I’m not sure why some of Shakespeare’s plays remain classroom favorites and others go in and out of fashion.  Most of the students I’ve taught recently have worked with Romeo and Juliet and A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and a few know Othello and The Merchant of Venice.  However, just as the Iliad, most of Dickens, and Huck Finn seem to have fallen off the the radar, Julius Caesar doesn’t often pop up in ordinary conversation.  I couldn’t seem to escape it in my own school days, not that I had anything against it; it was so commonly quoted then that familiarity bred undeserved disdain.

I came of age at a time in which public speaking, oratory, declamation was as important as penmanship and spelling.  I never mastered penmanship to any degree and was a misunderstood speller as I used British conventions (honour/ colour/ metre /theatre / liquorice / grey / cosy / draught / plough / aeroplane / aesthetic / pyjamas).  I had happily spent my formative years reading Dickens, Agatha Christie and Conan Doyle; those spelling issues persist to this day and may eventually land me in gaol.  Ah, but declamation was my meat!  Today’s tyros compete in spelling bees and geography bees; I regularly prepared for and occasionally won, speaking contests.

And, to connect the dots, Julius Caesar was a treasure trove of great oratory, although Marc Antony’s funeral oration was almost always the schoolboy’s first choice.  It appeared so frequently that “Friends.  Romans.  Countrymen.  Lend me your ears.” became fair game in cartoons and comedies.  The structure of the speech made memorization relatively easy, and the obvious points of emphasis allowed even the most tone-deaf orator to get through the address without much damage to the play or to the speaker.

I’ll return to Marcus Antonius and the particular genius of that oration, but there are a number of other remarkable constructions that deserve some attention.  As I read the play now, I am increasingly impressed with Shakespeare’s ability to convey nuanced characterization with the use of one or two specific words; a short interaction often determines the tone of the entire play.

Julius Caesar begins as Caesar is about to return to Rome after a successful military campaign against the sons of his former compatriot, Pompey.  Crowds are forming, the atmosphere is boisterous; within minutes, and without instruction, we understand that Rome itself may fall to this conquering hero; ordinary working people find him irresistable.  Equally quickly, we see that there are those, and they are many, who fear the loss of their position and place.  We’ll spend most of our time with the noblest Romans, senators from families with impressive lineage; Marcus Brutus we learn is, “the noblest Roman of them all,” although the line delivered by Marc Antony is dripping with irony as he seems to admire Brutus’ motives for killing his best friend, excusing him in order to excoriate him.

But I digress.  The Senators plot the murder of Caesar for the reason that we might expect; they think their days as top dogs are numbered, although most of their rhetoric has to do with the preservation of liberty for all Romans.  Underneath their polished debate steam two strong unarticulated convictions:  ordinary Romans do not have the capacity to rule themselves, and ordinary Romans are dangerous when crossed.

The opening lines of the play are delivered by Flavius, a tribune.  Since Shakespeare picked up his extraordinary knowledge of things beyond his own experience by digging up tales he had read in his schooldays and by hanging out at pubs and listening carefully to stories told by those who traveled, we can’t be sure what his understanding of the role of tribune was, and since there were several sorts of tribunes, we’ll have to guess that Flavius is a sort of peacekeeper, not entirely an agent of the patricians, but not entirely pals with the plebians.

Here we go.

ACT 1. SCENE 1. Rome. A street.
Enter FLAVIUS, MARULLUS, and certain Commoners

FLAVIUS

Hence! home, you idle creatures get you home:
Is this a holiday? what! know you not,
Being mechanical, you ought not walk
Upon a labouring day without the sign
Of your profession? Speak, what trade art thou?en

Flavius appears miffed, affronted by the presence of an ordinary person, dressed as an ordinary person, on the streets of Rome, without the tools that reveal the trade the commoner practices.  In Shakespeare’s time, a mechanical was a laborer with a specific skill, as the Midsummer Night’s Bottom is a weaver and Tom Snout is a tinker.  Hamlet’s sparring partner, the grave digger, is a mechanical.

Mechanicals were often played by a troupe’s comic actors, and they often serve to confuse their betters; in the case of Much Ado’s Constable, Dogberry, the confusion created almost leads to tragedy.  Flavius will be confounded by a mender of shoes, a cobbler, as the word “cobbler” also means a person who “cobbles” odd jobs together.  Let’s assume that this comic exchange also allows late-comers to find their way to their place so that the best lines can be delivered to an audience paying attention.

The better lines fall to Marullus, and while Flavius has revealed his contempt for the lower class, Marullus will put some meat on the bones of the larger issue; crowds for Caesar validate Caesar’s bid for power.  Marullus will attempt some quick re-education of the commoners, and that exhortation is helpful in advancing the plot, but my interest is in the language Shakespeare gives to Marullus.

Wherefore rejoice? What conquest brings he home?
What tributaries follow him to Rome,
To grace in captive bonds his chariot-wheels?
You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things!
O you hard hearts, you cruel men of Rome,
Knew you not Pompey? Many a time and oft
Have you climb’d up to walls and battlements,
To towers and windows, yea, to chimney-tops,
Your infants in your arms, and there have sat
The livelong day, with patient expectation,
To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome:
And when you saw his chariot but appear,
Have you not made an universal shout,
That Tiber trembled underneath her banks,
To hear the replication of your sounds
Made in her concave shores?
And do you now put on your best attire?
And do you now cull out a holiday?
And do you now strew flowers in his way
That comes in triumph over Pompey’s blood? Be gone!
Run to your houses, fall upon your knees,
Pray to the gods to intermit the plague
That needs must light on this ingratitude.

Not bad!  Let’s assume that the mechanicals hear blah, blah, blah – go home, while we are filled in on the political shift.  This speaker uses rhetorical flourishes and keeps a fairly complicated structure in place from start to finish, but this language is too large for him and the occasion.  You rocks, you stones… wait for it … you senseless things.

In the next scene we meet Caesar for the first time.  Caesar has some memorable and oft quoted lines, but few of them are lengthy or polished.  He is a soldier, a wily tactician, for the most part, plain spoken.  He’s not entirely unaware of the hard feelings some may have toward him, and in describing Casca, one of the plotting senators, Caesar famously observes:

Let me have men about me that are fat;
Sleek-headed men and such as sleep o’ nights:
Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look;
He thinks too much: such men are dangerous.

In response to Antony’s appraisal of Casca, Caesar argues that Cassius is more to be feared.  Why?

He reads much;
He is a great observer and he looks
Quite through the deeds of men: he loves no plays,
As thou dost, Antony; he hears no music;
Seldom he smiles, and smiles in such a sort
As if he mock’d himself and scorn’d his spirit
That could be moved to smile at any thing.
Such men as he be never at heart’s ease
Whiles they behold a greater than themselves…

To the point and concise.  Caesar is no fool, and his language is purposeful.  In his final moment, as he twitches to his death, stabbed on the steps of the Senate, he suffers the final blow, delivered by Brutus, a man Caesar considered a friend.

Et Tu, Brute! Then fall Caesar.

No lingering death throes rumination on the certainty of betrayal, no blood-soaked admonitions or dire warnings.  Then fall Caesar.  Of course, Romeo is also pretty darned concise at the end.  “Thus with a kiss I die,” but he’s had some lovely rhapsodies during the rest of the show.  Caesar keeps it brief.

OK, at last, the true purpose of this lengthy recapitulation.  I find in the two funeral orations the best example of Shakespeare’s genius.  Not only are there moments in each oration that are exquisite examples of sophisticated rhetoric, the two in comparison are a primer in the ways in which character, voice, and tone accompany particular kinds of language.  The two orations, one delivered by the most respected Senator in the nation and the other by a more roughly hewn soldier, have diametrically opposed intents.  Brutus is charged with placating a crowd that had witnessed the murder of the most famous and admired man in Rome; Antony, under close scrutiny lest he strike back at the conspirators, intends to rip the togas off the blooded traitors while seemingly sticking to the script he’s been told to follow.

And Caesar’s spirit, ranging for revenge,
With Ate by his side come hot from hell,
Shall in these confines with a monarch’s voice
Cry ‘Havoc,’ and let slip the dogs of war;
That this foul deed shall smell above the earth
With carrion men, groaning for burial.

Brutus speaks first, with all the weight and dignity of his station.  He counts on his reputation as a man of honor ( or, as some might say, honour) to convince the crowd that he and his fellow conspirators have acted from the highest of motives and with the interest of the common people first in their thoughts and deeds.  And, he does a pretty good job of it.  The rhetorical construction of his most famous assertion, “Not that I loved Caesar less, but that I loved Rome more,” is essentially the form John F. Kennedy’s speechwriter used in the “Ask not what your country can do for  you…” and it still sounds compelling.  I’d give Brutus a solid A- on the address, complimenting him on the structure of the piece, but reminding him that some of the convolutions of language may not have been as effective as he had hoped.  The “If then” construction might not have been not all that easy to follow in the heat of the moment.

Be patient till the last.
Romans, countrymen, and lovers! hear me for my
cause, and be silent, that you may hear: believe me
for mine honour, and have respect to mine honour, that
you may believe: censure me in your wisdom, and
awake your senses, that you may the better judge.
If there be any in this assembly, any dear friend of
Caesar’s, to him I say, that Brutus’ love to Caesar
was no less than his. If then that friend demand
why Brutus rose against Caesar, this is my answer:
–Not that I loved Caesar less, but that I loved
Rome more. Had you rather Caesar were living and
die all slaves, than that Caesar were dead, to live
all free men? As Caesar loved me, I weep for him;
as he was fortunate, I rejoice at it; as he was
valiant, I honour him: but, as he was ambitious, I
slew him. There is tears for his love; joy for his
fortune; honour for his valour; and death for his
ambition. Who is here so base that would be a
bondman? If any, speak; for him have I offended.
Who is here so rude that would not be a Roman? If
any, speak; for him have I offended. Who is here so
vile that will not love his country? If any, speak;
for him have I offended. I pause for a reply.

And it works.  As we have learned in our own time, crowds can be swayed, and Romans shift from anger to acceptance (appreciation?) by the time Brutus is done, leaving Antony facing a hostile crowd, as the Senators had hoped.

Now, hardly breaking a sweat, Shakespeare jumps the rhetoric up a notch, giving Antony an A+ speech and inciting the crowds to riot.  In case you’ve not heard it spoken, go to:

I like the Brando version because he comes across as a tough guy working a crowd that wants his head.

Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears;
I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their bones;
So let it be with Caesar. The noble Brutus
Hath told you Caesar was ambitious:
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Caesar answer’d it.
Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest–
For Brutus is an honourable man;
So are they all, all honourable men–
Come I to speak in Caesar’s funeral.
He was my friend, faithful and just to me:
But Brutus says he was ambitious;
And Brutus is an honourable man.
He hath brought many captives home to Rome
Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill:
Did this in Caesar seem ambitious?
When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept:
Ambition should be made of sterner stuff:
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;
And Brutus is an honourable man.
You all did see that on the Lupercal
I thrice presented him a kingly crown,
Which he did thrice refuse: was this ambition?
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;
And, sure, he is an honourable man.
I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke,
But here I am to speak what I do know.
You all did love him once, not without cause:
What cause withholds you then, to mourn for him?
O judgment! thou art fled to brutish beasts,
And men have lost their reason. Bear with me;
My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar,
And I must pause till it come back to me.

Now that he has the crowd, he will coyly pretend to be reluctant to reveal all that Caesar has left to the people of Rome in his will.  Voices swell as the tide turns and the conspirators are seen as the murderers they have been (Revenge! About! Seek! Burn! Fire! Kill! Slay!  Let not a traitor live!).

I am impressed that Shakespeare writes Romeo’s first encounter with Juliet so that they finish each other’s sentences in iambic pentameter – pretty good trick – but to write an excellent speech for one actor and an excellent plus plus for the next?

I am mute with admiration (finally).

I don’t know when it began.

I’m not a close observer of merchandising ploys.  I’ll notice an ad that is disturbing or awkward or  uncommonly annoying.  Sure, pastel bears shilling toilet paper is mildly arresting, and the degree to which they describe measures of butt pleasure is slightly off-putting, but their playful hygene hijinx seems fairly benign.

Speaking of bears, one of my best friends, Ken Stewart, a paragon of creative merchandising, came up with the idea of linking Christmas, polar bears, and Coca Cola.  It is hard now to remember a time in which holidays did not include sledding bears, skating bears, caroling bears, luging bears, in which yodeling bears did not animate an Arctic wonderland,  quaffing every polar bear’s favorite beverage.

So, I give credit to Coke for all sorts of handsome advertising, from jolly Santas at their ease, to turn-of-the-century Gibson girls.  Who tried to teach the world to sing?  Who softened Mean Joe Greene?

OK, but tonight I grabbed a can of Diet Coke, no longer knowing what to expect.  I’m a customer of habit.  Keep the same colors; keep the same logo.  Don ‘t change the type face.  Don’t mess around with my soda.  But, in the last few years, Diet Coke has sold fashion cans (Marc Jacobs and Jean Paul G), swirls of color generated randomly by Hewlitt Packard, and, in an oddly conceived attempt to personaize the Diet Coke experience, slammed both first names and what someone presumably considers charming sobriquets on the sides of the cans.  I’m still not sure why I would be especially moved to buy cans intended for Bobby, Heather, Prija, Cuppy, or Jenn.  What does the run of the mill customer do with  “BFF”, “Go Getter”, “Handsome”,  or “Star”?  I want a Coke.  I’m no star, no one’s BFF.  Can I fake it?

Look, I’ll still drink anything that fizzes, is roughly muddy brown in color, and has no calories.  Tastes like copper tubing?  OK with me.  But tonight I grabbed a can, settled down to watch th NBA finals, and found myself looking at the words,

“You’re beautiful it’s true”.

Even with punctuation the message would have unnerved me.  Affirmation goes a long way, and I endorse encoragement in almost any form, but unsolicited observation about my appearance is just creepy.  I’ll admit to some sensitivity in that regard; I was stalked by an admirer/hunter in my college years.  He left notes describing my appearance day-by-day.  The notebook was found in a closet along with articles of clothing and personal effects he had lifted from my room.  The Security Team thought it was a kindness to show me the notebook; it was not.

The issue, I think, is that my Diet Coke was remarking on my physical appearance.  Had it only promised “You will meet a dangerous challenge,” as a fortune cookie once did, I’d be concerned but not aggrieved.  As an aside, the fear of litigation must have changed the fortune cookie writng teams; I haven’t seen a fortune in years.  “You are thoughtful and kind,” is not a prediction of any sort.  To return to the subject under discussion, holding that can of Diet Coke, I felt slightly soiled, as if I had purchased a Fembot to compliment me on my manly good looks.

Perhaps I will find comfort in the next several iterations of can design.  The first, an extension of the HP randomly generated patterns, now finds its way to a line of curved bottles.  The next is a nod to “One Brand” advertising, placing increasingy large patches of red in the whole line of Coke products, as though we did not have the wit to connect Coke Zero, Coke Light, and Diet Coke with the grandaddy of Coke products, the somewhat original Coca Cola.

Only North Koreans and Cubans are denied access to the full range of beverages offered under the wider Coca Cola umbrella.  Mexico drinks the most cola,approximately 745 Cokes a year per person.  We lag behind, only averaging 401 Cokes per year, per person.  Perhaps we can catch up with our southern neighbors, if we take the challenge seriously and spend just a few more hours a day hitting Coke products hard.  It will take resolve and strength of will, and perhaps it is in this light that the curious nature of can graphics starts to make sense.

The new generation of cans and bottles are not simply designed, they are designed to be unique.  This could be the first mass movement dedicated to the distinctive experience of each individual.

I’ll drink to that.

Yuval Levin’s recent book, The Fractured Republic, argues that the two major political parties are trapped in nostalgic fantasy, fantasies that are so inimically at odds with each other that there is little room for agreement at the most basic, unconscious, and compelling levels.

Republicans, Levin argues, long for a golden age of homogeneity, one in which family values were clear and universally accepted.  School children were apple-cheeked, happily preparing for the Christmas pagent, sticking gummy whiskers to their pre-pubescent cheeks to portray Wise Men bringing gifts to the Christ Child.  Names were easy to pronounce; faces were familiar.  Oh, and the might of the only power unscathed by invasion, still capable of large-scale production, the only nation wth nuclear weaponry, the only nation with a rebouding economy confirmed the accession ofthe United Sates to the position of preeminent world power.

Democrats hearken back to the New Deal and four terms of FDR’s presidency during which the extension of governmental involvement in the running of the nation’s economy not only brought the nation back from depression but began a process of inclusion.  Unions and newly enfranchised minorities, immigrants and idealists joined together to build an America that was both secure and prosperous.

There’s nothing wrong with looking back, seeking the foundations of belief that bring political conviction … unless core beliefs are bound to circumstances that no longer exist. There’s nothing simple about diversity, or globalization, or a technological revoution, but virtually none of the elements of contemporary realpolitik proceed from convictions commonly accepted if not commonly held.

We are nearing the end of a disturbingly contentious season of primary campaigns, lacking both civility and promise.  Both Bernie Sanders and Donald Trump have tapped into the frustration and confusion that afflicts a nation in transition.  Trump looks back to a time before people of color had a place in the nation and Sanders promises the revolution that did not happen in the wake of activist protest in the 1960’s.  Libertarians may appeal to moderate Republicans and the Sanders Democrats; a conservative independent candidate may draw some of the true believers in the Republican Party and evangelicals who find Trump transparently amoral.  It appears unlikely that the general election will bring compromise and the establishment of common ground.  Reporters facing a Trump salvo in which he called a reporter from ABC a “sleaze” asked if this was the tone and tenor we might expect durng the course of a Trump presidncy.  The presumptive nominee assured the press that his contempt for the dishonest press would remin unabated.   On the left, the most vehement of Sanders supporters refer to “Hitlery” Clinton as a marionette dancing to the tunes played by Wall Street.

At some point, fissures become fractures.  The contempt that each set of contenders feels for the others leaves little room for compromise or cooperation.  We’ve already seen the administration of the essential functions of goverment paralyzed as partisan battles take precedence over efficacy; it may be that even at this juncture, too many people have been too wounded to work shoulder to shoulder with the other.  At some point, the complexity of ordering a thoroughly intricate global structure predicts plutocracy at best and tyrany and kleptocracy at worst.  Nasty racial and ethnic bullying and natavist thuggery are distractions, momentary emotional release, but the fabric of civility, once torn, is not easy to patch up again.

What can hold the Republic together?  What truths, finally, do we truly find self-evident?

Duty, Honor, Country?  All men created equal?  Honest pay for an honest day’s work?  The best government is that which governs least?  True Democracy proceeds from enlightened self-interest?  A woman has the right to choose?  God as revealed in scripture holds the nation to absoute standards of belief and behavior?  No child should go to bed hungry?  We are a nation of immigrants celebrating diversity?  We are a nation founded on Christian principles?  We are an English speaking people?  What is good for Wall Street is good for the USA?  Protected land should be held in trust for all Amercans?  We have an obligation to protect a fragile world environment?  We have an obligation to bring American democracy to other nations?  We have an obligation to secure the well being of America first?  The nation exists in order to secure the liberty and dignity of each individual?  Each state has the right to order its own affairs?

Transient isssues capture the headlines, as the furor over bathrooms suggests.  The issues in that case are complicated and reflect differences of conviction that go way byond the actions of a governor or state legislature.  At the core, the issue is really who do we see as human?

Who do we see as human, and what obligation do we as a nation have to secure their well being?

Much has been made of the regional character of Amercan lives and politics.  We can talk about Red States and Blue States, about  Cascadia and the mythical country of Jefferson, the Foundry, Dixie, the Breadbasket, MexAmerica, the Islands, and Ecotopia, the Nine Nations of North America, about  bio-regions and social norms, but the fissures, even within these subsets of nationhood, are clear and dangerous.  The sensibilities of Portland and Eugene are not the sensibilities of Pendleton and Burns.  Bakersfield is not Berkeley.

Fractious and angry rhetoric may accomplish what civil war, depression, and riots in city streets could not.  No matter the outcome of this election, we may remain a nation at war with itself.

http://www.npr.org/2016/05/17/478337140/obama-guidelines-to-protect-transgender-students-is-life-changing

This morning’s broadcast of Morning Edition on NPR included an interview with Debi Jackson, mother of an eight year old transgender daughter, Avery.

When Avery was four, Jackson recalls, she turned to her mother and said, “Mom, you think I’m a boy, but inside I’m a girl.”

It’s as simple and as complicated as that.

On one hand, there’s really no way to miss the point; Avery knew she was a girl at the age of four.  With whatever grace the universe gives to the best parents, Avery’s got it and assisted her transition at the age of four.

On the other hand, we live in a messy and occasionally mean spirited world in which universal messages go untended.  The Jacksons’ school district could not adapt, and so Avery has been home schooled.

She belongs to a Girl Scout Troop, and those friends are aware that she is transgender.  The recent public furor over who gets to use what bathroom made Avery uneasy about going to Scout meeting.  Her mother described Avery’s distress.  “Everyone knows.  And if they know this law might pass, they might go ahead and tell me I have to go into the boys’ bathroom.  And I won’t do that.”

OK, that broke my heart.  What kind of country are we that puts an eight year old girl in the position of standing up for identity and principle at the cost of friendship and community?  Avery is eight years old with a sense of self and degree of courage that few of us can muster at any point.

She is also insightful way beyond her years.  When she learned of the Executive Order establishing guidelines by which school system are to respect the gender of transgender children, Avery’s response was extraordinary.  It’s reported that she whispered, “That’s life changing, Mom.  I could actually go to a real school.”

.Just in case we lose sight of children such as Avery as angry rhetoric gets ugly, let’s remember that it’s really quite simple:  It is the business of government to go to any lengths to protect the rights of its citizens; all children are our children.

I am disappointed, of course, that the state of public affairs has devolved to virtual chaos, although, as one who raised a fist in protest at the end of the 1960’s, I once longed for the cleansing of the nation that would follow the fires in the streets.  Not much cleansing in the next decades, as most will recall, in part because my generation fell into self-congratulatory hedonism followed by cheerful acclimation to conspicuous consumption.

We failed and failed quickly.  Many of us were genuine in our support of the extension of Civil Rights and equally sincere in our opposition to the war in Vietnam, and yet, when we lost sight of one of the great maxims in the modern military lexicon (You can’t win a war in Afghanistan), we didn’t march.  When we entered Iraq, we didn’t march.  When the Voting Rights Act was overturned, we didn’t march.  When ordinary people lost retirement pensions and homes, when Wall Street firms  and banks gave out bonus checks subsidized by taxpayers, when Standard and Poors  and Moody’s continued to do business, when none of the hedge fund billionaires were held accountable for the looting of the nation, we didn’t march.

We watched on tv.  We listened to NPR.  We shook our heads.

So, why wallow in indignation now?  Is the candidacy of Donald Trump a more egregious blot upon the national  escutcheon than any of the earlier low points?

He’s a bully, sure; but we’ve seen our share of those.  He’s a political dunce, ignorant of the most basic elements of statecraft.  He’s arrogant, willfully ignoring the conventions of discourse.  But, why does this arrogant dunce raise my hackles as others have not?

Some of my distress undoubtedly comes in having Trump force fed to me on an hourly basis; he is quite literally on every channel from dawn to dark.  In addition, there are issues of style and language that offend me; it seems self-evident to me that a candidate who boasts he has “the best words” clearly does not.Do his shabby, gold-plated gaucheries offend my aesthetic sensibility?  They do.  The piled Trump steaks, for example, appear to argue that meat is both totem and currency.  Donald Trump delights in flaunting his wealth, pointing to the things he has built (has had built) as examples of achievement; at best, Trump’s architectural legacy is grotesque.

To make things worse, Trump is a philistine.  Not only does a philistine hold all things aesthetic, intellectual, or philosophical in contempt, he radiates smug pleasure in dismissing the accomplishments and ideas of his betters.  In leveling architectural landmarks in his own city, Trump purposefully destroyed works of art that he had promised to the Metropolitan Museum.  Perhaps I see him as vandal as much as philistine.  Looting and pillaging his way as a real estate developer, he has taken his profit at the expense of others.

But, none of these mild objections are at the heart of my distress.

Trump has not taken center stage; he has been awarded it.  The media could have given him the space accorded to other celebrities whose only grip on celebrity is in being odd enough to provoke momentary titillation.  Trump was not wrong in boasting that his presence assured the networks of consistently high ratings; his boorish domination of experienced, genuinely astute men who had given their lives top public service was bizarre, outrageous, unexpected, and compelling.  The first time.  Of course the candidates were slow to understand that neutrality and civility allowed Trump to have his way with them, almost casually dismissing each with pejorative terms not heard since the raucous battles of the Nineteenth Century.  “Lyin” Ted Cruz and “Little” Marco Rubio must have felt themselves on the playground rather than in political debate..

I deplore the lack of civility with which the Trump candidacy has progressed; the greater injury, however, has been the unleashing of the ugliest of impulses in a nation quickly falling into tribal rigidity.  Time Magazine described the intensity with which hate-mongers and racists have promoted the Trump candidacy in an article, “The Billionaire and the Bigot”.  Describing Trump’s appeal to racists as nuanced, Time suggests that bigots hear their own strong prejudices in Trump’s confident scorn for those he sees as not welcome in making America great again.  There are no accidental overtures in the Trump candidacy.  For example, he chose to deliver his New York State fulminations in the very small community of Patchogue, Long Island, a community widely known for the 2008 murder of Marcelo Lucero, an Ecuadorian dry cleaning worker.  The seven teens accused of his murder described what they called, “beaner hopping,” a regular practice of looking for Hispanics to beat.

There is no subtlety  in Trump’s turning the nation’s attention to Patchogue at that point in his campaign’ even the thickest of bigots would be hard pressed to miss the point.

Trump’s candidacy is unfortunate; he is a narcissist, a philistine, a vandal, and thoroughly unqualified for the position he seeks.  His candidacy is a  reckless act of egomaniacal puffery and vitriolic conceit.  All of which would be more than enough enough to cause me to weep, but it is the gleeful mean spirit with which his acolytes preach tribal retribution that saddens me most profoundly.

We are no strangers to meanness of spirit, and other nasty episodes have resolved themselves at some cost, but this moment may signal the sorts of fissures that cause societies to break apart.