The commission we really need

Senate Republicans refused to go along with the House and establish a commission to investigate the Jan. 6 riot at the U.S. Capitol, which left five people dead and more than 100 police officers injured. By a vote of 54 to 35, the bill to form the “bipartisan” commission failed. But who really believes that it would have been truly bipartisan? In Washington, virtually everything is partisan. Wall Street Journal columnist Gerald Seib attempted to make the case for a commission, even while acknowledging that trials, investigations by journalists and other information about the incident will eventually be known. He seems to think a commission made up of politicians will find credibility with most Americans. Probably the opposite will be true. How about a commission to examine the source of the anger that produced the attack? The sources aren’t conservative talk radio or cable TV. They are merely conduits for many Americans who are fed up with their government and want it to return to the boundaries established by the Founders. While violence and destruction were not justified on Jan. 6, or at any other time, the riot might go a long way toward heading off future incidents if our leaders understood the depth of feeling held by those rioters who believe their country is being taken away from them without their consent. We are told we must pay more taxes to a government that has misspent our money for years on programs that don’t work and to help politicians stay in office. We must live within our means, but government is spending us into unsustainable debt. We must obey all laws or suffer civil or criminal penalties, yet we see on news channels (but not all, which is another issue) countless people breaking the law to illegally cross our southern border. The IRS estimates that only 50% to 75% of those here without authority pay federal, state or local taxes. Who foots the remainder of the bill? If we crossed illegally into other countries, especially Mexico, we would surely wind up in a jail cell. We watch as public schools teach critical race theory as part of what some consider historical revisionism and invite drag queens to middle-school Career Day. The Pentagon demolished the Trump-era ban on transgender people in the military. They can now freely serve. I have yet to hear how this will promote unit cohesion, help us win wars and compete with the militaries of Russia and China, whose priorities are much different. We spend record amounts of money on public education and yet American kids are behind Russia and China and many other countries in important subjects, such as math and science. Notice there are no proposals for a commission to investigate Black Lives Matter, or the large amounts of dark money used by both parties flooding in to influence our elections. No, it is only people viewed as the “extreme right” who should be subject to investigations. There are numerous quotes, even books, about nations that have crumbled under the weight of their own self-indulgence. None surpass the statement by our 16th president. Abraham Lincoln said: “From whence shall we expect the approach of danger? Shall some trans-Atlantic military giant step the earth and crush us at a blow? Never. All the armies of Europe and Asia...could not by force take a drink from the Ohio River or make a track on the Blue Ridge in the trial of a thousand years. No, if destruction be our lot, we must ourselves be its author and finisher. As a nation of free men, we will live forever or die by suicide.” If a commission looking into what fueled the Jan. 6 riot is established, that quote would explain our suicidal tendencies. It might also explain the anger many feel.

There is a Kodak photo in an old scrapbook which I found buried in my office closet. It made me do some thinking. In fact, I’m still thinking, a few weeks after the discovery. It was taken with, what was then, a new-fangled Kodak Instamatic camera. It was a little box with a gleaming silver front and a flashbulb cube snapped on top. When the flash was used on one of the four sides, the cube turned automatically to another side. It was fascinating to a tiny girl from Rural Route One who loved the Space Age of the Jetsons. It was in the earlier years of color photos and, to be truthful, I love the faded color. It is muted and much gentler than today’s photos — more akin to how the world used to be; not glaring and harsh like the universe is now. There I am in a deep-green wool jumper and white shirt with a Peter Pan collar. The jumper was made from the scraps of a winter coat that Mama had sewn for herself. In those days, most of my clothes were made from leftovers. Mama would lay her fabric on the kitchen table when, for a long period of time, she would worry with turning the pattern pieces until she was certain that she had maximized the yardage. If she had bought the amount of fabric according to the instructions, she would always have at least a half of a yard left. Those half-yard pieces became the foundation of my childhood wardrobe. I started sewing when I was 6 (by hand for my Barbie dolls) and Mama taught me all those tricks. So, there I stand in that Kodak photo with a same-fabric bow on the jumper, white knee socks, and shining black patent shoes. Daddy is standing, posed with one foot up on the edge of a short rock wall, and I, atop the wall, am leaned forward on his knee, smiling gleefully. He is dressed in a dark suit, white shirt, thin black tie, and dark Fedora trimmed in matching ribbon with a tiny feather tucked into the side for style. Had Daddy been holding his black Bible, one might think we were standing outside a church. We were not. We were posed outside a motel in Gaitlinburg, Tenn., where we had spent the night, my first time ever in a motel The day before, Daddy had slowed our white Pontiac while Mama grabbed me up from the jump seat where I always sat, and held me close to the window so I could see a bear and her cub, playing on the side of the road in the Great Smokey Mountains. On a two-day trip to the mountains – when the only way to get there was through winding, isolated roads – we are dressed like Sunday morning. As I studied the photo, I could hear Mama’s words ringing as the screen door banged behind me whenever I sashayed in from church. “Ronda, go take off your church clothes and come help me in the kitchen.” The discovery of this scrapbook happened during the time that the world slowed down because of sickness, and I often lolled around in pajamas all day. I had come a long way from that little girl with crooked bangs and crisp clothing. That’s when I took hold of myself and said, “You’ve gotta get back to dressin’ up the way you used to, the way you were raised.” I knew that if I went back to taking time with my hair, make-up, and clothing, that I’d feel better about myself. It’d lift my spirits and make me feel happier, like that little girl in the faded photo. Great plan. Except that, after months of full-time pajamas, the clothes no longer fit. Back to the harsh, glaring world.