Trump And The Briar Patch Of Impeachment

Br'er Donald in his briar patch.  Art © Jim Moore

As impolitic as the stories are today, the Uncle Remus books, written in the late 1800s by Joel Chandler Harris, provided many generations of kids like me—who grew up not knowing what was or was not politically correct—a Reconstruction era brand of Aesop’s Fables that featured a trickster we rooted for. He was Br’er Rabbit, and he managed, story by story, to get the best of his antagonists—Br’er Fox and Br’er Bear. Br’er Rabbit was not always the winner in those battles (see The Tar Baby), but he won more than he lost.

Today, there is a new Br’er Rabbit, still a trickster, but hardly one we should ever be rooting for. He is Br’er Donald, and he is dangerous. His antagonists are not folksy woodland creatures like Br’er Fox or Br’er Bear; they are, instead, Democrats in the House of Representatives and in the Senate, and members of the mainstream media—for the most part—who are bent on catching and dispatching the trickster. They face enormous odds in their quest to banish the rabid rabbit.

Br’er Donald’s champions have erected a defensive bulwark around themselves and their delusionally-created country. It is a fortress constructed of stones of ignorance loosely bound with a thin mortar of supremely white nationalistic rhetoric. Surrounding this bastion of braggadocio and false bravado is a tangled and nearly impenetrable briar patch of lies and denial, planted and nurtured by the likes of Mitch McConnell and his lock-step acolytes in the House. Atop the ramparts of this ignoble redoubt, Br’er Donald’s supporters stand, megaphones in hand, praising and mimicking his divisive, hateful, and bullying rants. Their messaging is clear and frightening: Br’er Donald, an evil doppelganger of Br’er Rabbit of old, is a new trickster who is still winning (“hugely”) more than he is losing. And for that we should be concerned.

The ongoing drama that is the impeachment of a president, along with the bitter divisiveness that has overtaken political and social discourse in every quarter of the country, have as their common root cause one man bent on personal gain above all else; a mean and venal trickster who will stop at nothing to win, in part, because he believes—perhaps he knows—nothing will stop him.

I cannot adequately explain this through the clarity of logic or the recitation of facts, nor, despite their best efforts, can many of the country’s most astute chroniclers of the political scene. We all have our theories, which run the gamut from ascribing Br’er Donald’s behavior to a mental illness, to dredging up his twisted tutor, Br’er Roy Cohn, to his inability to read anything with understanding, to his total lack of interest in the flow and lessons of history. Perhaps there are elements of all those theories at work here, or perhaps Br’er Donald is just an insatiable devourer of other people’s treasure and humanity. Perhaps he just gets off on greed, gold, boorishness, cruelty, and power, in no particular order.

Whatever he is, Br’er Donald is most certainly a danger to the nation—a clear and present danger that so far has evaded accountability in great part due to the bizarre machinations of his devout adherents and enablers in Congress and among his voting base, both forces abetted and energized by certain media’s criminally irresponsible streaming forums.

What can Democrats and the bulk of concerned Americans do to put a halt to the destructive machinations of this hoodlum trickster? Impeachment? No, I think not.

In the Uncle Remus story of Br’er Fox and Br’er Rabbit and the briar patch, Br’er Rabbit has been trapped on a sticky tar baby built by Br’er Fox, who is ready to barbeque the rabbit. Ever the trickster, Br’er Rabbit plays counter-argument:

So Br’er Fox had caught Br’er Rabbit and this time Br’er Fox said he was going to cook Br’er Rabbit and eat him up for good! Br’er Rabbit was mighty scared. He begged, “Oh, Br’er Fox, I don’t care what you do with me, so long as you just don’t throw me in that briar patch over there. Go on and barbecue me up, Br’er Fox, but please don’t throw me in that briar patch.”

Br’er Fox said he was going to roast him anyhow, but when he went to hang Br’er Rabbit up over the fire, he found he didn’t have any string to tie him up with. “Well, I guess I can’t roast you,” Br’er Fox said. “I guess I’ll have to drown you instead.” Br’er Rabbit pleaded, “Oh, Br’er Fox, go ahead and drown me then, just so long as you don’t throw me into that briar patch!”

“Well,” said Br’er Fox, “it looks like there’s no water around here to drown you in. I guess I’ll skin you instead.” “Okay, Br’er Fox, no problem,” chattered Br’er Rabbit, “Go ahead and skin me, cut out my eyes, cut off my legs, just don’t throw me into that briar patch!”

By this time, Br’er Fox had gotten the idea that Br’er Rabbit really, really didn’t want to get anywhere near that briar patch. Br’er Fox wanted to hurt Br’er Rabbit as bad as he could, so he took Br’er Rabbit by the legs and threw him right smack into the middle of that briar patch. He heard a lot of rustling and crackling when Br’er Rabbit landed, and he waited around to see what terrible thing was going to happen.

But a few minutes later, he hears somebody calling, “Oh, yoo-hoo, Br’er Fox! Over here!” and he looks – and he sees Br’er Rabbit, sitting on a rock, combing the tar out of his fur with a stick. “Didn’t you know, Br’er Fox,” called Br’er Rabbit. “I was bred and born in the briar patch! Bred and born!” And he hopped away.

Now, let’s retell the story, but this time, substitute Br’er Democrat for Br’er Fox, Br’er Donald for Br’er Rabbit, and the impeachment for the briar patch. The role of the tar baby is played by the Constitution.

There is no doubt in my mind that president Trump and his Congressional flock want nothing more than for the Democrats to fling Trump into the briar patch of impeachment. As in the Uncle Remus tale, Trump will emerge from the thorns of a Senate trial completely unscathed and happy to once again having outwitted his pursuers. Trump and McConnell see clearly what the Democrats seem not to see at all: the president thrives amidst the stickers and brambles of his lies and treachery—he has debauched the Constitution and the Department of Justice, and his followers love him all the more for his misdeeds. 

There is a good chance that once Br’er Donald is proclaimed innocent by the cowards of the Senate, he will redouble his trickster ways to help the Republican Party destroy an enfeebled Democratic majority in the House, and add Republicans to the Senate (“so much winning!”).

As for Br’er Trump after he is reelected in 2020, he will stand atop his briar-surrounded rock and say, “Didn’t you know, Br’er Democrats. I was bred and born in the briar patch! Bred and born!”

It's Time To Apply The Sesame Street Solution

Let the record reflect that I have been 36-year fan of “Sesame Street,” which turns 50 this year, and was recently feted at the Kennedy Center Honors. My affection and high regard for “Sesame Street” goes back to 1983, the birth year of our first child, and continued on through the births and growings up of two more children. The program, and I say this with no shame at all, lingers on in our house even today—years after our kids moved out—when I catch “Sesame Street” as a guilty pleasure. It is a bright and thought-provoking pool of light in the otherwise dreary shadows of today’s news cycles and political Strum und Drang.

In Sunday morning’s “Washington Post’s” “Pop Culture” column, “A Friend to Everyone,” Hank Stuever offered a masterful and touching review of “Sesame Street’s” half-century of education and personal revelation. I recommend the column to anyone who has had even a tangential connection to what is far more than just a children’s puppet show. It is must reading for everyone who watched the program, because Stuever reminds us of just what it was that connected all of us—young and old—to that unique neighborhood where learning numbers and letters was fun, and where humans, characters, and emotions of every description were welcome.

Stuever interviewed Sesame Workshop President and CEO Jeffrey D. Dunn, who said:

“[We] have stayed relentlessly true to the mission of helping kids grow stronger, smarter and kinder,” Dunn says. “I’m a huge believer in the idea that society is the result of kids growing up. We’re playing a very long game here, looking 30 years ahead at any point in time. . . . Your kids are going to grow up and be the adults of tomorrow.”

“Sesame Street” can feel deeply personal to just about anyone under the age of 55. It taught us to read and count, but it also taught us about kindness and acceptance. It was jazzy and groovy; it had a loose and wild feeling, even with all that PhD scrutiny on every frame.

Today the show is brighter, faster and somehow zippier, set on a cleaner, spiffier Sesame Street (shot on a set in Astoria, Queens) with a community garden and a recycling bin next to Oscar the Grouch’s trash can. Hooper’s Store serves birdseed smoothies and has bistro seating.

Yet the sense of belonging remains. “Sesame Street” was inclusive before anyone really knew what that meant, the first safe space. It is a friend to everyone

“When people talk to us [about ‘Sesame Street’], frequently it is about the literacy. They’ll say, ‘I learned to read because of it,’ ” Dunn says.

“But the second thing is that everyone sees themselves as somewhat unique, and what they saw was some friend that spoke to them, that let them know, ‘I’m a good person, I’m okay,’ and that there are people who are different, and that’s okay, too. The idea that everybody is deserving of respect.”

You can sense where this is going.

Look around, America. Have you forgotten how to get to “Sesame Street?”

“We’ve never been needed more,” Dunn says.”

I, for one, am in complete agreement. When Dunn says, “I’m a huge believer in the idea that society is the result of kids growing up. We’re playing a very long game here, looking 30 years ahead at any point in time. . . . Your kids are going to grow up and be the adults of tomorrow,” he is echoing my own sense of compounding revelation.

That compounding revelation began with the realization each time I watched “Sesame Street” with (or without) my children that as an adult I should, and could, try to practice being a better person, a more in-touch and in-tune person, a more cognizant person, a person open to the possibility that embracing our differences will make us a better neighborhood of human beings. After all, isn’t that what parents in “Sesame Street” households were trying to instill in our own children?

Why wouldn’t we, as adults, want to be more empathetic, sympathetic, kind, loving, caring, sharing, understanding, tolerant, patient, gracious, supportive, and selfless? We don’t have to dig very deep into our hearts to know that the short-term pleasures, the surface appearances, the superficial achievements…the money, the fleeting acclaim, the momentary highs that come from our daily efforts to “win” or to climb the ladder to a corner office with walls covered in ego photos…are not all they are cracked up to be. We know that. We. Know. That. 

And yet, too often we persist along the arc of “getting” because we have lost the thread of “Sesame Street’s” fundamental fabric of life-lessons taught for a half-century by a cadre of puppeteers and their human partners.

At a time when “gotcha” normalization is the notion du jour—a warped social and political model that licenses crude public behavior, the assassination of comity, selfish ends justifying immoral and unethical means, weaponized intransigence, duplicity, outright lying, and that most popular meme, “throwing someone under the bus”—“Sesame Street” celebrates a more child- and adult-friendly normalization: inclusiveness that is openhearted, open-handed, and non-judgmental.

“Sesame Street” is all about growth—the growth of young minds and the growth of adult understanding. As Jeffrey Dunn noted, the program is a very long-game program, like planting a tree not for shade today, but for shade tomorrow; not for fruit today, but for fruit tomorrow (as corny as that may be, it’s nonetheless apt). It is also, if approached correctly, a truly interactive program, one that encourages children and parents or other caregivers to share “Sesame Street’s” lessons, images, and situations.

For many children, “Sesame Street” was and still is, a gateway to what will later be complex adult experiences like insecurity, loneliness, feeling sad or “different,” pent-up anger, even death (notably, Mr. Hooper’s death—following the death of actor Will Lee in 1982). As “Sesame Street” actress Sonia Manzano (Maria) explains, once the decision was made to use Hooper’s/Lee’s death as a teachable moment, the show’s producers reached out to numerous specialists to develop a child-suitable script in which Big Bird, played by the late Carroll Spinney, wants to know why Mr. Hooper died. 

Big Bird’s questions are a child’s questions: Will he come back? If not, who will take care of me? Why can’t he come back? But then, who among us has not voiced versions, maybe more nuanced, of those same questions as adults facing the loss of someone who was important to us? 

I was 48 when my mother died; I was there, kneeling by her bed, holding her hand, feeling her life’s tide ebb beyond the mortal horizon, never to flow back. I would be lying if I did not admit that as much as I was relieved her years-long suffering had ended, I still wanted her back, still needed the child-soothing comfort of her presence, still questioned the meaning of her death. When my father died at his house in the country in 2003, separated from me by a terrible blizzard that kept me from being at his side, and all I could do was whisper “I love you” through the phone held to his ear by his nurse, I was crushed by the frustration and anger and hopelessness and sadness that enveloped me. It was my own “Sesame Street” moment inasmuch as the adult me was, for those hours that followed Pop’s death, lost and adrift like a child with more questions than answers.

The larger point to the Mr. Hooper episode, and all the episodes before and after, is that while life throws us all kinds of curve balls we never see coming, we are rarely alone in experiencing those unbidden surprises. Happiness, sadness; courage, fears; sunny days, stormy nights; kind people, grouches; strangers, friends; questions, answers; people with my skin color, people with your skin color; people who talk like me, people who talk like you; people who can run, people who need assistance; babies, the elderly; people who are hurting, people who are helping; life and death. When all of these emotions, circumstances, and differences can be discussed in terms children can understand, in a safe place, we are witnessing an anodyne to the often confusing and unsettling world our children (and we adults) inhabit.

For 50 years, “Sesame Street” has been that safe place where learning happens by example, where children can see the positive effects of giving and sharing and caring and participating in life in all its colors, sounds, and forms. Those lessons weren’t lost on me as a parent watching my children process “Sesame Street’s” tutorials on inclusivity, acceptance, tolerance, and patience. 

We should look at what “Sesame Street” stands for, what it elevates, what it illuminates, and what it celebrates. It stands for kindness. It elevates understanding. It illuminates our common bonds. And most of all, it celebrates our global humanity. The lessons children the world over learn from “Sesame Street” are replicable among the world’s adult culture, if we only allow those lessons into our chambers of government, halls of justice, media newsrooms, and corporate workplaces. That is not to condemn all those who work in those places--but we know we can do better.

We’ve seen it work. From Mahatma Ghandi to Jane Goodall, from Greta Thunberg to Jimmy Carter, from the White Helmets to Doctors Without Borders…the list of kind, giving, sharing men and women and organizations is wonderfully long, and they embrace “Sesame Street’s” model of compassion, understanding, respect, and continual wonder. 

Echoing Sesame Workshop's Jeffrey Dunn: “We’ve never been needed more.” Mr. Dunn, you will get no argument from me.

In memory of Caroll Spinney

Caroll Spinney with Big Bird and Oscar