Editorials and Opinions

Gary Tischler • October 22, 2015

The political world is still spinning after Tuesday’s first debate featuring the candidates running for the Democratic Party’s presidential nomination on CNN.

Most observers thought a polished, obviously refreshed, strong, smooth and smart Hillary Clinton rose above what had been a halting, often troubled campaign leading up to the debate—the former Secretary of State emerging as a clear winner with momentum behind her back like a winter storm. 

For Sen. Bernie Sanders (I-Vt.), who was becoming a real bottom-up populist alternative to the inevitability of Hillary’s nomination, the debate was an opportunity to get the rest of the world that hasn’t glued itself to the campaign doings of the Democrats to get to know him.  In ways, both good and not so good, his mission was accomplished—and included a highlight, keeper moment that will become part of campaign lore as things progress nearer to the first votes being cast next year.

As for the rest—former Maryland governor and Baltimore mayor Martin O’Malley, ex-marine and former Virginia senator James Webb and former Rhode Island Republican-turned-Democrat senator and governor Lincoln Chaffee, the task was to survive the debate and live to campaign some more.  O’Malley—often eloquent and decisive in ways that he has not displayed in a long time—is the most likely survivor of that trio.

Donald Trump somehow managed to inject himself into the debate by tweeting about and not that the debate did not get the kind of ratings that two previous GOP circus-like affairs had managed which was true but also beside the point. Before, he insisted that it would be boring because he wasn’t part of the debate. Among the crowd in Las Vegas, he appeared not to be missed.

The Democratic National Committee said that the Democratic Party was the real winner.

The Republican National Committee questioned Clinton’s victory, claiming that its focus groups had Sanders winning, which may or may not have pragmatic validity. That observation probably says a lot about how the Republicans feel about Clinton—not just that on the whole she has never been a woman particularly loved by the GOP going back to her first lady days, but that they would prefer a candidate they think they can beat.

The result also made Vice President Joe Biden’s potential bid to join the race a little more untenable and also put pressure on him to decide earlier, rather than later.  If he does make a decision to run, his entry is bound to seem both quixotic—lack of money—and potentially fraught with turmoil for the party, which in the glowing aftermath of the debate, seems to be coalescing in a way that’s a stark contrast to the GOP, on the campaign trail and in the House of Representatives, which is imploding with division and confusion.

Whether you think Clinton won or not—and it’s pretty clear here that she did—you can definitely agree with the DNC appraisal.

On balance, it’s safe to say that Clinton, seasoned, polished, warm and tough all at the same time, and insistent to the point of steamrolling, was the best debater, and probably the most qualified candidate­—barring Biden, should he enter.

But it’s also right to say—as the DNC did—that the Democratic Party was the real winner. Compared to the two Republican debates, the Democrats looked like a spirited but friendly argument among Mensa members. The GOP debates, featured at one point a total of 17 candidates tiered into two different debates. They had all the substance of a reality, be it “Storage Wars,” “Duck Dynasty” or “The Apprentice.”  The star was always Trump, and a supporting cast that in each aftermath didn’t put a serious dent into the P.T. Barnum of America and his stay on top of the polls, which has only strengthened during the last week or so.

Mind you, the GOP set the bar pretty low.  CNN’s debate moderator Anderson Cooper, looking a little like a modern bust of Robespierre, tried continually to goad the candidates into fighting with each other, but nobody was having any of that. This aversion to combat reached a high point when Cooper gave Sanders a perfect opportunity to attack Clinton on her twin e-mail and Benghazi troubles but Sanders declined forcefully by saying that “the American people are sick and tired of hearing about her damn e-mails.  “Me, too, me, too,” Clinton chimed in.  As the two rivals shook hands, the crowd roared, which unnerved Cooper a little, although he tried to keep the issue going with little success.

Clinton, while she was cordial with everyone, did not return Sander’s favor by saying he was wrong on gun control. She promises to take on the National Rifle Association, the powerful gun lobby which has stopped every promising effort at gun control except the Brady Bill, which eventually died of its own accord and a lack of support in Congress.

The candidates sparred about foreign affairs, about ISIS and China—Webb warned that China was the real danger to the United States—about the Iran treaty, about Syria, about spending, economic issues far and wide.  Not a word about abortion, assaults on a candidate’s physical appearance or name-calling.  No one used such affirmative words as “amazing” or “fantastic,” although they did talk about affirmative action. No one claimed that anything was “going to be huge.” 

Sanders got the exposure he wanted, and in his sincerity and passion about the gap between rich and poor, the need for free college education, the need to rein in Wall Street, and other issues which are part of the canon of the progressive part of the party, he was often inspiring, always consistent, but in the end, also a little bit shrill.   He was equal parts prophet sounding the alarm, and candidate promising change. Sanders explained his opposition to the Viet Nam War, saying he was a young man then. “I am not a young man now,” he said in a bittersweet tone.  He said he was not a pacifist and could indeed be a commander-in-chief.

Clinton listed her experience as a senator and secretary of state, even though her record as secretary of state is being challenged in two congressional oversight hearings, where she will have to testify.

Clinton—by touting her persona and her experience in government and as a debater—clearly put some steel back into a campaign that had appeared to be floundering.  It’s plain to see that Sanders is a new force in American politics, even though he has spent all of his political life as an elected official. In some ways, he is the Democrat version of GOP outsiders Trump, Fiorino and Carson—the important difference, being in matters of intelligence, experience, compassion, eloquence and class.

Gary Tischler • October 1, 2015

Mother of Mercy, could this be the end of The Donald?

After the marathon Republican Presidential Debate on CNN Wednesday—a debate that felt like “War and Peace,” only longer—it seems fair to ask that question after Trump, who had a stranglehold on the GOP imagination and polls leading to the first vote casting next year, appeared to have been not only held in check but undressed a little, suffering what could be some serious damage in his quest for the presidency.

It’s no small matter of poetic justice that the person on stage who inflicted some of that damage was Carly Fiorina, the former CEO of Hewlett-Packard, the most wounded and pointed coming after she was prodded to reply to Trump’s tasteless comments about her physical appearance which don’t need to be repeated here. “I think women all over the country understood very clearly what Mr. Trump said,” she said. With that, Mr. Trump was left to resort to half-baked gallantry, which was likely to be understood as lame by women all over the country.

Trump started badly enough by including a contemptuous comment on Kentucky Senator Paul Rand’s standing in the polls in typical spontaneous, thoughtless fashion. It got worse as the evening went along with the moderators acting less as moderators and more as picadors, goading the candidates into arguing with each other by reading them comments they had made about the issues and each other.

Often, Trump disappeared altogether, especially when detailed discussions about foreign policy broke out surprisingly and periodically in ways they had not in the previous GOP debate, although he did emphatically say he was one of the earliest critic of the war in Iraq, which prompted an argument with Jeb Bush. Trump also insisted he could handle Russia’s bellicose and troublesome president Vladimir Putin better than anyone. The possibility exists, of course, that the pair are two-of-a-kind in terms of temperament.

Most media and political experts agreed that not only had Trump not excelled or dominated the proceedings, he was diminished by Fiorina’s performance. Fiorina, who had moved up to the “A” team after distinguishing herself among the “B” candidates in the last debate, made the most of it. She won every clash with Trump, including their fight over their not always stellar business experience. Trump denied that he had ever gone bankrupt, and in any case, it was smart business practice while Fiorina made her firing by Hewlett-Packard seem like a triumph of principle, which meant that for an outsider, she was getting to be quite the politician.

The debate was supposed to showcase the talents of the so-called “outsiders,” Trump, Fiorina and Ben Carson, the soft-spoken, articulate neuro-surgeon, while being a life-line opportunity for better known politicians with floundering campaigns. For Trump, and Carson, too, their outsider standing didn’t help much. If Trump lacked his usual gift for outrageousness and directness, Carson gave a pedestrian performance, the substance of which was instantly forgettable.

Fiorina was on fire—even, forgive us, in her appearance. Trump chose not to sport his usual blazing red tie, and even his hair seemed placid and quiet. Fiorina wore a stunning bright blue outfit that commanded attention, which proved that a woman can still wipe out the fashion competition when it comes to appearance, especially if the competition is made up entirely of men. She was also prepared and eloquent—in a crowd where she was being ignored at times on foreign policy and military matters, she trotted out her detailed plan to strengthen what she said was a weakened U.S. military without once mentioning the possible cost. More than that, while all the other candidates duly noted the longevity of their marriages and praised their spouses, she did something more—she personalized her story, including a bout with cancer and the death of a son to drugs.

As for the rest—if you like Marco Rubio, the Senator from Florida, you could argue that he did not stumble, that he was very emphatic, that he led the charge against Hilary Clinton and what he continually described as the disastrous presidency of Barack Obama which, he argued, drained the country’s economic strength and wounded the world’s respect for America. New Jersey Governor Chris Christie—who often makes himself sound like a key figure in the aftermath of 9/11—continued to do his bully boy act, lacing into Trump and Fiorina for their fight over their business record.

Bush certainly saved himself for another day. He appeared at turns as moderate, reasonable, anti-Clinton and anti-ISIS (who isn’t?). At times, he waved to the center. At others, he courted the base, which is to say he swung to the right. The true blue conservative trio of Walker Cruz and Huckabee stuck to their guns and trotted out their presidential to do lists, which included repealing “Obamacare,” “tearing up” the president’s deal with Iran and eliminating federal funding for Planned Parenthood.

This was perhaps one of the longest debates in memory, perhaps even longer than all of the Lincoln-Doublas debates combined, or at least as long as Benjamin Harrison’s speech in the rain.

It’s too soon to tell the effect of the debate. People have predicted the demise of Trump after every one of his gaffes only to see him rise in the polls. But Fiorina aside, Trump seemed, well, tame. He said he had fun, that the other candidates were all talented and that he was honored to be there with them all. He even said that his Secret Service name would be “Humble.” He resorted perhaps once too often to generalities about turning things around, making things great, defeating our enemies and making the country rich. In the end, everything was always about him, his friend, his likes and his ability.

What the candidates as a whole failed to do at the Ronald Reagan Presidential Library was to capture his optimism and ebullient spirit about the present and the future. They sounded too often like pessimistic, cynical scolds. With most of the GOP candidates, there was no “Morning in America.”

Fiorina has had some experience in losing a state campaign for governor in California. She may have learned a thing or two, which makes her something more than a political novice. She was entirely accurate talking about the process itself: “All of us will be revealed over time and under pressure.”

As always, stay tuned.

the Georgetowner Editorial Board • September 26, 2015

By the time this issue of The Georgetowner went to press, Pope Francis had come to town. His Holiness was safely ensconced, presumably getting ready for bed, at the Apostolic Nunciate, the Vatican’s diplomatic presence in Washington on Massachusetts Avenue.

We were in the midst of an unprecedented — for Pope Francis — event in this city, where unprecedented events are practically a daily occurrence. We have recently seen visits by the heads of state of Saudi Arabia and Spain. Chinese President Xi Jinping will be toasted at a White House State Dinner on Friday.

You may recall that the prime minister of Israel was here earlier this year to try and change minds about the nuclear treaty with Iran. This town is a city where large personas, big symbols and bigger egos are fellow travelers.

It is also a city that has a strong Catholic presence and history. Two of the most visible universities are Catholic University and Georgetown University. Then there are the two major Catholic churches: the Cathedral of St. Matthew the Apostle, where the pope is to speak to a gathering of U.S. bishops, and the National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception, where he will officiate at a Mass canonizing 18th-century missionary Junípero Serra (both on Wednesday).

Americans moved and encouraged by the often startling activities and pronouncements and encyclicals of this pope are in a kind of swoon and ecstasy over his U.S. visit (New York and Philadelphia are also on the itinerary). No head of state, no rock or movie star, no politician can command this kind of attention, probably not even the previous popes who visited America: Pope Paul VI in 1965, followed by the popular and durable Pope John Paul II on several occasions and by Pope Benedict XVI in 2008.

This is a visit with all the trimmings that the Roman Catholic Church in Washington and the Vatican can muster. This isn’t a simple stop-over, a wave from a helicopter; this is “thousands upon thousands descending on Washington” — gathering at the White House for the pope’s chat with President Barack Obama, for a pope parade near the National Mall, at St. Matthew’s Cathedral and at the Mass in front of the Shrine.

Pope Francis is decidedly a people’s pope, with an intellectually questing Jesuit spirit and what appears to be a broad tendency toward forgiveness, compassion, tolerance and empathy for most everybody on the planet. It is not that he is revolutionizing the church by deed, but rather changing the world by attitude and appearance. He’s already spoken out on climate change, greed and war, and adopted a forgiving attitude on divorced Catholics.

When asked about gays — and, by inference, gay marriage — he famously said, “Who am I to judge?” (although one might follow that up with, “If not him, who?”). The pope is visiting a country whose general citizenry includes people who are quite willing to judge, thank you.

At 78, with not all the time in the world for patience or the big picture, he’s engaged the world as it is — on earth if not in heaven.

Francis Rooney • September 23, 2015

The following is an excerpt, edited for clarity, from “The Global Vatican: An Inside Look at the Catholic Church, World Politics, and the Extraordinary Relationship between the United States and the Holy See.” It is reprinted by permission of Rowman & Littlefield.

Whatever challenges and changes each face, the United States and the Holy See remain two of the most significant institutions in world history, one a beacon of democracy and progress, the other a sanctum of faith and allegiance to timeless principles. Despite the obvious differences between the first modern democracy and the longest surviving Western monarchy, both were founded on the idea that “human persons” possess inalienable natural rights granted by God. This had been a revolutionary concept when the Catholic Church embraced it 2,000 years ago, and was equally revolutionary when the Declaration of Independence stated it 1,800 years later.

Given our mutual respect for human rights, it is natural, even inevitable, that we should be friends and collaborators. Why it took nearly two hundred years for us to establish formal diplomatic relations is a question explored at some length in these pages. The answer lies in our respective histories, particularly in the evolution of each one’s attitude toward the other. The short answer is that both the United States and the Holy See had to overcome deeply held convictions and perceptions — entrenched anti-Catholicism on the part of Americans; antidemocratic, monarchical reflexes on the part of the Holy See — and that neither managed to do so until the latter half of the twentieth century.

“Congress will probably never send a Minister to His Holiness,” wrote John Adams (great-grandfather of Henry Adams) in 1779, voicing the opinion shared by many of his compatriots. Nor, added Adams, should Congress accept a nuncio from the pope, “or in other words, an ecclesiastical tyrant which, it is to be hoped, the United States will be too wise ever to admit into their territories.”

Some Americans still question our diplomatic relations with the Holy See. They do so by either citing the Establishment Cause of the First Amendment — that it is unconstitutional for the U.S. government to accord diplomatic status to a religious body — or assuming that, as a matter of realpolitik, the relationship is inconsequential.

I earnestly hope that this book shows the error of those views. President Reagan established full diplomatic relations with the Holy See in 1984 because, among other reasons, he realized that he could have no better partner than the Pope John Paul II in the fight against communism — and he was right.

Since the fall of the Berlin Wall, the Holy See has continued to play an important role as a diplomatic force while maintaining formal relations with 179 countries, a number surpassed only by the United States. The church is one of the leading advocates and providers for the poor in the world, fights against the scourge of human trafficking and advances the cause of human dignity and human rights more than any other organization in the world.

The Holy See also plays a significant role in pursuing diplomatic solutions to international problems, whether promoting peace between Israel and Palestine, for example, or helping end the civil war in Lebanon or obtaining the release of nearly one hundred political prisoners from Cuba in 2010 — or numerous other examples discussed in this book.

Francis Rooney served as U.S. Ambassador to the Holy See from 2005 to 2008. He is also an alumnus of Georgetown University.

Gary Tischler • September 19, 2015

When the deformed Richard III, stalking the stage in the Shakespeare play that bore his name, intones that this was “the winter of our discontent,” he means that all that discontent otherwise known as the War of the Roses, which plagued England during the 1400s, is over. That conflict ends, just as winter indicates the end of the season and the year.

Alas, this is the summer of our discontent. Although this summer is not quite over, the discontent in our land is likely to continue. The Plantagenets had Richard to discombobulate them further, at least according to Shakespeare’s version of history. These our times not only have Donald Trump usurping, if you will, the Republican electoral primary process to his own music, but we, the people, have experienced trying times of conflict for several months now, with no particular end in sight to the continued stirrings of tragedy and drama.  Those alarums have infected not only our politics but our societal and cultural differences—and our relations with the rest of the world. Even so, locally, the sports teams that usually give us relief from sorrow and controversy do not but, these days, add to it. It is both late and early to say this: There is no joy in Mudville when it comes to the underachieving Nationals and the bombastic Redskins.

Any reasonable observer of our national politics—as opposed to those infected with either dour fanaticism or alarming optimism—has to be at least a little alarmed, a lot amazed, and even appalled at what has happened to that great American pastime and the hunt for American votes in a presidential election year, a process which will have no actual votes cast until Iowa and New Hampshire in the spring. Nevertheless, there has been enough money spent by individuals and the ranks of the stalking super PACs to probably rescue Greece from insolvency.  There are enough candidates for President of the United States, counting both sides, to make up a roster of at least one very bad football team.

Before this process began, in a political galaxy far, far away and long ago, there were such creatures who called themselves members of the conventional wisdom class, whose sole reason for existence was that they were there to predict the path of the primaries, the course of the electoral game, and who would be in the political Superbowl, while egos, if not footballs, were being deflated along the way. These wise men and women—some opting for the name of strategists and commentators—were certain back then that Hillary Clinton need not fret, nor should the Democratic Party, because Hillary had the nomination sewed up, and most likely could prevail over any one of the hundred or so Republican candidates in the field.   The C.W. members were less sure about the G.O.P., with some concern about the “base” of ultra-conservatives called the Tea Party, and—as well as or—the evangelical wing, which might prevent the rise of a moderate like Bush III or Marco Rubio to prevail in the end.

All these things might yet happen—we are hedgers from way back.  But all those laugh-track laughers and nay-sayers who dismissed and ridiculed the nascent candidacy of ultra-mogul Donald Trump—hereafter called the Donald—as yet another publicity stunt have egg on their face, and are trembling.  Trump the Teflon man who once spent a good bit of his money trying to be leader of the birthed party, has now become a serious contender for the Republican nomination and won’t go away. He’s survived McCain gate, Mexican-rapists gate, “blood coming out of her whatever gate,” almost every kind of gate except the pearly one, to amass a major lead in the polls, and expand his ego to a point where it just has to explode, please?  He even managed to find time to announce during his travels that German model and celebrity Heidi Klum was no longer a 10, which may solve the mystery of how Ivana Trump and Marla Maples became ex-Mrs. Trumps.  Apparently, there is an expiration date on 10-status in the Trump world.

Trump has succeeded so far by speaking his mind, or saying whatever is on his mind at the moment.  His solutions for the immigration problem are short-sighted, policies that fit exactly into the size of a slogan on a placard, or as they said in Iowa, where Trump descended from heaven in a helicopter—schtick on a stick.  He has a gift near-genius level for demagoguing nearly any issue that comes up in the course of his travels, especially the immigration issue.   We would say something about the rest of the candidates but, hey, we’re the media. We don’t have to.

Hillary Clinton, on the other hand, is running—away from that pesky e-mail and Benghazi controversy.  She sounds as much of a Luddite as anyone belonging to her generation. The honest mistake does come to mind, because she keeps saying things that could be true but perhaps aren’t.  It won’t go away, not as long as Rep. Darrell Issa (R-Calif.) draws breath—and the media still finds the whole thing fascinating.

All of this leaves Bernie Sanders, who is still being mistaken here and there for Barney Frank—drawing big crowds, talking about the one-percenters, and generally acting like a guy who has sniffed the political air and found it inviting. 

Could we be seeing a Trump-Sanders campaign? Not if Vice President Biden is still thinking about running. 

This election campaign season has the air of farce about it, but many people are now seeing it as an unfolding and dangerous tragedy.  Shakespeare would have a field day, no matter how he marketed the story.

The American party system appears under siege and give the appearance of collapsing in this summer.  As Yeats noted long ago in his poem, “The Second Coming,” “Things fall apart, the center will not hold.”  More accurately, the center is not occupied by politicians these days.

Trump’s weirdly quixotic but also oddly triumphant campaign—he filled a football stadium in Alabama, is one of the major unsettling aspects of these past few months. 

Along with them—in Washington, D.C.—is a rise in homicides that has troubled lawmakers, the mayor, the chief of police and all of us.  The number now stands at 102 and with over four months in 2015 to go, stands a good chance of setting a 21st-century record.   It is a disturbing trend—all kinds of shootings, drive-bys, the death of crossfire victims, gangs and domestic beefs which seem unstoppable.  They seem to be a strand of the story of year-long police-involved shootings and killing of African Americans by white policemen, and the resultant demonstration, sometimes violent, that occurred in their wake, most dramatically in Ferguson, Missouri, and Baltimore.

The discontent and fear is everywhere—ISIS in the Middle East with unrelenting horrific acts and a touchstone, the political battles over the Iranian treaty, the constant pop, like some daily music, of mass shootings, not the mention the ongoing crackle of massive, hugely destructive and deadly forest fires in the American West. 

Nevertheless, there are always moments of grace—Dare we call them amazing?—none more amazing the behavior of the survivors of the victims of the South Carolina church shooting, which had as a beneficial effect in which most, but not all, Southern politicians, seeing the light long enough to make Confederate flags disappear from official government sites.

In this summer of our discontent, even with a shocking stock market crash barking at everyone’s heels like a junk bond dog, we turn to small—sometimes very small—things. 

That would be the birth of twin baby pandas at the National Zoo, quite unexpected, quite joyful. The little beings, pink and yelping, are so far healthy, fully tooled to make you smile.  With the pandas, follows Pope Francis, due in Washington, D.C., in a month’s time—he brings, as always, hope spread out like life-saving air itself among the multitudes.

If you went for a walk at the Dupont Circle market, you could get a taste of the hopeful things in daily living accompanied by music—a Billie Holliday tune played at a used book store, a thin man with a hat playing Merle Haggard, “Mama Tried,” a jazz guitarist sitting in the shade offered by a bank building.  Sometimes, that’s soothing and just enough for a summer’s day.

Gary Tischler • September 17, 2015

Throughout this weekend, it was an American weekend of contrasts,  Saturday and Sunday in sharp relief and outline, both in this city and across the country, the aroma of bacon and pork on a stick mixing with the hurly burly of Trumped-up political showmanship at a classic middle America state fair, the kind that is an August feature of every county in the country that has at least one cow in the field and a chicken in the yard.

This was a weekend of a presidential-wannabe’s rite of political passage as an impossibly awkward  slate of more than a dozen candidates, high and low, Democrats and Republicans,  puzzled partisans and  followers of those beyond category like the leprechaunish Bernie Sanders and the gaudy, wholly self-enamored Donald Trump, descending, like a character out of a Fellini movie unto the farming and fawning earth of Des Moines, Iowa, in a setting that couldn’t have gotten more surreal.

It was a day on which it seemed like the entire West Coast was burning — so much so that with every fragment of video frame you began to think you could smell burnt brush and branches and homes from Oregon to the drought-stricken expanse of California.   In Washington, D.C., something similar was at work: with the news of a killings and shootings almost every day, each loud noise in a neighborhood, or on your travels through the city or on the beltway, made you blink just a little.

It was the kind of sweaty weekend where solace and respite from frantic politics and natural disaster, could be found in different ways: at a birthday gathering, in an exceptional television show and in sad news.

Julian Bond died on Saturday night, Aug. 15, after a brief illness at the age of 75. 

The news, coming out on Sunday morning and expanded upon throughout the day, came not only on the heels of the political antics of the day but stood in sharp relief to them.    

An iconic and hugely respected civil rights leader, Bond was the former head of the N.A.A.C.P. co-founder of the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee while still a college student, a pioneering black member of the Georgia state legislature for 20 years. Bond’s life did not lack for drama or charisma—the writer, poet, commentator, lecturer and teacher of the clashed with establishment figures, the white Southern political and segregationist leadership, even with friends and political rivals.  But Bond carried himself in a way that was just a step from aloofness, seemed graceful and dignified, and when he spoke, his voice was resonant with a gift for reasoned and reasonable rhetoric.

When you consider his life, it was a big life, if not as big as some had predicted.  Many thought Bond had the charm, the grace, the intelligence and the personality and appeal to become the first African American black president, which, as we know, did not happen. But he was a gift to civil rights in all of its entirety and did not lack for courage or principles. 

When Bond was first elected to the House of Representatives of Georgia in 1965, white members of that Southern legislative body refused to allow him to be seated, because  of his strong and open opposition to the Vietnam war at a time when such opposition was no small act of political courage. It took a 1966 unanimous Supreme Court decision that ordered the State of Georgia to seat him.

Bond lost a bitter primary race for Congress against his old friend John Lewis who won and has been there ever since. 

He was a strong proponent of marriage equality, linking the issue of gay rights as a civil right, often amidst criticism from his own supporters. 

He was a teacher and professor and was a member of the faculty of American University, where he was scheduled to teach a course on the civil rights movement this fall.

President Barack Obama called him a “hero” and a “friend.” 

He had the kind of life that was marked for permanent memory, the kind of life that you dared not pass instant judgement on. It demanded contemplation for how much it was conducted in the maelstrom of history and justice.

Bond’s life stood as an oasis of quiet importance when compared to the circus-life atmosphere among the politicians, now running hard as rabbits in an atmosphere of fried-up selfies and stuff on a stick.

There was Hillary floundering, Trump tasting but not finishing, Bernie sweating up a storm, the latest Bush lashing out.  Trump—no matter what he said or did—remained dervish-like on top of the polls to the consternation (and secret pleasure) of the media.  Only Clinton got additional press, none of it good. Missing from the scene was her husband Bill, while other Demos where urging a grieving Joe Biden to run, even bringing up the long-lost name of Al Gore, the alternative history president of the United States, but for the grace of the Supreme Court and Ralph Nader.

The whole thing—the “Meet the Press” encounter where Trump escaped unscathed, noting that “I’ll bet your ratings go up”—to the sight of so many people at the Iowa State Fair, eating so many things that induce all those fatal medical side effects—seemed like a noisy suburban neighborhood pool party in which everybody sooner or later gets thrown into the pool.

Closer to home, gunshots set the tone for a season that has become increasingly hurtful to body, mind and soul, and frustrating to D.C.’s leaders, especially its police force, who at various times cited an influx of synthetic drugs, guns, the release into the community of violent ex-offenders for the reasons in the upsurge of violence and killings this summer. The latest killing—that of an American University graduate named Matthew Castro Shlonksy—shocked the city. He was the latest in a list of homicide victims that, as of Aug. 16, number 93—20 more than last year at this time.

Times like these of polarizing politics, street violence and increasingly destructive natural disasters, you look for diversions in the arts, in sports, or more simply, the small joys offered by life lived daily.  We went to a birthday party for an Adams Morgan neighbor who held his gathered amid friends, family, and neighbor at his place of work.  Stories were told and swapped and advancing age, and new children were noted, and no one argued  about politics or deplored even the sinking fate of the Washington Nationals.  Trump could not trump the food, heavily spiced, the cake, the dancing, the music provided joyfully by La Unica, a self-described Latin Irish Fusion group, which got folks free-flying on the floor, and somehow got salsa to kiss the Blarney Stone, mixing up “Quantanamera” (“Yo Soy Un Hombre Sincero”), which you could find fittingly in “The Buena Vista Social Club,” with  the very Celtic “The Wild Rover” once sung by the Pogues.

Gary Tischler •

People—and a few poets—have always said that April is the cruelest month.

Sorry to say that it isn’t so.

August is the cruelest month. By far.

August is supposed to be the month when we treasure our last few trips to the beach, when we finally finish “War and Peace” or every James Patterson novel ever written—the number is legion—or go to our gadgets and binge watch every episode of “Game of Thrones.”

August is the month when we ignore the news, because there isn’t supposed to be any. Our elected officials are supposed to be out of town, doing nothing, a continuation of what they did when they were here. In August, consistency like that is the soul of solace and rest.

Instead, the news, the world, just would not go away. It burst onto our daily lives like a nagging life trainer.   It unsettled us in ways that are not supposed to happen in August. August are the joys of baseball, the absence of politics, the sand in your toes, the sun and its relief, the shade. 

Instead, we got Wall Street gyrations, Donald Trump morning, noon and night and whatever else is left. We have people still holding up placards that read, “Black Lives Matter,” and a police chief in Texas insisting that police lives matter, too, after a black man killed a police officer at a gas station.  We have the shocking, tragic, horrible shooting deaths—live, on the air—of a television reporter and her camera man from a Roanoke, Virginia, TV station. 

Here in Washington, as of now, the number of homicides is 105, the same total for all homicides in 2014, a chunk of that number achieved in shootings in August. Out West, spectacular and hugely destructive forest fires raged over Washington state, Oregon, California, in the middle of a devastating drought, and Idaho, while it became obvious to many that climate change was doing serious damage to the northernmost edges of the world, where glaciers and animals were receding or disappearing.

The news came at us in daily doses. It was the kind of news that stayed with you and lingered, got under your skin.   

During this time of year, politics shouldn’t be such a circus: loud, noisy, full of chest-beating, trumpeting and out-and-out chaos.  And it wouldn’t be, if Donald Trump were not in the race for the Republican nomination for president.  It wouldn’t be, if Hillary Clinton, the front-runner for the Democratic nomination since the last time she ran for president, didn’t suddenly seem pale and weak, wobbling from wounds from a thousand cuts of e-mails.   It wouldn’t be if it weren’t fairly apparent that no matter what outrageous things he says, no matter how many women he insults, Trump remains on top of the polls. 

One thing remains clear and therefore unsettling: the political establishment, the one in Washington and everywhere else, is under siege. Two of the most familiar names in politics—Hillary Clinton and Jeb Bush, are shrinking right before our eyes. It is the summer of the amateur and an apparently deep resentment of all things political. Trump is—as he often says—no politician, but a billionaire, as he often says, too. He has turned the immigration into a personal pet peeve of his and a national resentment.  Ben Carson is also doing well—he’s an African American neurosurgeon, running second behind Trump in some polls.  His qualification: he will bend his knees to no one. Bernie Sanders, the principal threat to Clinton, not dismissing her own tepid performance, is a Vermont socialist, which is honorary amateur status.  

It’s beginning to look like almost anybody with a little money can run.  When it comes to running for president, anybody can. No qualifications necessary. Politicians need not apply. If this thing holds up, it should turn the whole electoral process upside down.  In spite of everything that’s rancid and wrong with politics and government, this is still an unsettling thought.

In August, of course, you didn’t have to think about politics. You could talk about the weather, which was horrible—not such much for those in D.C. Heat waves are a part of August, the destruction of record numbers of acres in the West are not, and neither are the death of four firefighters.  Those images of fires combusting spontaneously made every broadcast of the nightly news for a while, as scary as any horror or disaster movie.  

If you didn’t want to think about politics or the weather, well, there was crime, and plenty of it, especially in Washington.   Those 105 homicides are reflective of a national trend—our neighbor Baltimore’s homicide rate is through the roof—but it’s particularly upsetting in D.C., where the mysterious rash of killings have become a political fight between D.C. Police Chief Cathy Lanier and the police union over tactics, among other things.  Right alongside are continued expressions and demonstrations over the killing of black men by white police officers—and lately, the killing of police officers, which is on the rise.

For sheer shock and horrible drama, there wasn’t a bigger story than the Aug. 26 killings of television reporter Alison Parker and cameraman Adam Ward by Vester Flanagan, a very disgruntled, former employee of the television station where the two worked.  Even as Ward’s life was commemorated recently, the story itself has become a political story on the right—Rush Limbaugh and his ilk—who’ve insisted that this was a hate crime.

Let’s try economics.  Okay, let’s not.  Wall Street experienced a wave of daily Dow Jones Industrial Average tsunamis, with a one-day, 1,000-point drop among other precipitous falls, the latest of which has the Dow teetering around the 15,000-point mark.

How about sports?   This is August after all. Are the Nationals leading the National League East and primed for a playoff run?  Sorry.  That was July. August was the month when the Washington Nationals (and the Baltimore Orioles along with them) experienced what can only be described as a near-total eclipse of their chances to make it to the playoffs, let alone win the World Series, which all the experts had them doing. The awe-inspiring pitching staff fell apart, the team failed to hit consistently, and injuries decimated the lineup throughout the year. As of this writing, the Nats are six games behind the hot New York Mets, and time, as they say, is running out.  

Even a champion wasn’t immune from the woes of August.  American Pharoah, the First Triple Crown winner in a long, long time, had his luster (and maybe stud fee) dimmed a little when he finished second in the Travers Stakes at Saratoga.

Even the arrival of a new baby panda at the zoo was tinged with the cruel reality of the natural world. Panda mom Mei Ziang gave birth in August not to just one but two baby pandas. Unfortunately, this being August, the younger of the two succumbed to pneumonia, although the older one is thriving and sporting black and white colors.

In Europe, we witnessed a growing world tragedy as refugees from the killing grounds of Syria, Afghanistan and Iraq tried desperately to escape. The train station in Budapest was shut down.

So, it was at last a goodbye to August, the reigning and current champion of cruelest month of the year. Rejoice. The wicked month is dead. 

It is September, the end of summer, the beginning of fall. The pope is coming. The city is bursting with new arts seasons,  including 50 or so world premiere plays by female playwrights. Football is here. The Redskins are . . . (um, hold that thought), and baseball—even with the struggling Nationals—is still baseball.