The Lies They Tell Page 4

  Personally, Paul prefers the northern Unionists over the southern Confederates, but when he guides people from the South he’s very careful with his tongue. “Emotions still run high,” he explains to me, and visitors from the South object to his use of the words Civil War.

  Do they have another name for it?

  “Yes. They call it ‘The War of Northern Aggression.’” And there are others, he tells me, who refuse to step on the ground that 150 years ago served as the Union side on this battlefield.

  I have no problem with it. I drive and I walk on the ground that served the two sides in the war, stop next to this cannon and that, next to this number of dead and that, until, suddenly, my belly starts screaming: “I need food!”

  I have no problem facing up to any Southerner or Northerner, but I can’t face up to my belly. She is the king and the queen of me. I go to a fine restaurant.

  I’m not the only one at the restaurant, just so you know. Robert, sitting at a table behind me, is one of those Americans who can recite the Gettysburg Address, with only minor errors, by heart. How do I know? He tells me.

  What’s the most important line in the address? I ask him.

  “That this nation shall not perish from the earth,” he answers.

  Robert is missing a few words in between, namely, “That this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom – and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth,” but that’s okay with me.

  We continue our talk.

  Over half a million people lost their lives during that war, if I remember correctly. What was the war about?

  “Slavery.” The South wanted to keep their black slaves; Northerners wanted to abolish slavery. His wife, Kim, disagrees. She says that the people of the southern states believed that the US government was taking away too much power from the states and they fought for their states’ rights.

  Robert and Kim disagree on almost everything. Robert thinks that America supports Israel because the Jews in America give money to American politicians. There’s a strong Jewish lobby here, he says, and the Jews pay politicians to be on Israel’s side. Kim thinks that Palestine already exists, in Jordan, and that the Palestinians don’t want to have peace with Israel to start with.

  These two also don’t agree on what to eat.

  When it’s time for dessert, Kim orders a big plate of chocolate cake with ice cream, but Robert doesn’t order anything. I have long noticed that white intellectuals who side with the Palestinians are into “health” foods and are against chocolate cakes with ice cream as a matter of principle. Israel lovers, on the other hand, have no principles and eat everything.

  Kim is immensely enjoying the heavy cake and fat-rich ice cream, and her face is shining with pleasure. Robert takes out his smartphone to read while she eats.

  I do as well.

  The battle between the Confederates and the Unionists, I read on my smartphone, still resonates in America. Breaking from Fox News: “South Carolina Gov. Nikki Haley called Monday for the removal of the Confederate flag from statehouse grounds but defended the right of private citizens to fly it.”

  This, of course, is in response to the widely spread, undated photo of Dylann Roof in which he is pictured with the Confederate flag. If not for the Confederate flag, Governor Haley’s reasoning must be, Dylann wouldn’t have killed anybody.

  • • •

  Belly full, I cruise with Cruze away from the Gettysburg dead and the chocolate cakes. We reach Grantsville, Maryland. I don’t know how we got here. We drove north, or was it west, and we ended up here. The main thing: Cruze seems happy to take me anywhere and is not at all complaining about Maryland.

  Is this a nice town? I ask a young woman at a local gas station who is collecting garbage bags from various bins and tossing them into one huge container.

  “I love this town,” she tells me. “I grew up here. No crime here, everybody knows everybody.”

  Feet away is a pickup truck on which the following is written in big letters:

  Dodge the father

  Ram the daughter.

  You stay home and stroke it

  I’ll go to her house and ram it.

  What’s that? It sounds like a rape scene and I thought there’s no crime here?

  She laughs. “It’s not about a woman, it’s about a car. ‘Dodge,’ you know?”

  Truth be told, I don’t. This pickup truck, with its most loveable poem, wouldn’t survive more than eight seconds in New York City. Somebody, a white free-speech professor at Columbia University or his teenage Mexican maid, would stone this pickup into a little mound of unrecognizable pieces before anybody could say Jack Robinson.

  I get intrigued.

  Let me find out where I am.

  Inside the station’s shop I see Tim, an unemployed man, and ask him to tell me where exactly I am. “This is redneck town,” he says. “Not much to do here, but if you drive up the road you’ll have a nice view.”

  What’s redneck?

  “You don’t know what a redneck is?”

  You tell me.

  “I’ll give an example. The other day a black man was here and everybody was looking. Some approached him to ask him if he needed anything, telling him that he could get it somewhere else. That’s rednecks.”

  What would happen if a Muslim or a Jew moved in here?

  “I would advise them not to come here.”

  What’s the problem with Muslims?

  “9/11.”

  And Jews?

  “I don’t know. I never met a Jew.”

  But the Jew better not show up here?

  “I’d say so.”

  A lady walks by. Tim asks her: “How would you describe redneck?”

  “Ask the kids over there,” she says, pointing to her right, in the back. “They call themselves rednecks and are very proud of it.”

  One of the “kids” is Brooke, an attractive eighteen-year-old, and she says that she’s not a redneck but a “country girl.” She explains: “Girls are not called rednecks; they are called ‘country girls.’”

  It’s time for me to play a little.

  Let’s play a word game, I say to her. I say a word and you tell me what you associate with it. Okay?

  “Okay.”

  Black.

  “I don’t know.” She chuckles.

  Muslim.

  “I’m not sure.”

  Let’s try again: Black.

  “City.”

  Muslim.

  “A different country.”

  Give me better!

  “Better?”

  Yes.

  “Okay.”

  Muslim.

  “War.”

  Jew.

  “Holocaust.”

  Black.

  “Money.”

  What?

  “A lot of black guys have a lot of money.”

  How did they get the money?

  “They sell a lot of drugs.”

  Will you marry a black, a Muslim, or a Jew?

  “No.”

  What did your parents tell you about blacks, Muslims, and Jews?

  “Not to bring them home. They don’t like them.”

  How about people who grew up as Christians but no longer practice? Any problem with them?

  “No.”

  Is there a way to tell if somebody’s a redneck?

  “Yes. Rednecks have their baseball hats cooked in.”

  I have no idea what “cooked” is and ask her to show me a “cooked” hat. She takes off her baseball cap, folds the visor tight, puts the hat on my head and then tilts the hat rightward. “That’s a redneck.”

  I’m a redneck! I’m so damn proud!

  • • •

  The new redneck is reading today’s news right at this moment. Here is this from the New York Times: “In a long-sought victory for the gay rights movement, the Supreme Court ruled on Friday that the Constitution guarantees a nationwide right to same-
sex marriage.” Great news for gays, provided they don’t ask the chief rabbi of Moscow to officiate.

  I drive on, on and on. The roads in America never end. I try to avoid highways and use byroads instead. This way I can learn more about the people.

  Alongside the road I’m driving on right now I see churches all over, and where I don’t see a church I see huge billboards. Here’s one: “In the beginning God created,” which is taken from the Book of Genesis. Other signs encourage people to believe in Jesus.

  I turn on the radio, randomly picking a station, and I listen. A female pastor teaches us listeners how great it is to be silent. Silence, she says, is the best medicine. On and on she goes about the importance of silence, and she won’t stop talking for a second.

  I need to take this lady to a Quaker church!

  Meanwhile, she keeps talking, and I’m driving. When I reach a place called Ligonier I turn off the radio and I get out of the red lady. I am in Pennsylvania again. Go figure. The Cruze took me here.

  • • •

  Ligonier. What the heck is Ligonier? I never heard of Ligonier, but it exists. I go to a café for a healthy shot of caffeine, which is where I meet Michelle. I know about Michelle as much as I know about Ligonier, but she knows everything about me. For example, that I am a “European intellectual.”

  How fast I changed! I was just a redneck, and now I’m a European intellectual!

  Not to disappoint her, I ask her an intellectual question: Is Ligonier red or blue? (Red means Republican and blue is Democrat.)

  She examines me up close, trying to figure out which party and ideology European intellectuals like me might prefer, and then says: “This is a liberal town. Most people here vote Democrat.”

  She must think that I’m liberal, I say to myself, and I try to play a little game with her. I’m German, I tell her, and Germans are red. Did the people of Ligonier, I ask, vote for Obama?

  “To be honest,” she now says, “I don’t really know. I don’t understand politics, you see. How’s the coffee? Have a wonderful day.”

  She leaves.

  Lesley, a lady I don’t recall ever meeting, comes to sit next to me as if we’ve known each other from Biblical times. Ligonier ladies like me! I think I’m staying here.

  Lesley tells me that Ligonier is a redneck town, which is more than just red. Lesley doesn’t wear a baseball cap, cooked or not, and I assume that she’s no redneck. But I say nothing; let her talk. And talk she does.

  “I am Jewish,” she says to me. The only Jew in Ligonier, as even her husband is not Jewish.

  American Judaism is disappearing, she informs this German intellectual; there used to be a Jewish temple not far from here, but no more. America is a melting pot and the Jews, a people in love with pots, have given up on their culture.

  She probably assumes that as a German I’d be happy to hear that the Jews are melting.

  • • •

  Devyn, a gorgeous young girl who dreams of becoming a Supreme Court justice when she gets older, walks by. Describe “America” for me, I ask her.

  “America is a country where you can live the life you so choose freely.”

  Do you think that in Germany, for example, you are less free?

  “In America you have more freedom than in Germany.” How so?

  “The gun laws in Germany are much stricter than ours.”

  Do you have a gun?

  “I do!”

  What gun?

  “A rifle.”

  A rifle?

  “Yes. I hunt deer!”

  When was the last time you hunted?

  “Not this past fall but the fall before.”

  How many deer have you shot so far?

  “I’ve never shot a deer. I’ve tried but never gotten one.”

  You shoot, shoot, shoot and nothing happens…?

  “No. I just sit in the cold and wait for the deer to come. They never come and I just get very cold and I come back the next day and I sit in the cold and I wait…”

  Is it exciting?

  “When you see a deer it’s exciting. I also do target shooting, just with targets.”

  What’s the big deal about having a gun?

  “I like the excitement. The excitement of shooting. I enjoy it. For some people cooking is fun. I like shooting. Shooting guns is not the only thing that gets me excited, but it’s one thing that gets me excited.”

  What’s more exciting, sex or guns?

  “I don’t know because I’m saving myself.”

  You’re saving yourself?

  “Yes. I have a promise ring.”

  What’s a “promise ring”?

  “I live a Christian life and I promise to not have sex before marriage.”

  You don’t have a boyfriend?

  “No.”

  How old are you?

  “Nineteen. And I plan to be celibate until I’m married.” Devyn shows me her promise ring, a silver ring that she wears on her left hand. She’s damn proud of it.

  Lesley, the Jewess, likes to be surrounded by people like Devyn, to be totally melted by them.

  • • •

  Of course, not every woman in Pennsylvania wears a promise ring. Kelly, a young intellectual white woman, never will. I meet Kelly at the Cathedral of Learning at the University of Pittsburgh.

  Yes, I’m in Pittsburgh. Why? No particular reason. “Pittsburgh.” Don’t you like the way it sounds?

  In any case, I am at the Cathedral of Learning, which looks like any good, old, but very, very tall Catholic cathedral, only this cathedral has no religious symbols. This is not a church, but a protective structure for young souls wishing to be inspired. Something like that.

  I am sitting down on a chair, trying to suck more intellectuality into my system, when this Kelly shows up, accompanied by an Indian man, severely interrupting my scholarly inspiration. “He’s my partner,” Kelly introduces her non-white companion to me.

  Partner?

  “Gay people use the term partner for their mates and I think that if I use the word boyfriend it might be offensive to gays, since they use the term partner, and I don’t want to offend anybody. Partner is good. This way we all use the same term.”

  In non-intellectual, non-super-PC terms, this is what she’s saying: He’s my husband.

  Is this your first time here? I ask her.

  “No. I’m a graduate of Pitt. I know this place well. There’s a reverent feeling here, a quiet and safe space to study, resembling a holy place. Ornate architecture. It always made me feel good.”

  Is it like a church? I mean, I don’t know if you ever went to a church –

  “I was raised Catholic. Yes, it feels like in a church.”

  I’d assume that you are a liberal –

  “I am!”

  And that you voted for Obama?

  “Certainly!”

  Are you happy with him?

  “Generally yes, but not so much in his approach to foreign affairs issues.”

  Could you elaborate?

  “Obama should be more vocal on the Palestinian issue, not stick with Israel as he does. He should be more supportive of the Palestinians.”

  What’s wrong with his approach?

  “I don’t know very much about the Palestinian-Israeli conflict, but I think people don’t know enough about Palestine.”

  What’s wrong with Obama’s approach to the issue?

  “He supports Israel and I think it’s wrong.”

  This is the last place on earth I’d expect to hear about Israel and Palestine.

  • • •

  Come Sunday, I go to a real church, the Covenant Church of Pittsburgh. Somebody’s got to pray for the Palestinians, to make Pennsylvanians less worried, so why not me? On to the church!

  The guest speaker for today, someone named Dr. Mark Chironna, tells us that “Jesus is the new temple. Jesus is the new covenant.”

  Intellectually speaking, I have no clue what he’s trying to say, but the peopl
e in the audience flow with him. And when he says, “If the Lord takes something, it’s because He’s going to give you better!” they shout, “Hallelujah!”

  The preacher is dressed in a floral, Hawaiian-style shirt that he wears over his pants, which makes me think that in real life he’s a plumber.

  “My mamma didn’t raise no fool,” he yells, by way of introducing himself.

  “I’ve got the power,” he shouts, and the people shout back: “Yes!”

  This reminds me of Obama’s election campaign: “Yes We Can!”

  The Hawaiian plumbing preacher walks right and left on the stage, then goes down to the audience and screams, “You just need to say, ‘God, talk to me! Jesus, talk to me!’”

  And then he instructs the flock: “Put your hands on your belly and say, ‘God, make me bigger’!”

  They do as instructed and they feel great. Hallelujah.

  What I’m witnessing here is an instant-gratification Christianity, similar to a Big Mac.

  “Give Him another shout!” he yells. And, oh boy, they shout!

  “If you believe me,” he goes on, “get on your feet and give God a shout.”

  On their feet they are, and they shout.

  “He who is depressed come here,” he says, and most of them come forward.

  In fifty-two days, he promises the depressed, they will conquer their depression. He asks them to shout “Yes!” if they really believe that they will conquer their depression in fifty-two days. They shout “Yes!” and he suggests that each of them donate an “offering” of one dollar per day, fifty-two dollars in total.

  This is the best healthcare in America, and the cheapest. Fifty-two bucks and you will have no depression.

  I, watching this, get depressed. Are we humans so naïve? I need to entertain myself now.

  I go to a baseball game.

  I can’t believe that I forgot to pray for the Palestinians. What a German shmuck I am.

  • • •

  Playing now, at the PNC Park stadium: the Pittsburgh Pirates against the Atlanta Braves. Pirates and Braves. Who came up with such lofty names?

  Maybe some bored pastors.

  PNC Park has thirty-eight thousand seats; one of them should be mine. I pay whatever it costs, go in and sit down to watch.

  Baseball is an American game, a game that outsiders have a hard time following. It lasts hours, goes pretty slowly, and only future Einsteins know what is really happening in the field.