Sister Brutalitica

I went to a Catholic elementary school. In the 1950s and 60s. Not just any school but one that was run by a group of nuns. Not just any nuns but nuns of the most traditional variety. Nuns who would have collected firewood for the fires of the Inquisition. Some may have.

The school was pretty strict. How strict was it? Well, a former guard at a Nazi death camp applied for a job as security but was rejected as being too soft. He ended up in tears after the job interview.

Of all the nuns, the one stand out was Sister Brutalitica. I don’t dare use her real name. She may have passed away by now but I am not taking any chances.

I bring this up because I watched the debate last night between Donald J Trump and Joe Biden. As I watched the constant interruptions and rudeness by the commander-in-chief I was stuck by how weak Chris Wallace was.

He was the moderator. He was in charge. The Trump and Biden campaigns had spent months pounding out the rules for the debate. Rules both sides agreed to. Wallace had one job. Ask questions and keep the debate on track.

To his credit, Wallace asked some very insightful questions. He went after the weaknesses of both candidates. He asked for specifics. But he failed miserably to control Donald. So, as was his plan, the president did everything in his power NOT to have a debate. He just wanted to insult and aggravate. Wallace was flummoxed.

So, I said to myself, what if?

What if this debate was moderated by Sister Brutalitica.

The first time Trump interrupted Biden I can see the good sister standing up and glaring. The glare of death. The glare of power. Her squinty eyes boring a hole in Trump’s thick skull. She says ‘Behave”.He shuts up.

The next time Trump interrupts Biden the good sister stands up again. This time she walks over to Trump. She stands toe to toe in front of him. She is five feet tall and still looks down on Donald. She looks him in the eyes : “Last chance”. He withers under her presence. He behaves.

The next time Trump interrupts Biden the good sister again stands up. She says not a word. Slowly and deliberately she strolls over to Donald. The entire room is silent. Anticipating. Hesitation. Beads of sweat form on Trump’s big head . Then, like a rattler waiting in the grass, she strikes.

Trump’s cheek reddens as he feels the back of the good sister’s hand. His carefully glued coiffure do springs up revealing the balding noggin. Sudden. Swift. Violent. He staggers backwards. He grasps the podium to keep his balance. Sister Brutalitica whispers quietly. “That’s it. No more”.

Trump, being who he is, continues to interrupt.

Oops. Now the nun is angry. Mad. Now, if you have never seen a mad nun consider yourself blessed by the Almighty. Cujo on steroids. Hannibal Lecter times three. Mussolini would hide. Pol Pot would slip quietly into the night.

Sister Brutalitica flies across the room. Her feet never touch the ground. A blur of black robes, dangling rosary beads and the “weapon”. The ruler. Not just any ruler. A custom made solid oak ruler. Monogrammed. Notched. A ruler never used to measure inches or feet. A ruler designed with one purpose. To bust knuckles. A wooden sword of justice. To keep the peace. To institute “law and order.” Known only as “The Ruler”.

No one knows what happened to Donald. We heard the crack of oak on skin. We sensed the knuckles breaking. We heard the cries and whimpers. We saw a tiny hand on the scruff of the neck. In a flash we saw an orange head connected to a bloated body go flying off the stage.

The debate was over.

Chris Wallace, take a lesson. Law and order, Sister Brutalitica style.

Empty Tin Cans

I confess that I spent much of my early life in the basement classrooms run by Catholic nuns. 60 kids in a class. One nun. Order was maintained by a combination of physical and mental coercion that would leave Dick Cheney screaming for the ACLU to intervene. Made the CIA look like a marshmallow convention. Nevertheless, order WAS maintained.

One of the nuns, Sister Crossmetwiceandyourdead, was especially adept at the verbal barb. And when the third grade boys in the back of the room (never me, of course) were getting rambunctious she would utter one of her favorite jibes: Empty Tin Cans Make the Most Noise.

Which brings me to the Tea Party Republicans. 

We have witnessed, over the last 4 years, a regular, strident, loud and nasty noise from these folks. Unrelenting. Untrue, yes. But the noise is still the noise.

And just like the noise from the ill mannered third graders interfered with any orderly, sensible discussion in class, so the noise from these third party Tea Party supporters is meant to do the same for sensible, honest, political debate.

After all, it is not the “noise” of folks trying to bring about some positive change or supporting making things better. It is not the positive noise of cheering on your team at the ballpark. It is the boos and catcalls and whistles of the few post-adolescent boys in the bleachers who have had too much to drink. It is noise without purpose except to confuse and irritate. Signifying nothing. Just loud. 

BENGHAZI. BENGHAZI. BENGHAZI. They chant this mantra as though it has some deep, philosophical  or factual underpinnings. So, the GOP Congress investigates Benghazi. A tragedy. They collect evidence. Indict no one. But the noise continues.As though a tragedy is reason enough to make noise. BENGHAZI.

OBAMA HATES AMERICA. OBAMA IS A MUSLIM. OBAMA IS A SOCIALIST. The noise. The labels. No evidence. No basis in fact. But,  just as my little classmates enjoyed doing anything but the hard work of school, (after all they WERE 3rd grade boys) so these adult Tea PArty chanters enjoy the sound of their own chanting. Easier than facing facts. Easier than doing the work. OBAMA IS EVIL.

OBAMACARE IS BAD. OBAMACARE IS BAD. The empty tin cans. They bang. They clang. They deafen meaningful discussion. They evade specifics. Always. Evade specifics. It’s just ..bang…clang…bad….bang..clang…OBAMACARE IS BAD.

OBAMA WANTS YOUR GUNS. OBAMA WANTS YOUR GUNS. And yet. No guns are taken away. Nor bullets. I just double checked my closet. Gun still there. Bullets still there. The tin cans clang. Deafening. Drowning out sensible debate while 35,000 Americans die each year. The empty tin cans even drown out the sounds of children screaming in Sandy Hook Elementary. OBAMA WANTS YOUR GUNS.

After a few years the empty tin cans in my school moved on. They grew up. They did what they needed to do, even if they didn’t like it. Maybe they realized that their senseless noise wasn’t amusing anymore. Maybe they wanted to participate in positive ways. Maybe they just got tired of their own banging and clanging. I know the rest of us did. Or maybe they deafened themselves. 

So, Sister Crossmetwiceandyourdead, I guess you were right. The empty tin can noisemakers were very loud and very forceful. But, in the end, their noise dissipated. They grew up.  Let’s hope the current Empty Tin Cans are able to do the same.