THE STATE OF THE SPEECH

Okay, here's the speech teacher's score: C-

My score this time around is based almost entirely on delivery. I have to confess that I have quit paying much attention to the content of State of the Union addresses, because they are usually little more than forgettable laundry lists of unrealistic proposals.

Here are my delivery observations:

He is better than he used to be. He used to really herky-jerky. It's still there, but not as pronounced. There were brief moments of clarity and gravity, glimpses of cadence and intensity; but overall the speech was incredibly uneven.

He is uncomfortable in the rostrum. This guy does not want to be there. I'm not talking about the presidency, he very much wants to be there. But he is not an orator, and these events are not pleasant for him. He does not enjoy the spoken word.

The speech is not his. He didn't write it; but more importantly, he has never owned it. Presidents don't write their own speeches anymore, of course, but some go to great lengths to make the speech theirs (see Reagan and Clinton). This is a speech assembled by bureaucrats that could never find its rhythm. He is anchored to the teleprompters. He turns his head before his eyes are ready to leave the security of the plexiglass manuscript. Watch him when he finishes a phrase that invites applause. He doesn't lean into it, because it doesn't belong to him. He is not offering something of himself to his audience, he is simply serving as a vehicle for a broad set of ideas. When he finishes those phrases, and the applause begins, he appears relieved that it is over for a few seconds. Eager speakers get impatient with the applause because they want to get on to the really good stuff.

The old smugness is still there. Again, not as bad as before, but the smirk and wink business persists. Here's one thing that will always prevent him from appearing to be a statesman or grand orator: opposition pisses him off, and it shows. He has no respect for disagreement. This hardly makes him unique, but he allows it to color his rhetoric. It visibly disturbs him when people don't stand to applaud for him and his ideas. Consequently, when he talks about bipartisanship and unified goals, it all falls flat.

I swear if I hear him say, "nucular" one more time, I may resign from the assiociation of English-speaking humans.

His handlers are not getting him ready. Maybe that's as good as it can get, but the best it can get is a C- from me.

Why do I care? Because speech matters. Sure, policies and actions are more important, but when you are the Chief Orator, the public and history look to you to shape the way we talk about things of importance. When you reveal in your rhetoric that you have no tolerance for dissent, and that any effort you make toward dialogue is little more than a chimera of the worst order, you do a disservice to all who aspire to democracy.

Oh, by the way, please save us the irony of eulogizing Coretta Scott King in the same speech that you declare the rightward shift of the Supreme Court.

A RIVER RAN THROUGH US (PART II)

Sorry about that. A four-day trip to Chicago has diverted my attention. I'm back. Here we go:




After scurrying around to throw on some clothes, they came to the door.

Dusty and Clint. It was clear by their accents and all the nonverbal cues - that men learn to recognize in other men - that what we had here were two gay, native Arkansan, Shetland pony ranchers, who had a strong interest in bourbon and baseball.

We had to explain ourselves to Dusty and Clint several times before they understood our predicament. Admittedly, our situation jumped the grooves of normal expectations; but the fog of alcohol was making it even harder for them to comprehend.

"You came from where?"

"What happened, exactly?"

I felt like the family in Flanner O'Connor's story A Good Man Is Hard To Find. Jeff and I were John Wesley and June Star shouting "We've had an ACCIDENT! We've had an ACCIDENT!" I was just hoping we had not stumbled upon the Misfit and Bobby Lee, the escaped convicts that end up murdering the family in cold blood.

Before long, Dusty and Clint drew a bead on the situation and started scrambling to help. We used their phone to call the canoe outfitter. No answer. Clint drove us down to the river in his his pickup and we hauled our crew up to the house.

Finally, Jeff and Clint decided they would have to take the truck and try to find our vehicle. Good luck. We had no idea where we were, or what bridge the Suburban was supposed to be under. It was about 9:30 when they pulled down the driveway on their search.

The rest of us settled in the living room to wait. Some of us lounged on the couch and most of the kids scattered on the floor. We made small talk and pretended we were all very interested in the fate of the Cardinals. However, I couldn't shake the uneasy feeling I'd had since we came upon the goose.

I kept my eyes on Dusty. He was uncomfortable and fidgety. He kept getting up to go to another room. Each time he left, I made up a reason I needed to follow him. I had to try the outfitter's number again. I needed a glass of water. I guess I was being paranoid, but this was rural Arkansas, and these guys had to have firearms in the house. I think it's the law: Live in rural Arkansas, have gun.

After 11:00 had come and gone, Dusty started to get visibly agitated. His drunk had turned to the droop-eyed stare. I found him gazing darkly at the girls from time to time. Out of nowhere, he would pop out of his trance and ask, "How did you all get here again?" Or, "Somebody tell me what's going on again." Clint was clearly the one who kept it together around here, and Dusty was getting scared. Don't get me wrong, Dusty was a good host. He was kind and helpful, but as the hours passed, the paranoia and bourbon were burning deeper into his brain.

About 11:30 Dusty gestured to me. "C'mo...C-c-can you...c-c'mon out here...side...I need talk t' you." He busted out the front door, clearly upset and ready for a confrontation. I followed him, keeping my eyes on loose objects I could use as weapons. Dusty was a pretty small guy, I think I would have been able to take him pretty easily, but this daddy wasn't going to leave anything to chance.

He pulls me around the side of the house and starts to cry.

"What's going on here?" he sputters. "I don't know y-you. I d-don't know w-what's goin' on. Where's Clint?"

I try to reassure him. "It's okay, Dusty. This must all seem pretty weird to you. But, I'm sure they are just having a hard time finding the car."

"Clint's all I have," said Dusty, with his chin drawn toward his shoulder and the top of his head swaying back to the other shoulder. As he then turned and looked me square in the face, he said, "I'm scared."

I tried to give him a reassuring smile. "I know, Dusty. I'm sorry. Surely they'll be back any minute now."

Then, it happened. He looked me up and down. He spread his arms like Christ and hung his head. He was either that drunk, or that ashamed of this betrayal.

"Can I have a hug?" His body hiccupped a little with sobs.

I was confused. What was I supposed to do? I was still fairly new to the world of liberal sensibilities. I had been raised to believe that this man's lifestyle was sinful. Was I to support it? Was hugging him a tacit endorsement? Would he take it as a come-on? Would a kiss be next? Besides, I was still a little scared myself. My fear and the residue of adolescent homophobia bested my impulse toward grace.

"No, Dusty. I'm not going to hug you. I know you are upset...they'll...be back...soon." My words trailed off as I stood there in shame. Now I felt like crying. I had chosen the route of safety and suspicion. What was I so afraid of? How was this small, scared, drunk, gay man a threat to me? I was spinning.

A few minutes later, around midnight, Jeff and Clint pulled up in two separate vehicles. They had finally found the Suburban, after an exhaustive search of the Northern Arkansas bridge population.

With great relief, we offered our thanks and made our departure. I was experiencing a strange hangover of release and guilt.

Jeff and his family exchanged Christmas cards with Dusty and Clint for a couple of years after that. Eventually they lost touch. I'm ashamed to say that I never pursued the relationship with those men. I suppose part of me rationalized it as Jeff being our spokesman. But, I guess there were just too many secrets I had learned about all of us.

A river ran through us that day. I can't help but think that the Kings, in its sovereignty, took us where it wanted us to be; changed the course of our lives just a little. Sure, the river left us with a great story - few people get to tell about being rescued by gay Shetland pony ranchers in Arkansas - but, I always tell it with a certain amount of regret.

Float trip anyone?

A RIVER RAN THROUGH US

"You can't miss it," claimed the woman. She was assuring us that we would see the vehicle from the river. Her kids, who helped her run a river outfitter business, were putting in our canoes before they left to drop the truck at the take out spot six miles downstream.

"A big ol' bright red Chevy like this? It'll be easy to see."

It was a beautiful summer day in northern Arkansas. My family and I had joined up with some friends for a canoe trip on the Kings River: one of the best-kept secrets in the Midwest. A beautiful day and a quiet stretch of water. Ahh, sweet release. What a day.

"You'll come to a wide gravel take-out by a bridge. Just go past the bridge and you'll see it. I'll leave the keys on top of the left front tire."

Jeff told her thanks and gave her the keys to his Suburban. The nine of us stepped into our four boats and settled in for a great time away from the city.

We weren't exactly whitewater veterans, but most of us had spent a fair amount of time on the water. We had a couple of reluctant novices with us; but as is always the case, the magic and mystery of the river quickly muted all protest. Before long, we were shooting the rapids and paddle-splashing our companions like pros.

I have heard it said that a sure-fire compatibility test for a couple is a river trip in the same canoe. Canoes have a way of clarifying relationships. Disaster is ever-present, requiring constant coordination and communication. It is the perfect opportunity to negotiate conflicting views of reality. You can disagree, but physics is the final mediator, and walking away in a huff means getting very wet and uncomfortable.

On the whole, all of our relationships eventually settled into a comfortable rhythm of J-stroke and stern pry, the panic paddling of roiling foam and the lazy cruise of calm water. We stopped on gravel bars and ate. We snorkeled and lounged. We fished and frolicked, jumped from bluffs and skipped rocks. As the afternoon reached toward early evening, we came to the take-out and bridge.

At least we thought we were there.

We passed under the bridge, tired, full, and satisfied with a successful day of floating. We did not see a bright red Suburban.

We assumed, then, that by "past the bridge" she must have meant around the bend. So, we floated on down a few hundred yards, making the turn. No Suburban. In fact, no cars or parking lot. Well, maybe it was the next bend. After all, she didn't really say how far past the bridge.

The Kings is not a well-traveled river. Normally you expect a campground or river access road every mile or so. Not on the Kings. As we went around bend after bend, the afternoon began to creep toward evening, and there was no sign of civilization anywhere near the water's edge. We didn't worry, because experience had told us that we could just take out at a lower point and hitch a ride back to our car.

Except there were no lower points. Nothing. And there was no going back: the current was too strong to allow it.

By the time our situation began to get a bit usettling, we noticed that most of the houses we could see in the distance would require about a mile walk through a cornfield. Not a terrible prospect...if you had real shoes and a shirt.

Visions of Deliverance danced in my head. "You sure got a purdy mouth, boy" started to become something more than a chilling quote from a disturbing movie. Three teachers, five children, and a professional opera singer did not seem to make for a mighty force against what I was sure would soon become teeming hordes of inbred ne'er-do-wells.

Laughter and smiles were dimming with the sun. No one found it amusing when I suggested that it would soon be over when we spilled into the Gulf of Mexico. Soon we would begin to blame and turn against each other. We were exiled Israelites talking only in murmurs. And our manna supply was dwindling. How long, O Lord?

When we judged that we had probably doubled our planned distance, and evening was giving way to night, we decided we had to stop. It was getting dark, we were wet and cold. We pulled onto a gravel bar and started a small fire.

Jeff and I could make out lights from a house up the hill. So, with our families huddled together for heat and strength, we decided to go for help. We made our way up through a pasture, slowed by a skunk going up the same path ahead of us.

We soon came upon a small ranch that appeared to specialize in small horses. Shetland ponies. We shouted a few times as we approached. Sure, we were city boys, but both of us had country roots; and we knew it was a bad idea to walk up to a house in rural Arkansas unannounced, unless you wanted an assload of buckshot.

"HONK! SQUAWK!"

After nearly soiling ourselves, we realized that we had been discovered by the home's guard goose. The large winged beast strutted around the yard, neck jutted out and head cocked as if to declare, "You ain't getting inside this fence, boyfriend." We sweet-talked the bird, and it eventually allowed us to come onto the porch.

Before I went to the door, I peered in the window. It was a precaution. I was a little concerned that with the shouting and the honking no one had come out yet. As I looked in I saw two moustached men sitting on a couch in their underwear, drinking whiskey and watching a Cardinals game on television.

I took a deep breath and knocked.


(Part II soon)