We all get them.

I personally have been informed that my credit card has been compromised, that the IRS has put a lien against my property and my personal favorite, that the sheriff is coming to arrest for me an outstanding warrant. Think about it. Why would the sheriff call to make sure that I was home before he comes to arrest me?

My call was taken to another level because the spoofer knew both our numbers and our relationship.

The data was probably obtained from hacking my cellphone supplier’s website (since my daughter’s cell phone is on my plan). Verizon confirmed me that the information most likely came from a hack of their site but insisted that only my account had been hacked.

So far, I only lost a ½ hour of panic. But I know that others have lost more…so here is some advice I learned from the Verizon fraud representative.

If you get a call saying that a child or grandchild needs money, hang up and call back.

Unless you can personally verify the information, do not send money and do not give up identification codes.

My daughter was embarrassed because her office went crazy checking on her to make sure that she was okay.

I was not sorry.

I was just being a mom.

Angela Rieck, a Caroline County native, received her PhD in Mathematical Psychology from the University of Maryland and worked as a scientist at Bell Labs, and other high-tech companies in New Jersey before retiring as a corporate executive. Angela and her dogs divide their time between St Michaels and Key West Florida. Her daughter lives and works in New York City.

Profiles in Cowardice by Al Sikes

November 6, 2019 by Al Sikes 3 Comments

Pardon my nausea. President Trump’s often egregious behavior is on trial, and the prosecutors are not winning. Conviction looks impossible absent the emergence of felonious conduct. And Trump’s Ad-makers are attempting to define his conduct, “tough guy” in “tough times.”

Post-impeachment (indictment) we will be left with social/political distemper. Rather than candidates being forced to address issues, the election will be almost exclusively about Trump. More alarmingly, his conduct, if not rising to a convictable offense, will lower still further standards of political conduct.

Benjamin Disraeli, an iconic British Prime Minister, called politics a “greasy pole.” Indeed. But in America, history rewards those who, even though imperfect in their climb, strived to overcome their imperfections. It was thought, hopefully still is, that an elected leader can come back from a fall if he/she will yield to an aspirational set of values and show a modest amount of remorse.

Okay, aspirational values, what does that mean? I believe “truth” in politics is an aspirational value. Fair play—well hard to define. Passing up the cookie jar, for certain, embezzlement is not favored. Consult Proverbs and come up with your own list.

Trump understands two things well. He is the leader of a tribe called Republicans whose elected officials want nothing more than to be reelected. Fear is his weapon. A loyal cadre is his spear.

And he understands news biases and cycles. He excoriates the news outlets that tend to shape the news around their biases. They become the enemy, and unfortunately, they are an easy one. Twitter gives him a very useful weapon. He can use it to create the news cycle—he is hours ahead of them. He also is a good whiner. He couches his tweets in inflammatory language and picks his targets from the Tribe’s enemies list. In Republican circles, the New York Times tops the list.

His behavior, to me, sets a new low in the conduct of a political leader. But his enemies need to understand the game and the opponent. While they confer, he tweets. While they seek some operational consensus, he is a consensus of one with his elected followers (at least most of them) awaiting White House instruction. He has set new standards of political conduct, and even those in his Party who despise him quiver in the corner fearful they will lose their job if they talk back. Profiles in cowardice.

This predatory set of values will not be removed through a legal process; it will only succumb to a political one. The voters are going to have to lead the leaders.

I will repeat my recommendation one more time. Put this conduct to a vote. Strive to get some level of bi-partisanship by moving from impeachment to censure and then force the tribal leaders to go on record about conduct, not removal from office just months before the election.

Al Sikes is the former Chair of the Federal Communications Commission under George H.W. Bush. Al recently published Culture Leads Leaders Follow published by Koehler Books.

Op-Ed: Time to Ask More of Political Parties? By J.E. Dean

November 6, 2019 by J.E. Dean Leave a Comment

It may be the height of naivete to expect either major political party to do anything much beyond raising money and loosely structuring a process to nominate national candidates. A Senator who doesn’t even call himself a Democrat is now running for President with the full expectation that if he wins the primary process, he will be the party’s nominee. In 2016, candidate Trump declined to promise to support the party’s nominee and has routinely attacked Republican legislators that disagree with him. And, with rare exceptions, neither party does much in the way of ethics. State, local and national candidates can fudge the truth with the full confidence of no pushback from the national party.

The fruit of this sad situation is declining respect for the national parties. Even energetic Democrats, for example, will tell you they understand why Bernie Sanders declines to align himself as a co-partyist with a moderate like Joe Manchin. Similarly, Trump’s base readily buys into the President’s claim that that George W. Bush administration was “corrupt.” He has stepped in, without so much as a hint of opposition, and redefined the party’s long-standing positions on trade while at the same time openly exhibiting conduct and endorsing policies viewed as racist by at least some of his fellow Republicans.

Many today suggest the parties are “imploding” and becoming progressively less important to American Democracy. In part, this is because the traditional role of the party as a fundraising organization is being supplanted by the internet. Candidates like Sanders and Warren both appeal to and solicit funds from voters directly, using the internet as the means. The party neither polices their efforts nor does anything else relevant to it. The fundraising itself is measured by the Federal Election Commission. The messaging’s effectiveness is measured in national polls.

If this trend continues, its only a matter of time that a successful third party or independent candidate emerges. It could happen sooner than one might assume, especially if the dysfunction of both parties results in the nomination of candidates viewed by a critical mass as “out of the mainstream” or otherwise unacceptable. Next year’s elections could see this scenario. Just think of a Trump v. Warren election.

The deterioration of parties could have catastrophic effects on how the American Democracy works. Think of a Congress with several parties holding sizable voting blocks but with no majority. Think of a President freed from any thought of the impact of her actions on state and local elections. And think of the scenario where an independent President dies in office and a virtual unknown, a vice president selected with little thought or diligence, suddenly assumes office.

Examples of the benefits of having two, well-established national parties structure elections go far beyond my two examples. But, I would argue, their role does not go far enough. And, if you agree the current system is breaking apart, rapidly but not irreversibly, it may be time to ask the national parties to assume a much larger role in policing elections.

Here are a few suggestions:

The parties should be required to comment on accuracy of fact assertions made by their own candidates. If Trump claims Chinese imports exceed $ 10 trillion per year, the Republican party should call him on it. Few candidates will want to be corrected by their own party. Most likely a trend towards more research and diligence will follow.

The parties should issue budget estimates for all policy proposals put forth by major candidates. If the numbers do not add up, as is the case for Elizabeth Warren’s many “plans,” the party would say so, perhaps issuing its own estimates.

Candidates that violate a specified set of party values would lose their right to run as a candidate of the party. For example, if the Republicans adopted a “value” condemning racism, a suggestion that most Mexicans are rapists would get a candidate making such a statement tossed from the party.

Candidates would have to meet minimum qualifications and meet specified requirements to run for President. Candidates failing would be denied the support of the party. An example of how this might work may be found in national parties establishing rules for which candidates get to participate in national debates. Among the requirements would be the release of 10 years of tax returns. Specifying qualifications is more complex but perhaps should include things such as a minimum number of years in government or working closely with it.

I could go on with the list, but the idea is simple. Political parties must take ownership of the candidates that run under their banner. While this might cause some attractive candidates to defect and possibly run as independents, the long-term impact would be to make the party label mean something. Voters could be confident that if candidate X was the Democratic candidate, an organization of competent, publicly minded experts have reviewed them and found them meritorious. Think of this as an imprimatur for candidates or and endorsement from Consumer Reports.

What happens if parties take on the task of better policing candidates and their proposals and do so incompetently or with bias? Count on the press to call them on it. A party guilty of not performing these new roles would be identified as a failure by the press, something that hopefully would jeopardize their existence and encourage candidates to look elsewhere for a party with which to affiliate.

Is all this naïve? Maybe. But what is definitely naïve is to let the current system, the one that brought us Trump and that might very well have resulted in a giant like Beto O’Rourke getting a national nomination for President, continue to operate the way it does.

American Democracy needs parties, but those parties are not doing their job. They could soon disappear if they don’t embrace accountability.

J.E. Dean of Oxford is a retired attorney and public affairs consultant. He is a former counsel to the House Committee on Education and Labor. For more than 30 years, he advised clients on federal education and social service policy.

Downrigging Dreaming by Jamie Kirkpatrick

November 5, 2019 by Jamie Kirkpatrick 1 Comment

And just like that, the tall ships are gone. Sails are furled; masts are stepped. For three dazzlingly crisp November days, we imagined ourselves back in a time when canvas, wind, and tide ruled the world. We danced to different rhythms then but now we reach for our smart phones and snap another image while yearning for simpler truths. Sorry, friends, that genie is out of the bottle and long gone.

Still, this Downrigging Weekend, coming right on the heels of Halloween and First Friday, was a superb spectacle. There were the tall ships, of course, with their sails billowing, their spider webs of lines weaving precise order out of what appears to be rope havoc, their captain’s cries and canon salutes echoing down the river. This year, there was also endless bluegrass music, plenty of good food and drink, a new marina and a refurbished riverfront restaurant—promising signs of hope and renewal in a friendly little town working hard to stem the modern flood tide pushing hard against its shore.

The weather certainly played its part to perfection. Yes, the temperature dropped thirty degrees in twenty-four hours but the sun and wind that came in on the coattails of the cold front let us see ourselves in clearer light. Details came into sharp focus. Up at our house, we lit the first fire pit of the season and I can’t tell you how many people walking by thanked us for the sweet aroma of woodsmoke wafting down Cannon Street. We bundled up as fall came home in all its autumnal glory; friends gathered on the porch morning, noon, and night—talking, laughing, sipping and eating. It’s a lovely town to visit but it’s oh-so-good to belong here.

Here’s the thing: Downrigging doesn’t just remind us of the way things were; it also helps us to see things the way they are. Today is Election Day in our town and we’ll be voting on our future: financing the new marina, debating the fate of the police department, helping small businesses thrive, improving schools, repairing streets, assessing taxes. The lines of a small town life are as complex and vital as a tall ship’s rigging. What lines do we haul and tighten? Which ones do we slacken? For every give, a get; for every loss, a gain. We tack and tack again, slow but steady progress into the wind.

One by one, they slip away with the tide: Kalmar Nyckel, Virginia, Lady Maryland, Lynx, The Pride of Baltimore, Sigsbee, until only nimble little Sultana is left to undress for winter. Seeing them depart, I admit to something like weary happiness tempered with relief—the same feeling I get when the party’s over and it’s time to clean up and go to bed. I like to replay the events of the weekend in my mind: the faces of friends, the smell of the fire, the ballet of the tall ships on parade. If there’s even a hint of Monday sadness, it passes quickly because I know those ships aren’t gone forever. They’ll be back next year because a lot of good people work hard to keep their dream alive.

I’m grateful; I daresay we all are. Thank you: volunteers, event staff, Sultana, and our tall friends.

I’ll be right back.

Follow Us