Michael's Corner

Late one afternoon, shortly before the happy hour was about to begin, a man, who one might apply the descriptors “Seasoned” and “Worldly,” strolled into a village pub. He was aged yet elegant, this man who had lived in many places, was currently residing in America, and vacationing abroad. His long, tweed coat and duck-billed tam made a suitable ensemble for his long, lean form. Couched in his eyes and deportment was the wisdom of a sage, or one might easily allege. He ordered a scotch, a Johnny Walker Black, and was quite declarative when instructing the barkeeper to use only three ice cubes. The barkeeper showed no indication that the older man’s specificity had annoyed him. In fact, the barkeeper smiled that a man of ostensible sophistication had respectfully tipped his cap. Moreover, it was likely that the gentleman was a man whose acquired adult habits had long predated the barkeeper’s birth, and respecting age is a time-honored etiquette.  

     The man put his nose to the glass, inhaled, then ceremoniously raised the glass and its contents, which included three ice cubes, to the barkeeper. But before he managed a sip, two young Americans, sporting attire that touted allegiances to their respective places of academia (one wore red, the other blue), called, “Sir, you’re a man of the world; perhaps you could spare a moment to lend some perspective to the latest embroglio overseas. In your estimation, do you see it as a genocide?”

     When the comforting burn of Johnny Walker subsided in his esophagus, the gentleman addressed two men born when the World Trade Centers still pierced the clouds and asked, “Am I being called upon to settle a mild debate or partake in a discussion?”

     “Perhaps a little of each,” said the man wearing red, as both he and his blue-clad friend tried to guess the gentleman’s country of origin by the vestige of an accent stubborn to disappear altogether.

     “It’s a funny matter, language,” the gentleman began. “Etymologically speaking, that is,” he thought to clarify. “Over time, words can lose, gain, and change meaning. It’s only natural for those nascents who had cut their teeth in a world of technologically driven hyper-novelty and connectivity to view such matters as genocide differently, and that its meaning would diverge from how I had long ago come to understand it.”

     The gentleman’s reasoning prompted the man in blue to ask, “So, you do not agree that what’s taking place overseas qualifies as genocide?” The man in blue wasn’t challenging the gentleman but was curious to learn how their definitions differed.

     “Correct, I do not agree that it is genocide.” The gentleman was firm but respectful in making his edict. “However, disagreeing that it meets the criteria of genocide is hardly akin to lauding the initiative. Moreover, there seem to be discrepancies in the current standard,” the gentleman explained. “For example, if a tribe isn’t necessarily beloved, they tend to have a very short leash when acting out, whereas another tribe owning steep financial implications to the West gets a much longer leash. One could even claim that the latter’s atrocities go largely ignored in the States, particularly in the realm that just finished spawning you.”

     The gentleman did not deem it necessary to clarify academia as the realm to which he had alluded.

     The two younger men felt the ground shifting beneath their feet. When they recovered, the fellow clad in red offered the impassioned entreaty, “But surely, Sir, you must see what most have reconciled as reckless slaughter as behaving in a ‘genocidal’ manner, if not rising to the United Nations’ strict standard for genocide?”

     “Young, Sir,” the gentleman began, “to the best of my knowledge, no one in your country of origin ever bothered to pose the question: Gee, I wonder how many blond-haired blue-eyed girls were underneath those piles of rubble a certain superpower turned Berlin into in the mid-1940s? Then again, people tend to stray from asking questions when they suspect the answer could turn their stomachs. It was understood that the Third Reich had to be reckoned with in a way that saw its total annihilation, collateral damage notwithstanding. Afterward, we did what our species always does as the embers of destruction cool: tell one another bedtime stories to get through the night, so that we can wake believing that the greater good was served.”

     “But surely, Sir,” began the man clad in blue, “you cannot compare the faction that committed the act that elicited the response that presently has us in a dither to the Third Reich? Nor could you allege that those caught in the crossfire are more complicit than those who watched the Third Reich rise to power.”

     “I’m afraid, young Sir, that those who, as you say, are caught in the crossfire may find themselves in that unfortunate position for reasons wholly dissimilar; however, their ignorance of a certain regime and its agenda is no less willful. But,” the gentleman said sharply, “before we pivot too far off your original question, I’d like an opportunity to raise a point: In 1941, long before either of you was born, your country suffered a sneak attack on one of its military bases; it claimed the lives of 1,800 servicemen. Your president, famously, echoed the sentiment, “This day will live in infamy.” Four years later, revenge was exacted on an unimaginable scale. Weaponry that the world had never before seen detonated. The result was a quarter of a million immediate deaths, with residual effects pushing that number into the millions. Was that genocide? Are you prepared to call a place many have dubbed “the land of opportunity” a genocidal regime?

     “Many years later, your nation lost 2,200 in what was an unprecedented terrorist attack. The response launched a war that killed nearly half a million, most of whom were not soldiers. Was that genocide? I’m guessing you think not. Meanwhile, the U.N. dragged its feet when trying to resolve whether the unspeakable atrocity in Darfur was an act of genocide.” The gentleman paused to allow room for a reply. When none came, he added, “Indeed, over time, words can undergo a slight alteration in meaning, but there are some that must remain well couched in their origins. Retaliation, irrespective of how one feels about the retaliator or their tactics, is not genocide. But by all means, be appalled. The sanctity of life crumbling due to human failings is a tragedy that should sicken people of all stripes. Still, we must choose our words carefully. And if this gentleman barkeeper would be kind enough to pour me another scotch, I would be glad to discuss other words that may have gotten scrambled during your pursuit of knowledge.”

     Beaming with curiosity, both young men asked, “Where are you from, Sir?”

     The gentleman’s eyes twinkled when he told them, “I am from many places and the product of many wisdoms. My education is as deep as it is vast. Incidentally, I say that with all humility, for it was the world—its magnanimity and treachery, compassion and cruelty, benevolence and wickedness—that has taught me. I have learned in my time and travels that there are but a few objective truths; everything else is a matter of perspective, and that enforcing the former and ignoring the latter will clear a path for a tyrant to ascend. You would be wise to remember that. Very wise, indeed.”

     And they sat, sipped, and enlightened one another to a world that’s forever changing yet stubbornly remains the same. When the gentleman rose from his stool, the young men asked, “Where are you off to, Sir?”

     The gentleman checked the time on his pocketwatch.

“That’s some piece,” the man in red intoned.

“It must be centuries old,” the man in blue added. “Wherever did you come by it?

The gentleman grinned ironically and said, “I’ve enjoyed your time. It has its share of perks. But I must be getting along.” He tipped his cap and wished them luck.