Muhammad Ali: the best and the brightest
The dominant image of Muhammad Ali in his final years was that of the beloved warrior, slowed by age and Parkinson's, but triumphantly welcomed everywhere—his presence regal, his reception almost idolatrous.
But nearly a half-century ago, he was the object of vituperation and something close to hatred. At the height of his powers as a float-like-a-butterfly-sting-like-a-bee boxer for the ages, a man gifted with physical beauty, immense athleticism and poetic wit, he became an outcast.
His crime was his April 1967 refusal to be drafted, to fight in the Vietnam conflict. The lesser included offense was his decision to leave behind his lyrical "slave name," Cassius Marcellus Clay, to embrace the Nation of Islam and to become Muhammad Ali —a conversion that too many found difficult to accept, including sports pages that kept calling him Clay.
Ali was not a university-educated student of history, not a heavily credentialed geopolitical theorist. But he saw with great clarity what so many of us missed: This was a war America had no business fighting.
Ali did not buy the "domino" theory: the idea that a communist victory in Vietnam would lead to the spread of communism in that whole region. It was, in fact, a civil war—one that the United States could never win. History has revealed that even President Lyndon Baines Johnson, who escalated the war drastically in 1964 and 1965—the year I accepted my own induction without a peep of protest—had serious doubts. He simply did not want to be seen as the president who lost Vietnam.
Johnson made his case in a half-hour propaganda film that we recruits had to endure: "Why Vietnam?" It began with Johnson asking that question, then quickly rolled out the image of British Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain being hoodwinked by Adolf Hitler, a specious "appeasement" precedent now universally cited by those pushing for war.
In contrast, Ali made his own case in personal, vivid language. "I will not go 10,000 miles from here to help murder and kill another poor people simply to continue the domination of white slave masters over the darker people of the earth," he said. No Vietnamese person had ever called him the N-word, he said, or enslaved him or tried to lynch him. So he declared himself a conscientious objector and refused to be drafted.
In the hyper-nationalist atmosphere of the conflict's early years, the reviled villain was not Johnson, not Defense Secretary Robert S. McNamara. It wasn't even Richard Nixon. No, the villain was Ali.
"I find nothing amusing or interesting or tolerable about this man," influential producer David Susskind said on television. "He's a disgrace to his country, his race and what he laughingly describes his profession. He is a convicted felon in the United States . . . He will inevitably go to prison, as well he should."
Actually, Ali did not go to prison—unlike his religious leader, Elijah Muhammad, who rejected the draft during World War II and served four years in federal prison for urging his followers to do the same. The Supreme Court of the United States overturned Ali's conviction while he was free on appeal. But he did endure three years of being barred from boxing, at the peak of his earning power. And he felt the string of broad criticism—even from Jack Roosevelt Robinson, whose courage in the face of racism in baseball inspired Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. in his civil rights campaign, just as Ali's courage in refusing to fight helped to inspire King's opposition to war.
Not long after Ali's ordeal, David Halberstam wrote a great book called The Best and the Brightest, examining the hubris and erroneous certainties that got America into Vietnam. The title referred to President John F. Kennedy's advisers. But we now realize this: The best and the brightest of the Vietnam era was the man who refused to fight, Muhammad Ali.
But nearly a half-century ago, he was the object of vituperation and something close to hatred. At the height of his powers as a float-like-a-butterfly-sting-like-a-bee boxer for the ages, a man gifted with physical beauty, immense athleticism and poetic wit, he became an outcast.
His crime was his April 1967 refusal to be drafted, to fight in the Vietnam conflict. The lesser included offense was his decision to leave behind his lyrical "slave name," Cassius Marcellus Clay, to embrace the Nation of Islam and to become Muhammad Ali —a conversion that too many found difficult to accept, including sports pages that kept calling him Clay.
Ali was not a university-educated student of history, not a heavily credentialed geopolitical theorist. But he saw with great clarity what so many of us missed: This was a war America had no business fighting.
Ali did not buy the "domino" theory: the idea that a communist victory in Vietnam would lead to the spread of communism in that whole region. It was, in fact, a civil war—one that the United States could never win. History has revealed that even President Lyndon Baines Johnson, who escalated the war drastically in 1964 and 1965—the year I accepted my own induction without a peep of protest—had serious doubts. He simply did not want to be seen as the president who lost Vietnam.
Johnson made his case in a half-hour propaganda film that we recruits had to endure: "Why Vietnam?" It began with Johnson asking that question, then quickly rolled out the image of British Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain being hoodwinked by Adolf Hitler, a specious "appeasement" precedent now universally cited by those pushing for war.
In contrast, Ali made his own case in personal, vivid language. "I will not go 10,000 miles from here to help murder and kill another poor people simply to continue the domination of white slave masters over the darker people of the earth," he said. No Vietnamese person had ever called him the N-word, he said, or enslaved him or tried to lynch him. So he declared himself a conscientious objector and refused to be drafted.
In the hyper-nationalist atmosphere of the conflict's early years, the reviled villain was not Johnson, not Defense Secretary Robert S. McNamara. It wasn't even Richard Nixon. No, the villain was Ali.
"I find nothing amusing or interesting or tolerable about this man," influential producer David Susskind said on television. "He's a disgrace to his country, his race and what he laughingly describes his profession. He is a convicted felon in the United States . . . He will inevitably go to prison, as well he should."
Actually, Ali did not go to prison—unlike his religious leader, Elijah Muhammad, who rejected the draft during World War II and served four years in federal prison for urging his followers to do the same. The Supreme Court of the United States overturned Ali's conviction while he was free on appeal. But he did endure three years of being barred from boxing, at the peak of his earning power. And he felt the string of broad criticism—even from Jack Roosevelt Robinson, whose courage in the face of racism in baseball inspired Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. in his civil rights campaign, just as Ali's courage in refusing to fight helped to inspire King's opposition to war.
Not long after Ali's ordeal, David Halberstam wrote a great book called The Best and the Brightest, examining the hubris and erroneous certainties that got America into Vietnam. The title referred to President John F. Kennedy's advisers. But we now realize this: The best and the brightest of the Vietnam era was the man who refused to fight, Muhammad Ali.
Women at war
Newsday, March 27, 2012
Reading often about the mental-health needs of combat veterans, Mary Ragan and others at the Psychotherapy & Spirituality Institute in Manhattan began wondering how to help.
It seemed that the best way for veterans to get counseling was to go to a Vet Center in one of the five boroughs, community-based services created by Congress under the Department of Veterans Affairs to handle the readjustment needs of returning vets. So what could the institute—an interdisciplinary, not-for-profit pastoral counseling center—do?
"Beverly Coyle, a friend of mine, and I started talking about the role of the arts in healing," Ragan recalled. "And we decided, let's focus on women, because women are 15 percent of the military, they are underrepresented in all forms of media, they are largely invisible."
So, three years ago, Ragan, a therapist, and Coyle, a novelist and playwright who taught literature at Vassar College, began interviewing female veterans. At first, it wasn't easy to find interview subjects. But they began attending an ongoing veteran-civilian dialogue hosted by a New York not-for-profit group, Intersections International. Little by little, they reached women willing to tell their stories, mostly in Skype and phone interviews.
Coyle found ways to craft their words into monologues, and a veteran director, Steven Ditmyer, shaped them dramatically. The result is "In Our Own Voice," a theatrical exploration of what life is like for women serving the nation.
This Friday evening, in the spectacular sanctuary of the Unitarian Universalist Congregation at Shelter Rock in Manhasset—a soaring space that reminds Ditmyer of London's Globe Theatre—actresses will deliver those monologues. And Ragan will lead a talk-back—helped by veterans Wendy McClinton and Stephanie Otero—to encourage the audience, especially any female veterans, to share their reactions.
"The arc of the monologues was: Why did you join, what was your experience while there, and what has your re-entry been like?" Ragan said.
"Their reasons for enlisting were all over the place," Coyle said. "One of the women just marched in and said, 'What's the hardest thing a woman can do in the Army?' One woman joined on a bet."
Those interviews were the raw material for this "play in monologues," which originated with two actresses and lasted 15 minutes, but has now grown to four actresses and runs about 50 minutes. The words in the script are the words of the women vets. "Sometimes it's a composite, sometimes a sustained monologue from a specific individual," Coyle said.
The success of the piece is in its variety—alternating between a long speech by one actress and more staccato, shorter monologues by several. "It has an energy and a life to it," Ditmyer said. "They can be funny stories; they can be horrific stories."
One of the tough themes is what is too often happening to women at the hands of their male colleagues: rape. "The monologues take a hard look at military sexual trauma, which is epidemic among women in the military," Ragan said. It doesn't dominate the evening, but it's undeniably there.
In previous performances, the monologues have been excellent catalysts. "It's very powerful," Ragan said. "It stimulates a lot of conversation."
Shelter Rock is a favorite venue for peace activists, but this is not specifically an anti-war evening. "We just wanted to hear what they have to say," Coyle said. "We have been transformed by it. It's a play, not a polemic."
For all that women have endured in our nation's name, this seems the least we can do: Listen intensely to their words.
Reading often about the mental-health needs of combat veterans, Mary Ragan and others at the Psychotherapy & Spirituality Institute in Manhattan began wondering how to help.
It seemed that the best way for veterans to get counseling was to go to a Vet Center in one of the five boroughs, community-based services created by Congress under the Department of Veterans Affairs to handle the readjustment needs of returning vets. So what could the institute—an interdisciplinary, not-for-profit pastoral counseling center—do?
"Beverly Coyle, a friend of mine, and I started talking about the role of the arts in healing," Ragan recalled. "And we decided, let's focus on women, because women are 15 percent of the military, they are underrepresented in all forms of media, they are largely invisible."
So, three years ago, Ragan, a therapist, and Coyle, a novelist and playwright who taught literature at Vassar College, began interviewing female veterans. At first, it wasn't easy to find interview subjects. But they began attending an ongoing veteran-civilian dialogue hosted by a New York not-for-profit group, Intersections International. Little by little, they reached women willing to tell their stories, mostly in Skype and phone interviews.
Coyle found ways to craft their words into monologues, and a veteran director, Steven Ditmyer, shaped them dramatically. The result is "In Our Own Voice," a theatrical exploration of what life is like for women serving the nation.
This Friday evening, in the spectacular sanctuary of the Unitarian Universalist Congregation at Shelter Rock in Manhasset—a soaring space that reminds Ditmyer of London's Globe Theatre—actresses will deliver those monologues. And Ragan will lead a talk-back—helped by veterans Wendy McClinton and Stephanie Otero—to encourage the audience, especially any female veterans, to share their reactions.
"The arc of the monologues was: Why did you join, what was your experience while there, and what has your re-entry been like?" Ragan said.
"Their reasons for enlisting were all over the place," Coyle said. "One of the women just marched in and said, 'What's the hardest thing a woman can do in the Army?' One woman joined on a bet."
Those interviews were the raw material for this "play in monologues," which originated with two actresses and lasted 15 minutes, but has now grown to four actresses and runs about 50 minutes. The words in the script are the words of the women vets. "Sometimes it's a composite, sometimes a sustained monologue from a specific individual," Coyle said.
The success of the piece is in its variety—alternating between a long speech by one actress and more staccato, shorter monologues by several. "It has an energy and a life to it," Ditmyer said. "They can be funny stories; they can be horrific stories."
One of the tough themes is what is too often happening to women at the hands of their male colleagues: rape. "The monologues take a hard look at military sexual trauma, which is epidemic among women in the military," Ragan said. It doesn't dominate the evening, but it's undeniably there.
In previous performances, the monologues have been excellent catalysts. "It's very powerful," Ragan said. "It stimulates a lot of conversation."
Shelter Rock is a favorite venue for peace activists, but this is not specifically an anti-war evening. "We just wanted to hear what they have to say," Coyle said. "We have been transformed by it. It's a play, not a polemic."
For all that women have endured in our nation's name, this seems the least we can do: Listen intensely to their words.
9/11: Violence solves nothing
Newsday, September 19, 2001
In this time of profound evil and ultimate violence, the instinct for retaliation is overwhelming, and many a conversation has reached the conclusion: This is no time to turn the other cheek.So this seems like an important moment to explore the intended meaning of the person who made the phrase echo down the centuries: Jesus of Nazareth. In the Gospels, he makes clear his opposition to violent retaliation, but his call to turn the other cheek was not a summons to passivity. It was an invitation to creative, courageous, nonviolent resistance to oppression.
The first generations of Christians took him literally and declined to serve in the Roman legions. But many Christians since then have found this a difficult teaching. Non-Christians as well have seen it as pure weakness and dismissed it.In the face of this horrific, totally evil violence, it is tempting to reject this teaching out of hand. But especially now, as we mourn our dead and missing, as the nation's leaders plan ways to react, we must keep in mind the core of what Jesus meant: The spiral of violence does not work.
"You have heard that it was said, 'An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth,'" he said in Matthew 5. "But I say to you, Do not resist an evildoer. But if anyone strikes you on the right cheek, turn the other also; and if anyone wants to sue you and take your coat, give your cloak as well; and if anyone forces you to go one mile, go also the second mile." In Luke 6, he says much the same.
The phrase that we instinctively abhor is: "Do not resist an evildoer." But Walter Wink, a renowned Scripture scholar at Auburn Theological Seminary in Manhattan, offered a compelling analysis of that troublesome advice in a book called "Violence and Nonviolence in South Africa: Jesus' Third Way." Wink argued that some Scripture scholars had badly misrepresented Jesus.
"When the court translators working in the hire of King James chose to translate antistenai as 'Resist not evil,' they were doing something more than rendering Greek into English. They were translating nonviolent resistance into docility," Wink wrote. "Jesus did not tell his oppressed hearers not to resist evil. That would have been absurd. His entire ministry is utterly at odds with such a preposterous idea. The Greek word is made up of two parts: anti, a word still used in English for 'against,' and histemi, a verb which in its noun form (stasis) means violent rebellion, armed revolt, sharp dissension. A proper translation of Jesus' teaching would then be, 'Do not strike back at evil (or, one who has done you evil) in kind. Do not give blow for blow. Do not retaliate against violence with violence.'"
Despite the docile royal translation, the essential strategy of Jesus remains:using nonviolent ways to focus attention on the injustice of an oppressor. Mohandas K. Gandhi understood it and created the Indian nation. (Gandhi argued: "The only people on Earth who do not see Christ and his teachings as nonviolent are Christians.") The Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. understood it and awakened America to the evils of segregation.
"Jesus abhors both passivity and violence as responses to evil," Wink wrote. His way was to challenge the oppressor's injustice cleverly.
One example of his approach was turning the other cheek to a tormentor whose slap had aimed to humiliate. The victim of this violence is saying: "Your first blow failed to achieve its intended effect. I deny you the power to humiliate me."
In another tactic, Jesus urged his followers to turn the laws of the hated Roman Empire to their own advantage. A soldier could force a civilian to carry his pack for a mile, but the law forbade the soldier to make him carry it a second mile. By voluntarily carrying the pack an extra mile, he was putting the soldier in danger of punishment.
Obviously, last week's hideous attack was far more devastating than the violence that Jesus cited by way of example. But as people of all faiths ponder the appropriate response and argue that turning the other cheek is the wrong approach, it is still crucial to recall the real point that Jesus was making: Violence, ever escalating and multiplying, ultimately solves nothing.
If our national response is savage and indiscriminate, it will only plant the seeds of further revenge. So we should break the spiral of violence by using the least violent possible means of ending terrorism and bringing terrorists to justice.
In this time of profound evil and ultimate violence, the instinct for retaliation is overwhelming, and many a conversation has reached the conclusion: This is no time to turn the other cheek.So this seems like an important moment to explore the intended meaning of the person who made the phrase echo down the centuries: Jesus of Nazareth. In the Gospels, he makes clear his opposition to violent retaliation, but his call to turn the other cheek was not a summons to passivity. It was an invitation to creative, courageous, nonviolent resistance to oppression.
The first generations of Christians took him literally and declined to serve in the Roman legions. But many Christians since then have found this a difficult teaching. Non-Christians as well have seen it as pure weakness and dismissed it.In the face of this horrific, totally evil violence, it is tempting to reject this teaching out of hand. But especially now, as we mourn our dead and missing, as the nation's leaders plan ways to react, we must keep in mind the core of what Jesus meant: The spiral of violence does not work.
"You have heard that it was said, 'An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth,'" he said in Matthew 5. "But I say to you, Do not resist an evildoer. But if anyone strikes you on the right cheek, turn the other also; and if anyone wants to sue you and take your coat, give your cloak as well; and if anyone forces you to go one mile, go also the second mile." In Luke 6, he says much the same.
The phrase that we instinctively abhor is: "Do not resist an evildoer." But Walter Wink, a renowned Scripture scholar at Auburn Theological Seminary in Manhattan, offered a compelling analysis of that troublesome advice in a book called "Violence and Nonviolence in South Africa: Jesus' Third Way." Wink argued that some Scripture scholars had badly misrepresented Jesus.
"When the court translators working in the hire of King James chose to translate antistenai as 'Resist not evil,' they were doing something more than rendering Greek into English. They were translating nonviolent resistance into docility," Wink wrote. "Jesus did not tell his oppressed hearers not to resist evil. That would have been absurd. His entire ministry is utterly at odds with such a preposterous idea. The Greek word is made up of two parts: anti, a word still used in English for 'against,' and histemi, a verb which in its noun form (stasis) means violent rebellion, armed revolt, sharp dissension. A proper translation of Jesus' teaching would then be, 'Do not strike back at evil (or, one who has done you evil) in kind. Do not give blow for blow. Do not retaliate against violence with violence.'"
Despite the docile royal translation, the essential strategy of Jesus remains:using nonviolent ways to focus attention on the injustice of an oppressor. Mohandas K. Gandhi understood it and created the Indian nation. (Gandhi argued: "The only people on Earth who do not see Christ and his teachings as nonviolent are Christians.") The Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. understood it and awakened America to the evils of segregation.
"Jesus abhors both passivity and violence as responses to evil," Wink wrote. His way was to challenge the oppressor's injustice cleverly.
One example of his approach was turning the other cheek to a tormentor whose slap had aimed to humiliate. The victim of this violence is saying: "Your first blow failed to achieve its intended effect. I deny you the power to humiliate me."
In another tactic, Jesus urged his followers to turn the laws of the hated Roman Empire to their own advantage. A soldier could force a civilian to carry his pack for a mile, but the law forbade the soldier to make him carry it a second mile. By voluntarily carrying the pack an extra mile, he was putting the soldier in danger of punishment.
Obviously, last week's hideous attack was far more devastating than the violence that Jesus cited by way of example. But as people of all faiths ponder the appropriate response and argue that turning the other cheek is the wrong approach, it is still crucial to recall the real point that Jesus was making: Violence, ever escalating and multiplying, ultimately solves nothing.
If our national response is savage and indiscriminate, it will only plant the seeds of further revenge. So we should break the spiral of violence by using the least violent possible means of ending terrorism and bringing terrorists to justice.