A Surprise Visit By Mark Twain to Belmont

On Friday evening, I went to see Urinetown in an effort to stay in touch with modern satire and, more importantly, to complete my convocation credit. The production was pleasant. I found it amusing how many words in the English language rhyme with “pee,” including liberty, chastity, and happy. I thought about this for hours afterwards, even as I gallivanted through the city. At one point, a girl introduced herself to me saying, “Hi, I’m Ashley,” and my only response was, “Chris [handshake],” and, “your name rhymes with pee.” I was awfully sad when I came to the realization, later, that there is no chance for a sequel because comedy does not rhyme with “crap” or “shit.”

I am not here to document the show, however, or my opinions of it. I am here to recount a strange but miraculous event that occurred just prior to the beginning of the second act. I am still unsure whether or not what I witnessed was real or a hoax; but whether or not it was or wasn’t, I still have confidence in the potential of the words delivered.

As I was talking with a lady friend of mine during intermission, the lights dimmed in the theater, which, although it seemed early for them to do so, I took as the signal to silence myself and assume the musical- watching position. I waited for the cast to take the stage but there was nothing. I waited some more, but still nothing. Thirty seconds passed and the crowd began to get restless (as did I because it is one thing to have to listen to a musical, and it is another to anticipate having to listening to it). Then there came a sound from stage left—a rhythmic scraping. Slow but steady. Like the noise a broom makes upon the floor. It grew slightly louder, and louder, until finally, a man appeared. He was dressed in all white and hunched over a bit, carrying a chair. In his mouth, which was roofed by a puffy, white moustache, he held a cigar. This he puffed so furiously that one could have mistaken him for a white locomotive. I knew in an instant who it was. And so did the audience. They laughed and applauded as he made his way to center stage, which took him nearly two minutes to do so on account of his pace. When he finally got there, he put the chair down, and slowly took a seat, leaning back for a second and drawing heavily on his cigar. He exhaled, squinting his eyes, and began to speak.

I am not an act in this show; I never was meant to be. In fact, I tried in every which way to avoid interrupting it. But President Fisher insisted that I take the stage this evening. You see, about a year ago, he asked me to be a speaker for your lecture series on the meaning of Freedom. I was honored, to say the least, by this, and without hesitation, began to make the trek from Connecticut to Nashville. Unfortunately, it takes me fortnight to get anywhere, and I am now nine months late. I apologize for that and I would like to apologize to the actors who are being so rudely kept from their performance—as it appears an old man who can barely walk across the stage is more entertaining than the lot of you.

I must say, I have not spoken before so many people in one place since the first lecture I ever gave back in 1868. There were sixty-five people in the audience. All of whom were there not to listen to the material I had prepared, but to listen to me deliver a modern rendition of Hamlet’s soliloquies, as my ticket man had falsely advertised. You see, in my day, Shakespeare was wildly popular. He could capture an audience much the same way that reality television does now. It just goes to show that fiction never changes. Only the reality through which we view it. Unless that reality is an audience of sixty-five expecting to see Prince Hamlet, then they get up and leave. I am proud to say that there were two people remaining when I had finished speaking. They were my mother and my sister, who were proudly seated before me in the front row—and fast asleep.

Anyways: the meaning of freedom. I must admit that I have forgotten what I was going to say about it. This is probably because, in all honesty, I do not know a single thing about freedom. I am an American, yes, this is true; I have not one, but two American flags hanging on my porch—one is my own and the other I took from my neighbor after he voted for John Kerry; I can sing the national anthem in 8 different languages; I am apt to quote Benjamin Franklin and Abraham Lincoln more often than Jesus; And last but not least, I have an extreme abomination for a Frenchman. Yes I am an American: I own a firearm and a wife. And it is this combination that has kept me imprisoned for the past 125 years.

So, no. I do not know a single thing about freedom. Nor a single thing about free speech. For the only man who knows free speech is a dead man. He fears no opinion but God’s. And most of the time he doesn’t believe in God.

I found it strange that as I made my journey down to Nashville, and told passersby that I was on my way to give a lecture at Belmont University, that they had no idea there was such an institution by that name in Nashville. In fact, they told me I must have been mistaken—that I was actually headed to Vanderbilt University; that Vanderbilt was the only university in Nashville; and that all other universities that purported themselves as universities were mere heretics to education. But I am pleased to find, as I always am when it happens, that I was right and you do exist, Belmont.

I imagine, though, that this is rather frustrating. I imagine that when you go home to wherever you go home to and you tell people that you earning your degree at Belmont that they sometimes ask you how it is that you are receiving an education from a horse-racing track. I also imagine that when you are about town and people ask you what it is that you are doing here, and you tell them that you are a student, that they quickly respond, “Oh, do you go to Vanderbilt?” And when you tell them calmly, “No, I go to Belmont,” a blank stare comes across their face. They scratch their head. Furrow their eyebrows. Much in the way a chimpanzee would if you tried to teach him the story of Creation. Until finally they respond with a look of genuine awe, “I had no idea that horse-racing track was in Nashville.”

This problem you have, Belmont, of escaping from beneath the long shadow cast by Vanderbilt is nothing new in this world. It is an age old pattern of the universe. But you should look at it this way: that where there is one, there is always two and often the second supercedes the first. Why, history proves this over and over again. Let us take for example Adam and Eve. It is said in the Bible that God made man first. He made him from the earth. Then He decided that man needed a companion, perhaps some opposition; that a simple indolent existence of hunting and fishing was too easy. So, from one of Adam’s ribs, He made Eve and she became his counter. He called her Woman. Because she was taken out of Man, so said Adam. This moment marks in the history of Man the largest mistake he ever made. Though, I cannot blame him. As the first man, he was not privy to the knowledge that we men have today—which is still very little and much guesswork—that you must never tell a woman two things: who she is or that she is a little portly for the dress. Because if a man does, he can count on being proven wrong or reminded of what he said, once, for the rest of his existence. The feminine memory is an astounding vault. Where gilded retorts can be stored securely until it becomes necessary to flaunt them once more. As a result of his naming of her, and his subsequent creation of subservience, she has spent the past 6,000 years asserting herself in the world. The past 100 years to be specific. But Woman has finally emerged from beneath Man’s shadow. And secured herself a right to vote. She has earned herself a college education. And she has dropped the apron, stepped out of the home, and made for herself a career. I don’t care what the feminists say; they are wrong. The triumph of women’s suffrage can be summed up into one phrase: that’s what she said. Why? Because, back in my day, she would not have said anything. She remained silent. We said the phrase one way and only one way and that way was: that’s what he said. And by he, we meant God.

At this point he leaned back again and took a long puff of his cigar, then exhaled slowly, watching the movements made by the smoke.

My wife tried for many years to quit me of cigars. Told me that I made the house stink and that I’d ruin my teeth. But she failed to understand that there are certain things a man will never quit. There are certain things—traditions, pastimes, customs, whatever you want to call him—that are so ingrained into his daily routine, they have become apart of his identity. His religion. And if I am bold enough to leave you with a definition of freedom, then I will say that it is not a thing granted to you by a government or God but a fearless defense of everything that is you. Freedom is self-patriotism. We must learn to ignore the opinions of man and fix bayonets upon our rifled souls.

Good night, Belmont, and thank you.

He shuffled off stage for the next two minutes, puffing away on his cigar and leaving behind him in the smoke an airy past. Like a hazy memory, surreal and questionably imagined.

The Stray and Strom Thurmond

Preface

To the romantic traveler, I would advise curbing any form of a special occasion while in Haiti. This includes wedding proposals, religious sermons, and declarations of candidacies. For all of these will indubitably and soundly be interrupted by a dog. A Haitian dog has a quota of barks to fulfill throughout the hour—and it will do so on the order of every five minutes, it seems. And never alone. No, of course not. Like the Haitian people, the dogs embrace the old world sense of community—if one barks, they all bark. I remember distinctly one evening, as I was unwinding after a long day’s work, I heard a dog crying a way off in the distance—I figured a man must have stepped on its toe in the dark. Well, that crying inspired a dog a few paces off to join in, and then another dog a furlong distanced to do the same, so on and so forth until the crying reached the front porch. This happened several times throughout the course of the night, waking me up each time. It was tiring, to say the least. And so it was that I laid in bed at 4:25 in the morning, not tossing and nor turning, nor covering my ears but trying to decide whether I should shoot the dogs or the buffoon who stepped on the toe.

Tale

Several months ago, on the recommendation of a friend, I took a week off from my practice in Tennesee to perform some missionary dental work in Haiti. It was a delightful trip. It was an enlightening trip. It was a lovely trip. I ended up with forty mosquito bites. I ended up with three wooden carvings of Jesus washing feet. And a case of, what I believe was, amoebic dysentery.

At about 11AM on the third day of the trip, after extracting three wisdom teeth in a row—a rather ambitious undertaking in 95 degree heat—I decided to rest for a few minutes. I took a seat next to our translator (Haitians speak a Creol French), a man by the name of Pastor Martinique. Pastor was not his first name, of course, but his vocation. I never learned his first name—or last, if by chance Martinique was his given name—because he was always just Pastor to me.

Pastor Martinique was of middling height and build and bore a close resemblance to Bill Cosby. He wore frameless glasses and carried a look of the deepest contemplation on his face at all times. Whether he was pondering God or lunch, I never knew because Pastor was always full of surprises.

Perhaps the most endearing quality about him was his innocent sense of humor. He liked a good joke, especially about the Catholics, and he would tell them all day, first in English, and then in Creol, so that the patient could get a laugh, too (unless he was a known Catholic, then Pastor would tell a blonde joke). This turned out to be a rather effective way of pulling teeth. He’d tell a joke, causing the patient to laugh and open their mouth and I would swoop in with my forceps, at just the right moment, and yank the sucker(s) out. We made a great team.

As I sat there next to him I let out a long sigh. “Pastor, I’m exhausted. Haiti is wearing on me.”

“It is?” He said, “Well, I’m sorry. It is probably the heat. Americans don’t usually handle the heat well.”

He knew full well about Americans because he was one. In fact, he had a house in Florida that he frequented often. Somewhere in Naples, I think. But he and Madame spent most of their time in Haiti, housing missionary groups.

“No, it isn’t the heat. I’m from Tennessee. This is nothing. It’s those dogs—they bark incessantly. I’m surprised a man ever gets sleep on this island.”

“We stick grass in our ears,” he said. “An old Haitian trick.”

I tried this later, rolling some grass into a ball and sticking it in my ear. I felt only slightly ridiculous. So, in order to alleviate my discomfort, I told the other members of our group about the noise-damping effects of grass and they followed suit. I was a hero for nineteen minutes until Madame Louise saw our experiment, grew a bit red, and cried, “That Pastor!” She explained that this was a favorite joke of his and he had told the same thing to some British missionaries a few months prior. Several of them developed ear infections as a result.

“Well, I think the next time I come, I am just going to bring my shot gun,” I responded.

“And shoot my pets?!”

“Your pets?”

“Yes, my pets! I once told a group of Canadian missionaries—they are very gullible, you know—that the spiders on the island were my pets, and not to kill any of them. All week they screamed and yelled and cowered, but did not injure a single one. It was not until my wife grew so weary of their crying, that she took an old newspaper to every spider in the house. The missionaries tried to stop her, of course, believing that the spiders were my pets and that I would be very sad if any of them died. Well, as you can imagine, I was comfortably reading in my parlor when I heard, ‘THAT PASTOR!’ And decided to go for a walk.”

“So the dogs aren’t your pets?”

“No, they are.”

I was confused. He elaborated.

“You see, dogs are revered in Haiti, much the same way cats were revered in ancient Egypt. Especially the strays, we Haitians love our strays.”

“Is that because dogs have some special voodoo power?”

Voodoo is largely practiced in Haiti, but most only on chickens.

“Nooo,” he answered with a scowl, “no, no, no. Dogs will have nothing to do with that superstition. They are too pious. No, the reason we love our dogs follows a tale that will take much longer than a short break to tell.”

I told the nurse to give me another twenty minutes. I was very tired.

“Go ahead, Pastor,” I said. “I am eager to hear.”

“Well,” he shifted in his seat to a more comfortable position, “ok.”

“About fifteen years ago, in the summer of 1994, Haiti was under great political turmoil. So much so, that the U.S. military was threatening to invade the island. Out of supreme desperation, our General Cedras called upon your President Jimmy Carter to keep the U.S. from doing this—to lead talks with our leaders and resolve the problems. President Carter relayed this cry to your, then, President Clinton, who was busy, I suppose, with his female White House aides and asked President Carter to administer aid to Haiti himself. So, he assembled a diplomatic team consisting of Senator Sam Nunn, Joint Chiefs of Staff Chairman Colin Powell, and Senator Strom Thurmond. Senator Thurmond was a late addition and is still, to this day, a complete mystery because he was so old. I remember seeing him for the first time and thinking he was going to die any minute. But, well, he didn’t.

“Anyways, only a few days after Senator Thurmond joined the other delegates, Senator Nunn backed out, claiming he had private issues that needed to be taken care of. Chairman Powell followed suit a few days later, claiming for health reasons instead. This left President Carter with only Senator Thurmond as a companion on the mission—as all other members of the U.S. government provided legitimate excuses for their inability to join the two men in Haiti. Then, a week before they were scheduled to leave, President Carter backed out saying that his interests had become conflicted by a chance at economic gain. He said that General Cedras had offered him a monetary reward if the U.S. was successful in negotiating a non-militaristic invasion. With the welfare of the Haitian people at stake, President Carter said, he had to remove himself from the mission.

“At this point, I knew something was strange because this made no sense to me. What politician would not accept money? And what politician would think the Haitian government has money? The Haitian government has no money! How could we offer a reward? We would probably ask a reward from the U.S. for a peaceful negotiation. Of course I couldn’t do anything with a strange feeling so I prayed and waited to see the real reason, if there was one, as to why Senator Thurmond was making the trip by himself.

“He arrived in early August with an aide, a personal chef, and a two Secret Service agents. Our two reporters on the island were there as he walked off the plane, and anxiously prodded him with questions. But all he did was just wave his hands at them and tell them he was too tired for the press. The Secret Service quickly pushed them back, and he walked quietly into the terminal.

“Of course, we were eager to hear from Senator Thurmond, as our fate rested solely in his hands, but for two days all he did was sleep. We knew this because most of the employees in the embassy were Haitian and, as you may have already figured out doctor, we Haitians are like a great family. One person tells another, and another tells another, and so on. Pretty soon the whole island knows what happened. It keeps a man honest, doctor. You want to kiss a woman other than your wife? Ha! Good luck. Good, good luck.

“I should also add, before I go further, that I had a particularly good vantage point during this whole escapade—as my congregation was right down the street from the U.S. Embassy. In fact, people came by my office every day and to talk to me about Senator Thurmond. Did I think he was going to get the job done? When did I think it would be over? Why was he sleeping so long? All of these questions and no answers. It was rather bothersome, actually, but it kept me invested in what was happening the entire time.”

Pastor was distracted by some boys making noise in the yard. He leaned out the window and yelled at them in Creole. They ran off screaming something over and over again and the dogs started to bark. This brought him back to the story.

“Well, on the third day, he finally rose. On a Sunday, nonetheless! Service that morning was very energetic—I could barely keep my congregation in their seats. His rising on the third day was a sign, people said, a sign that we would all be saved. Haitians are very superstitious, doctor, very, very superstitious. And we love signs! I was flooded with questions after service—Did I think this man was Jesus? Did I think he could save us? I was not sure how to respond; I was not sure because I knew he was just an old man who needed rest. Hope was such a rare thing in those times, though, that I was afraid to speak against it.

“That afternoon, Senator Thurmond held a press conference, and talked for five hours. He mentioned the political affairs of Haiti only once in that amount of time, then spoke of the heat, the humidity in Georgia, the shading effects of pine trees, the way a person can tell the difference between a red and white pine—something about counting the needles—his grandmother’s insistence upon pine tea for an upset stomach, and how he didn’t generally care for the taste of pine tea—he’d rather have a Coke. A reporter asked him one question, which Senator Thurmond answered for nearly two hours. And when he started discussing his mother’s biscuit recipe, the reporter stood up and left.

“The Haitian people didn’t really know how to take that first day. There was still a sense of optimism in the air, but there was also uncertainty. The Senator could certainly talk—yes, yes, he could. And this was endearing to Haitians, because, well, we can talk, too. But our fate was in this man’s hands and he was talking about biscuits and pine trees. It was nerve-racking to say the least.

“It didn’t get any better, either. The Senator spent most of his time in the embassy walking around and talking to the staff. It didn’t matter if they spoke English or not—as this was one way Haitian workers tried to avoid his stories—he would just call in his translator—who grew frustrated as well, always having not only to listen, but speak for him, too. His maid staff tried over and over again to tell the Senator that they could not speak English, but he called the translator every time. As they made his bed, he would check the tag on the sheets, commenting on the quality of the cotton. As they brought him towels, he would look at the tag and comment on the quality of the cotton. He said they were Egyptian cotton—soft but inferior to South Carolinian cotton. He told them how Haiti needed to import American made products and not Egyptian or Chinese. South Carolinian products, in particular. They were the best.

“After about a week of this, every one in Port Au Prince was trying to figure out ways to avoid conversation with this man. Pretending not to be able to speak English had not worked. A few even tried pretending to be deaf, but this only invoked Senator Thurmond to yell and mouth every word he was saying, keep a constant gaze with the listener, follow them everywhere, wave his hands in the air, and cause quite a scene. Nobody knew what to do. We were more desperate than when General Cedras originally begged for aide from President Carter. Senator Thurmond could not be stopped! Our own leaders cancelled meetings with him. It was then that we realized there was only one thing to do: Avoid Senator Thurmond at all costs. We were on the lookout wherever we went—as it was the tendency of the Senator to go on daily walks through the city—and if we saw him in the distance—if we were lucky—then we quickly turned down an alley or ran in the other direction. This worked rather well for most of the population. But Port Au Prince is a big city with a lot of people, doctor, and Senator Thurmond usually ran into someone.

“We had just about given up when God finally answered our prayers. One day at noon, Senator Thurmond went for a walk down to the fill-up station with two security guards and his translator to get a Coke—it was a Friday. We in the area had grown quite used to this routine, and were well aware to stay off the street at this time. In fact, the street was basically empty that day except for a blind man and his dog—a stray that he used as protection against thieves—who were sharing an ice cream bar. The Senator saw him and was intrigued by his sharing ice cream with a dog. He went over to the man and asked him if he did not see what he was doing. The man said that he could not see because he was blind. With this, Senator Thurmond began telling the story about his uncle who had lost his eye at the battle of San Juan Hill when Theodore Roosevelt’s horse kicked him in the face. But before he could get further than that, the dog started barking. No one knows why it did—whether or not it was spooked because Senator Thurmond was the first white man that dog had ever seen or because there was something about his voice that drove the dog crazy—but that dog barked and barked. Senator Thurmond was flustered by the barking and unable to return to his train of thought. Discouraged, he walked away from the blind man, bought his Coke, and headed back to the Embassy.

“The translator, who at this point was desperate for a way to quiet the Senator, saw what had happened and was pleasantly surprised. That night after work, he caught a stray dog and put it on a leash. The next morning, he showed up to work with the dog, claiming he had been blinded the night before by a large sneeze and he needed the dog for protection. The Senator said he had never heard of anyone becoming blind from a sneeze before but he had had a sister-in-law who went deaf from an ear infection. Before he could get any further, though, the stray began to bark. And it barked every time Senator Thurmond attempted to speak. Well, he couldn’t have this problem with a translator so he fired him—much to the translator’s delight.

“Within a few hours, everyone in Port Au Prince had heard about what happened and rejoiced—we had been given our answer! People were hoarding dogs and selling them on the street. For the first time in the history of Haiti, there was not a single stray dog in the city. Each one had a home! The entire Embassy staff had become blind and required dogs. Even our president—who often was asked to have diplomatic conferences with the Senator—had a terrible accident on his motorbike that left him blind. Senator Thurmond was thwarted on every occasion for conversation. He became so discouraged that he resigned his post and headed back to the U.S.

“On his last day on the island he held a press conference to say farewell to Haiti. He was met by an audience of ten people and twenty dogs. Before he could even finish saying, ‘Good day to my friends of Haiti,’ the dogs started barking. The senator grew red in the face, slammed his fists on the pedestal, and spread his arms out, shouting, ‘E-NOUGH already, D—n it!’ Then he walked off stage and was never seen in Haiti again.”

“So, did he have anything to do with the eventual peaceful invasion of Haiti?” I asked.

“Oh no, no. President Clinton arranged something after Senator Thurmond left. It was really no big deal,” responded Pastor.

“Oh,” I said. I wasn’t sure whether or not he was joking about it being easy, but I also didn’t have the energy to argue. It was too hot. And the dogs had started barking. So, instead I said, “Hey, Pastor, you hear the one about the nun who wanted to become a prostitute?”

“A what?”

“A prostitute.”

“Oh, prostitute! I thought you said Protestant. Now, that would have been a good one.”

I'm On a Bike

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uN7ZdydxUH4

Performed by: Alex Crawford, Brendon McNerney, and Josh "Big Cheese" Homer.

Vocals by: Alex Crawford, Brendon McNerney, and Brandon Maxwell (T-Pain part)

Directed by: Gordon Droitcour

Written by: Chain Saw