Misplaced blame

Jane Brody writes: "I started life as a skinny kid, and my Russian-born grandmother did her best to fatten me up, feeding me bars of cheese, cans of evaporated milk, even sticks of butter. In her day, a slender child was vulnerable to death should a serious infectious disease strike....[W]hen food is imbued with values beyond supplying nutrients and satisfying hunger, the stage is set for problems. For example, I learned from my grandmother and my parents to associate food and eating with acceptance and love. When in my 20's I felt lost and unloved, I ate my five-foot frame into a size 14."

And look at her now, still presumably short (no shame in that), but so virtuous and wholly grained that she gets to write the "Personal Health" column. Seriously, though, is that not the most cliched, overplayed line ever? "I confused food with love." I confused the can of diet Coke directly to the left of this computer with a glass of Chimay and was sorely disappointed.

But the person who's most unfairly treated in all this is Brody's (late, I'm assuming) Russian grandmother, whom Brody blames, in part, for her own youthful chunkiness. I mean, this woman probably didn't lead the easiest life. Probably had to face disease, starvation, pogroms, the works. And now she (or her memory) has to be blamed for leading her granddaughter "to associate food and eating with acceptance and love." Oh, whatever. I can handle Mireille Giuliano blaming America for obesity, but Brody's grandmother shouldn't be held accountable.

Delta Burke's culturally absurd diet

Prior to encountering the likes of Saul Bellow, there were what I think of as the Maltzian dark ages, during which I watched a great deal of "Designing Women". So of course I had to read this profile of Delta Burke, which is structured in a similar way as the interview a while back with Mireille Giuliano, the differences being that Burke is a) not French, and b) unlikely to reject an inferior-quality croissant.

The NYT piece on Burke covers her "journey...into obesity, humiliation, self-acceptance and image adjustment," chronicling her weight and dress size fluctuations over the past few decades. We learn of modern-day Delta Burke: "She is not a skinny one today," and, "She looks a bit chubby, unequivocally pretty and entirely real." We get the picture. She's not minute. Not reportably enormous, but that doesn't mean that whatever's there ought to go unreported. Also noted is Burke's current diet: "Now, she said, she nibbles fruit throughout the day, has a bowl of matzo ball soup for lunch and some ham and cheese for dinner." OK, this is certainly curious; what would make someone choose, as their only two substantial meals, matzo ball soup AND ham and cheese? That doesn't sit right, that sort of mixing and matching. Does she, like, have a chef whom she orders to prepare her matzo ball soup, and then, a few hours later, a ham and cheese sandwich? What a job that would be, being the person behind Delta Burke's culturally absurd but calorically sound meal plan.

I should point out that Burke's character, Suzanne Sugarbaker, was always my favorite of the Designing Women, the most over-the-top, the one whose shoulder pads and garish makeup made the most sense, and the one whom the camera often lingered on when there wasn't enough material to fill an entire scene; the camera lingered on Burke for maybe a third of the episodes in which she appeared. Her character's vacant gaze more or less sums up the show, which has calming, even sedative effects which, if bottled...

Saul Bellow

While I may not have been the go-to blogger about the pope, I feel I should say something about Saul Bellow. Since first hearing of him, he always struck me as someone I should take an interest in--Jewish from Montreal, as is much of my family; all those novels with scenes at the University of Chicago and in New York City--and as the closest anyone of my background could have to a pope-like patriarch. Like Alex Bellefleur, I enjoyed Ravelstein, and most, if not all, of the other books of his I've read. The opening line of Augie March--"I am an American, Chicago born - Chicago, that somber city - and go at things as I have taught myself, free-style, and will make the record in my own way: first to knock, first admitted; sometimes an innocent knock, sometimes a not so innocent."--is pretty awesome. He, along with Philip Roth and similar, have shaped my understanding of the world. For better or worse, I feel I should add, but mostly for better. He will be missed.

Which is it?

The right wing is home of all serious intellectual inquiry and debate. No, no, scratch that, the left wing is where all the thoughtful folks hang out. Ugh, the NYT op-ed page is, like, sending me all sorts of mixed messages.

If eighth grade were a song

I don't especially care for Rufus Wainwright's "Want Two," but I don't have so many CDs, not at school, at least, so that's what's currently in my discman. There's this one song, though, where Rufus whines (yes, they're all like that), in the voice of a woman--not a high-pitched voice, he just refers to himself as female--about the one man s/he ever loved: his/her art teacher, whom s/he had while still "in uniform," who took the class to the Metropolitan Museum. This song, readers, is my madeleine. (No, that does not mean you should expect voluminous and stellar writing, just that it, like, reminds me of stuff.) Back when I wore a uniform, I had a massive crush on an art teacher at Spence who looked more than a little bit like Mr. Wainwright. Think if I'd been a young Rufus, and not a "proto-academic" 13-year-old girl, I might have had a bit more luck with this art teacher...

Anyhow, in the song, Rufus contrasts his schoolgirl self with the schoolgirl as an adult, married to an executive, wearing a "uniform-ish pants suit sort of thing," still pining for the elusive art teacher. I think I dismissed the album too quickly; anything with a line like "uniform-ish pants suit sort of thing" can't be all bad. (Assuming I'm hearing the lyrics correctly and have not imagined, due to whining distortion, a more interesting lyric than there actually is.)

What is Feminism, redux

Just got to the Reg, post-panel. I was happy enough with my speech, kinda wish I wasn't nervous about public speaking. Highlights of the evening included panelist Julie Fredrickson complaining about how everyone on the panel was invited because they were known to fit some stereotype--she identified herself as the "bimbo" and noted that two other panelists had identified themselves, respectively, as a minority woman and as a lesbian (for the record, she prefers "dyke"). After going around and saying who was supposed to be which panelist, Julie got to me and said, "Phoebe...", then asked which one I thought I was, but then quickly decided I was the "proto-academic." If one must be put into a box...

In retrospect I think I may have been the "conservative" panelist, in that not once did I say anything about gendered spaces. I actually asked whether this "woman's space" everyone was talking about was physical or metaphorical because I simply did not know. I was guessing metaphorical, but turns out it's physical, that there is/will be some kind of women's center. I guess that would be sort of like Kate and me sitting around, with her mocking me for being a blogger, but on a larger scale.

Spoken earlier this evening

Me: My arm hurts.

Kate: Blogging injury?

How does she do it?

This week's New York Magazine "Look Book" hits close to home; they've decided to profile a French lit major. I must say, reading where Julie Erdman gets her clothing ("The green coat is from Barneys, the most recent fall collection. The turtleneck is Celine. The scarf speaks for itself—Hermès." She calls Louis Vuitton "Louis.") I begin to feel like a failure as a French major. I mean, I was thrilled with my new GAP rain hat (the black one) but now wonder if it's somewhat inadequate. Still more distressing is that she claims she's able to shop this way using money she earns herself at various internships. Now, even if I eliminated mochas, cappuccinos, and impulse purchases at H&M, I really can't see how this would work out. If I also eliminated food, shampoo, toothpaste...still not seeing how a Celine turtleneck would fit in. But I identify with the clearly superior Ms. Erdman, who says, of NYU cafeteria food: "I haven’t eaten it in a very long time. You’re required to in your freshman year, but I didn’t even eat it then." That's definitely wise--I'm not sure, but I think NYU might also use Aramark's food services, in which case no self-respecting, French-majoring individual should spend too much time in the dining halls.

Swiss Guards

In order to be a Swiss Guard (you know, those funkily-dressed guys who protect the Pope), one must be a single Swiss citizen between 19 and 30 years old, Catholic, have completed the mandatory Swiss military training, finished high school, and be of "a good moral ethical background."

Now, the Catholic thing means that I'm sure most of these guards are from non-Genevan French- and Italian-speaking Switzerland (and even then, more likely Italian)*, and "good moral ethical background" generally means "virgin" from what I hear.

But there's also another requirement: you have to be taller than 174 cm, which Google calculator says is 68.5 inches (that's 5 ft., 8.5 in. for those of you with lazy minds). Maybe that's some sort of necessity because people under that look especially goofy in those uniforms--I'm not sure.

In any case, seems kinda mean to all the short Swiss Catholics out there.

Check out the Swiss Guard's homepage as well.

*UPDATE: This Swiss Guard's 2003 annual report indicates there are 136 such guards, and breaks them down by canton on page 26. The most (22 each) are from the cantons of Valais and Luzern, followed by St. Gallen (21), Bern (11), and Ticino (10). And while Valais and Ticino are both in the Italian South and Bern is right on the language line, Luzern and St. Gallen are decidedly German, so who knows.

Busy, busy

To do:

Write 5-7 minute speech on the subject of "What is Feminism?"

Eat remaining Fox and Obel bagel.

Attend a "mandatory" annual Viewpoints meeting. Wonder if it will have a larger turnout than the mandatory Viewpoints meetings I used to announce periodically when I was editor.

Find my way to the Regenstein International Airport (I'm disoriented, sorry).

Find a way to compare and contrast Bernard Lazare and Irving Kristol in a way that makes some vague amount of sense, translate the idea into French, and plop it somewhere into my not-yet-written B.A. paper.

Make some important life decisions (Chimay cheese or Camembert? Glitter eyeliner or black? Coffee or diet Coke?).

Have done recently:

Met a whole lot of incredibly smart people and been thoroughly intimidated.

Been told to go to a talk on Hegel because there will be good cheese at the reception.

Agreed to go to said talk/reception, only to realize soon after that the feminism panel is at the same time. No word on the cheese situation there...

Consumed sherry twice in one week.

Eaten at Fox and Obel two days in a row, not counting the bagel.

Pope Dies, World Cares, Wonders Why

One would have to be blind not to see from the cover of The New York Times's home page that the Pope is, indeed, dead:

And so it's mourning across the world, as the leader of the world's one billion (that's one thousand million for you Brits out there) Catholics dies. And even this athiest finds himself a bit sad, and wondering why exactly he feels so sad at the passing of someone whose influence he finds himself so often railing against.

Partially, because all death is sad. But partially, it's because even though the Pope wasn't the world's most progressive Catholic, he did indeed make himself a force for good in the world, driving towards peace and reconciliation with many of the other faiths, persuing peace and the end of Communist occupation of his homeland.

And, there's no denying that the man was extremely intelligent and an amazing thinker, who spoke some ungodly number of languages. Under his tutelage, the Church has grown, and he's provided it a vibrant voice, using the media of the 21st century to spread the message of the Church.

But, maybe, it's also because this Pope is the only one I've known. He's been Pope longer than I've been alive. And though I resent the role the Vatican plays in world affairs (this Pope did, also address the Italian Parliament), I also respect the role he tried to play.

Or maybe it's 'cause he hasn't had sex in more than 26 years.

In any case, should be interesting to get a new Pope, whose voice we hear not only in writing, but with our ears. Let us hope that, in his compassion, this new pope offers up new tools to fight the problems of the 21st century (contraception, perhaps?).

Anyone taking bets on his name? John Paul III? Or, as Eddie Izzard suggests, John Paul George, so that we can eventually get to the more popular combination of John Paul George Ringo..? Anyone..?

Sex in the city

The "conversation starters" linked to from Yglesias's blog are indeed hilarious. They also struck me as very specific to people from "real" America. Here are two New York City alternatives.

Conversation Starters: the Upper East Side private school and Stuyvesant versions

Was: Your jeans are looking a little short! How much taller do you think you've grown since last year? More changes are going to happen. Do you know what some of those changes are?

UES: Your jeans are looking a little tight! How many Dean and Deluca scones have you been eating lately? If this keeps up, no investment banker husband for you.

Stuy: Your jeans are short. Sure, you couldn't care less, you've got your robotics competition coming up, but one day you might care about these things. Pants are supposed to cover ankles. Just so you know.

Was: I haven't seen Jason around here lately. Sometimes relationships with old friends change during teen years. How are things going with your friends?

UES: I haven't seen Jason around here lately. He's off at Hotchkiss.

Stuy: I haven't seen Jason around here lately. Or anyone, for that matter. Put that AP review book down!

Was: Ms. Martin told me that there are five girls at your school that are pregnant. What do your friends think about teenagers having a baby?

UES: First, go to Dr. Martin on 70th and 3rd, then pick up your prescription at Duane Reade at 74th and 3rd.

Stuy: So, I heard one of your friends went to the movies with a boy. Good for her! No, dear, I don't think 17's too young to hold hands. Why does the thought of that make you uncomfortable?

Was: I know that a lot of your friends from work have their own cars. But they're a lot older than you are, and I don't want you to ride with them alone.

UES: One day, you might consider getting something called a "job." But now, hurry up, the driver's waiting.

Stuy: The 2-3 isn't running today. Good luck getting around today.

Was: I was at the store yesterday and ran into Kendrick, Mrs. Jakes' son. He joined the military after high school. What do you think you want to do when you graduate from high school?

UES: Well, I went to Williams and your mother went to Wellesley. Which will it be?

Stuy: HARVARD!

Was: I know that you would like to have a family some day. Tell me about what you would look for in a wife (or husband). How will you know she (he) can be trusted to share the future with you?

UES: As long as you're a banker and she teaches kindergarden at Nightingale, you'll be fine! Till then, your therapist can help with these matters.

Stuy: Once you've finished graduate school, I'll start setting you up with people from the appropriate immigrant background.

Tradition

Since I'm speaking about feminism in a couple days, I thought I might turn my attention to two recent articles, both of which offer an upbeat take on traditional matchmaking. Relatively independent Hasidic and Indian-American women are turning to parents or matchmakers who allow a few modern customs (women's choice matters, or looks matter) while sticking primarily to the religion-background-job-type information.

This neotraditional matchmaking might actually be a good thing for feminism. It potentially eliminates the "Sex and the City"-style boy-craziness, the situations in which professional (or pre-professional) women gather to discuss not careers or ideas but whether some dude is going to call. Also, with matchmaking, the emphasis on looks for men and women starts to even out a bit, whereas when people do things on their own, women's looks and men's income start to matter a whole lot more than when seemingly random factors like background get added into the equation. Can't say I see how this type of matchmaking is any worse (i.e. less personal/romantic/spontaneous) than people going on websites themselves to find people who fit whatever it is they think they should be looking for. Who knows. What I do know, though, is that I'm posting this from my dorm's laundry room, which seems to me like a really fabulous place to blog. Not such a fabulous place to do laundry with the hope of actually getting dry, detergent-free results, but can't have everything.

Party on, Chicago style

There was (is?) a party down the street so crowded you cannot move. It's shocking, really, all the more so when you think about the fact that what's making it so crowded is that parliamentary debaters from other schools, at Chicago for a tournament, are all filing in continuously. In any case, went down the street in a "party outfit" (i.e. not the jeans I wore on the two flights I took earlier today), then returned as soon as I was able to physically extract myself from the premises. Then, got to hang out a bit, back at the dorm, with Kate, along with a couple debaters we'd met along the way (actually, Stuy friend and occasional blogger Will and his debating partner--and, yeah, occasional blogger--Alan. But "met along the way" adds an aura of mystery and spontaneity that would otherwise be missing from this story.) We ate mini Ritter Sport chocolate (why "Sport"?) and Haribo peach gummies, both souvenirs from visits to Viennese supermarkets. Kate asked if I had any cold drinks, and no one seemed that interested in the sole cold diet Coke in my refrigerator, nor in any of the lukewarm ones sitting in front of it. After such debauchery (carbohydrates, debaters, and, earlier, standing in a packed room which may have contained alcohol, though it was far too packed to tell for sure), I think the time has come to go to sleep.

April Fools

Apologies for being negligent in blogging duties. (B.A. duties as well; both will recommence at once.) I was out of town for a job interview (!) but am now back in Chicago. I was welcomed back by a 6 bus driver who stopped the bus right before getting off Lake Shore Drive, turned off the lights, and said "Everybody out." This happens a lot on CTA buses--everyone gets kicked off and has to wait for the next one. The buses have this tendency to spontaneously ignite. But getting off a bus right on the Drive, in the rain? Not good, not good at all. And then, as some riders had suspected, it was revealed that this bus mishap was in fact an April Fools prank. (I figured something might be up when I noticed a distinct lack of that familiar burning rubber smell.) Many on the bus (not me, I assure) applauded once the driver confessed. Then, about five minutes later, the bus started to break down for real, with the back doors ceasing to function.

In other news, what should I make of the fact that, in recent days, on two separate flights, the (adult) passenger seated next to me began to cry? First was the woman who teared up at the end of Wimbledon. Then today was an older woman, flying for the first time ever, who was quite moved to land at O'Hare.

Dutch soccer "riddle"

The NYT reports on a Dutch soccer team that inexplicably has been come to be known as "Jewish," that receives anti-Semitic taunts from rival team fans, and that embraces some bizarre soccer-hooligan interpretation of Jewish and Israeli culture. The Times finds this bizarre; can't say I do. That a Dutch team is called Jewish seems no weirder to me than that a Cleveland, Ohio, team should be called "the Indians." Neither is especially PC, both rely on the fact that the groups the teams are chanelling have been knocked down so many times that they remain, in the public consciousness of the respective countries, largely as relics of the past, as icons and not as individuals.

That said, I still have this defense of political correctness to write. It might end up being a Maroon column rather than a blog post, but either way, any day now...

Jet-lagged and up nice and early...

Well, come one, come all, to the "What is Feminism?" panel discussion (this Monday, April 4, at 7 p.m., in Stuart 101) where I'll be giving a 5-7 minute speech, or so they tell me.

They (a different they) also keep informing me that I am managing editor of our "conservative"-but-not-really-conservative campus journal. I have yet to learn what this will entail, other than "managing" and doing something different with the collar of my polo shirts (made all the more complicated by the fact that I don't really wear polo shirts, not since the nine years I was forced to do so). Oh well, should be interesting.

And, in tangentially related preppy news, Matthew Yglesias's observations about income disparities at Dalton ("I went to an expensive private high school where all but a tiny handful of scholarship students must have been from families in the top one or two percent of the income distribution spectrum. In one sense, then, it was an incredibly narrow slice of American society. Nevertheless, the level of inequality in family income present among the population of Dalton parents has to be much larger than that on display in a normal school."), all true of Spence as well. Basically, Spence didn't have middle class kids. This was something of a problem for me, since my family's lack of car or country house, yet the fact that we lived in an upscale part of Manhattan, put us between the scholarship families and the Bloombergs, etc. There were a few other families like my own, and those of us kids who knew our bubble sheets ended up at Stuyvesant or Hunter, places (at least Stuyvesant) where anything goes. But we were oddities, neither the admirable Prep for Prep kids nor the folks who, by middle school, were making regular appearances in socialite magazines. Was it a hard life? No, but a confusing one.

But what was so strange, on a more general level, about Spence's lack of middle class was that the kids I knew (this was middle school; things may change in high school) were not for one second aware that they weren't "normal." The non-scholarship kids assumed that their families were about average, and that anyone who went to public school, any public school, was an impoverished resident of a slum, most likely located somewhere in one of those mysterious outer boroughs one might pass on the way out to the country.

A recent Spence Bulletin included a letter second-graders had written to then-President-Elect Clinton, in which the girls, in polished kiddie handwriting, urge the President to help the public schools, which are unfortunate and unlike the private schools, where everyone has everything they need or want. The wording the girls used in this letter was patronizing to the point of being cringe-worthy. The girls took for granted that all public schools are inner-city public schools (odd, given Spence's proximity to Hunter) and that we really ought to help them. Does the average public school need more help than Spence does? Sure. But did Spence second-graders really need to be given the impression that anyone who goes to a public school is in need of charity and, worse, sympathy?

"Here's your strudel, you... American"

Some random stuff left over from my nearly-Internet-free week:

1) It's not so good to be an American, at this moment in history, who does not speak the language of the country in which she is a tourist. In Vienna, I got to be one of those Americans who never bothered to learn anything but English. (My German is limited to thanking a waiter for handing me apple strudel.) That I know French as well, and can semi-communicate in Italian and now Hebrew, hardly matters. I actually considered going into cafes and claiming to only speak French, just to see if that would get a different reception than speaking English, but didn't bother. The speed-B.A.-writing will offer plenty of opportunity to revive my knowledge of that language...

2) Matthew Yglesias revisits Green Day's "Dookie." That album reminds me of sixth grade, when the cool kids dyed their hair with Kool Aid and when I still bought tapes--my "Dookie" was a tape, and it's probably buried somewhere with beat-up Doc Martens and other relics of that bygone era. Interschool dances were sort of eh, making Green Day a definite highlight of that time. Yglesias also suggests more quinoa-blogging, which is a message that the New York Times, for one, has long-since heard. The audience is out there. Does Marian Burros have a blog?

And, in the What Would Phoebe Do? department:

3) A history class about the left or a cross-listed class about religion and the First Amendment? Much depends on which has space open. But I'm a senior, and, as Rizzo said of being a senior, "we're gonna rule the school," so that may not be the deciding factor.

4) When I finally mobilize myself and get to a nearby coffee shop, should I get a cappuccino or an iced coffee? It's sunny, and warm when you're walking but chilly when you're standing still. Another thing to consider is the temperature inside the coffee shop itself. Can't remember offhand if there's a difference in price (it's been a while since I've ordered things "iced" in Chicago) but that might also be something to consider.

The quarter has officially begun

Not only am I at the Reg, but I just a saw a (surprisingly nice-looking) man picking his nose while using a nearby computer. Hurray for Chicago, where even the hot people are just a little bit off.

Comparative literature (and cinema)

Over the course of many flights, I had a chance to read many fashion magazines. Well, three: Vogue, Elle, and upstart Nylon. Between the three magazines, two had profiles of Beck, at least two made a fuss about Jonathan Safran Foer, and all, as far as I could tell, showed the same clothes. Nylon, however, is apparently for hipsters (or possibly just for teenagers, given that many teenaged stars were interviewed for the issue). This means that new bands are mentioned, and that the models wear the same designer outfits as in Vogue or Elle, but without any glamor or subtlety. At one point, Nylon basically orders its readers to buy trench coats. The more established magazine would just assume its readers understand that, if an item of clothing is shown within its pages, then you're being urged to buy it.

Vogue and Elle, on the other hand, were more or less indistinguishable, except that Vogue's latest is the "Shape" issue, which means that identically-built A-through-D-list celebrities were divided, in what seems like an almost arbitrary fashion, into the following categories: short, tall, curvy, pregnant, and--get this--thin. How does one dress to compensate for the unfortunate fact of having been born skinny? That Vogue is, year in and year out, devoted to this very problem is ignored. We instead get a too-long article by Cameron Diaz about how tough it is to effortlessly thin. As with most such articles, we get the whole, "kids teased me, kids are cruel," line. We also, strangely, get to hear about how desperately she wished (and still wishes!) she were fatter. This all might be slightly believable (the coexistence in this society of ways to straighten and curl hair suggests that different people want different things) were it not for all the accompanying photos of flawless Ms. Diaz, in various skimpy outfits, reminding us that, effortless or not, her body brings her fame and money, and should she reach the point where she gets that bit of flesh around the belly she claims she so desires, that money and fame would not last long. At the end of the piece, Diaz urges women to love their bodies for what they are. Oh well.

That, though, was not the peak of airplane-entertainment dippiness. On one of my flights, I had the chance to see what may well be the two most white movies I've ever seen. Now, I am, by most accounts, white, so I'm probably not supposed to notice such things, but Wimbledon really pushed things to the limit. Wimbledon is a movie lacking both pigment and plot. In the film, a very blond guy (like, he might have benefitted from some mascara) meets a very blond girl, and they play a whole bunch of tennis. There's never any real doubt that the two will both live happily ever after and win all the important matches in which they play. The villains (i.e. rival tennis players) and goofballs (a divorced, money-grubbing tennis agent) of the movie can all be identified by their darker coloring. At the end of the movie, I turned and noticed that the preppy middle-aged woman sitting next to me had tears welling up in her eyes. Kirsten Dunst and the British guy finally spawned! And he won Wimbledon! This was just too much excitement, it seemed.

Then (this was a long flight) came First Daughter, the story of Katie Holmes and her uncomfortably close relationship to a man playing, at one and the same time, her father and the president of the United States. That Holmes is maybe 30 and the actor playing her father perhaps 40 makes all their cutesy late-night bonding scenes more than a little creepy. Also unsettling was the subplot of Holmes's roommate, a black girl with attitude (as opposed to Holmes, who's got some tasteful stud earrings, shiny hair, and little else) who doesn't like that Holmes, as the president's daughter, takes her out of the spotlight. The roommate is chided, by both Holmes's character and the film itself, for a) demanding attention, and b) kissing too many boys, all of whom, needless to say, are black. She does not, in effect, know her place, but at least she has the decency to stick with her own kind as Holmes does the same. Ick. During this movie, I should add, the woman next to me was equally involved in the proceedings, and looked up at the screen with her hands almost in prayer, waiting to see if things would turn out for this J. Crew-personified heroine.

Foreign Policy: North Korea

Well I've had my snarky say about US foreign policy and it's time to back this up with some substantive foreign policy discussion. I'll start--in a risky move--with North Korea.

What inspires my post is a quote from Richard Perle, a well-known neocon hawk who, though he has no actual role in the government, is rather well connected to a number of neocon think tanks.

Mr. Perle said the following in an interview with PBS's Frontline:

Question: [The Clinton Administration's policy of engagement] was a policy that was advocated by the South Koreans, under Kim Dae Jung. Kim Dae Jung came to Washington, for instance, early on in his administration and felt rebuffed by President Bush.

Answer: I think Kim Dae Jung's interests, and the interests of the South Koreans, are not at all identical to ours. They have an interest in doing everything possible to avoid military conflict, and it's understandable. Seoul is within artillery range of thousands of North Korean artillery tubes. They would much prefer to take a risk that North Korea will become not only a nuclear power, but the nuclear bread basket of the world, building and selling nuclear weapons, as they are now building and selling missile technology, and anything else they can lay their hands on.

From the South Korean point of view, that is a lesser immediate threat than artillery landing on Seoul. So it's hardly surprising that the South Koreans are going to see this differently from the way we see it. But our president has, first and foremost, a commitment to the security of the United States.

The reason this quote is important is because it indicates the logic for the policy of non-engagement which currently underlies U.S. foreign policy towards North Korea. Since the end of the Clinton Administration, there's been little actual talking going being done on what is a very real issue: the imminent threat that North Korea will gain nuclear weapons, and, with nuclear weapons in hand, use them against South Korea, or, even worse, given them to terrorists.

Like it or not, U.S. foreign policy for the last fifty years has been built on the premise that the interests of South Korea and the U.S. are one and the same. We currently have thirty-seven thousand troops in South Korea. They're not there to simply sit and promote "regional stability." They're there to directly counteract and potential threat against North Korea. They're the tripwire which ensures American commitment to North Korea.

Perle's logic that somehow the South Koreans have no interest in a de-nuclearized North is absurd; of course they want a de-nuclearized North. The United States could pull out those 37,000 troops at any moment, leaving South Korea with nothing (and, in fact, we're doing just that). A nuclearized North essentially ends any hope at re-unification between North and South that includes any semblance of democracy or capitalism, barring some amazing change of heart by a future North Korean leader. And while the South Koreans may be less worried about the threat posed by nuclear proliferation into terrorist hands, the idea that somehow U.S. interests are very different from South Korean interests is absurd.

But what's most worrying about Perle's logic is that it sets up a straw man, essentially claiming that any sort of engagement on any terms other than the U.S.'s terms is "appeasement." But let's evaluate the other side of this straw man. Say he's right. Say appeasement isn't the answer. So now what? If appeasement isn't t he answer, it's time to act militarily! If you're not going to pursue non-peaceful means of keeping someone from nuclear weapons, you have no choice but to (a) act militarily (b) abandon your goals, and wait while the DPRK develops nuclear weapons.

What the Bush administration seems to lack is an understanding of the idea that it's not in North Korea's interests to de-nuclearize: it's in ours. Though the average North Korean might benefit from democracy, capitalism, and an open society (the lack thereof apparently excuses our label of "axis of evil") the average North Korean is also completely alientaed from any ability to effect change in his government. The decision-maker in DPRK is Kim Jong-Il, and it's him we have to deal with. If we're to deal with him, we have to make it worth his while to de-nuclearize, or wait until he does and use nuclear deterrance.

A dangerous game Mr. Bush is playing, talking out one side of his mouth about the need to stop nuclear proliferation, and on the other side doing little to stop it. Though his tough rhetoric may have helped win him an election, I wonder how it's helping us deal with this very real threat to national security.

Back, Part II

Several buses, taxis, planes, countries, and states later, I'm back in Chicago. Blogging and emailing will resume shortly.

Vienna

 

Food

 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 

Fashion

 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 

Animals