Last night I confessed on my Facebook page that I love butterflies and dragonflies. I think my love for butterflies is easily understood. If there are any butterfly haters out there, I’ve never encountered one. Dragonflies, for their part, are cool because they’re beautiful in a sleek, deadly, Viking ship kind of way. As an extra bonus, they devour mosquitoes in large quantities. Every time I see a dragonfly, I want to show my support in some way; buy him a drink and say, “Thank you for your service.” Haven’t worked out a way to do that yet.

Did you ever ponder the word “butterfly?” Where does the butter come in? I did some web searches and discovered (to my delight) that nobody really knows. There are, thank goodness, a few mysteries left in our world. Some say that it’s a confusion of the original name, “flutterby.” That seems to me a little precious, and there seems to be no actual evidence for such a word in history. Some think the word originally only designated the yellow ones, and then expanded to embrace the entire genus. Others say that it’s because butterfly droppings are yellow. Take your pick, or make up one of your own.

By the way, the Norwegian word for butterfly is sommerfugl, which means “summer bird.” What a lovely, poetic name. Illogical, as they have lots of birds in Norway in the summer, but apt.

Much summer heat is being generated by Andrew Breitbart’s story on Shirley Sherrod and her speech to an NAACP meeting. I defended Breitbart in a discussion over at Threedonia earlier today, but on consideration I’ve come to the conclusion that he had a fair point, but bungled the story badly. He was trying to make the reasonable argument that the NAACP shouldn’t call other people racist when its own members laugh and cheer at a story of reverse racism. But he went ahead without having the full story, and should have been aware that Ms. Sherrod, who seems to be a decent person, would be caught in his line of fire.

Talleyrand is supposed to have once said of a political assassination, “It was worse than a crime. It was a blunder.” This was worse than a blunder. It was a sin.

I confess I can imagine myself committing the same sin. Doesn’t make it right, though.

Athol Dickson writes on beauty.

Beauty is not always comfortable. Consider forest fires and lightning. Think of the summit of Mount Everest. Are they not beautiful in their own ways? Yet aren’t they also terrifying? Remember the great white shark again, or a black widow or a lion. Some beauty makes us so uncomfortable we feel the need to set ourselves apart from it. And our desire for distance from some kinds of beauty isn’t only due to danger. We were created to care for the garden. To work it. To organize it and arrange it. This explains the impulse many of us feel to make some kind of change in nature. We trim hedges. We separate flowerbeds from lawns. But what of those who take that impulse further? Who set fire to forests simply to destroy them, hunt for animals they do not eat, and fence off land they do not use? Beauty sometimes makes us sense our smallness. It reminds us we are not in control. It whispers “You are only mortal, and none of this is really yours.” Beauty is not always comfortable.

I read O’Connor’s short stories “The River” and “A Circle in the Fire” recently, and a phrase from the praise on the back cover resonated with me: “some of the most powerful and disturbing fiction written this century.” I normally interpret disturbing fiction as morally ambiguous or reveling in perversion for its nihilistic glory, but O’Connor’s fiction is disturbing in that it requires you to work on it and some of the details are ugly. It isn’t easy, and these two left me asking what I should think about them.

I think part of what disturbed me was my desire to see white and black hats.

In “The River,” a little boy, age 5, is taken to hear a rural preacher who speaks from the muddy river in which he baptizes his listeners. He talks about the kingdom of Christ being a river and entering that kingdom through the river. His message is confusing when he gives it and complicated when repeated by his congregation, but the idea of the river sticks with the boy, and it changes his life. He leaves his family, for whom everything was a joke, and embraces the theology presented by the river preacher.

At first, I thought it disturbing that even a poorly stated gospel message doesn’t result in hope or life. The preacher’s theology is bad. He’s flattered when people say he has healed the sick and wants that to be true, even though he claims he can’t heal anyone. What he says does point to Christ, but he appears to want the signs and wonders, those visible clues to the power of his ministry, so badly that he is willing to fabricate them. Maybe this desire to point to himself is what muddles his sermon. So the preacher and woman who takes the boy to have him baptized don’t wear white hats. They’re more flawed than that. Continue reading White-Black Hats →

This morning on Bill Bennett’s radio show, they interviewed a spokesman for the Special Olympics.

Nothing wrong with that. I have no objection to the Special Olympics per se.

However, I found the spokesman irritating. He never said “mentally disabled”–that’s no surprise. People are expected to say “mentally challenged” nowadays (I think. I may have missed a memo and be a step behind).

But he didn’t say “mentally challenged” either. He used some circumlocution like “people with intellectual differences.” And he kept talking, again and again, about how people with intellectual differences were NO DIFFERENT FROM ANYONE ELSE.

I’m getting tired of this.

Logically, it seems to me, there are only two choices.

You can say, “I want to be treated just like everyone else.” Great. That’s fine. Then don’t ask for special accommodations.

Or you can say, “I need special accommodations.” That’s fine too. But if that’s what you want, don’t pretend you’re NO DIFFERENT FROM ANYONE ELSE. People who are no different from anyone else don’t need special accommodations.

I have a mild handicap. I suffer from an emotional disorder. I don’t hide this, and I let the people who become my friends know about it. I expect them to cut me a little slack, to have different expectations of me, because certain things that normal people can do easily are very, very hard for me.

I’m different from everyone else.

A lot of people in this country seem to think they can change their neighbors’ attitudes through silencing certain words that offend them. It doesn’t work. It just drives people’s attitudes underground, and breeds resentment.

I would never call a person with a mental disability a dummy. But I might use the word to describe some of their advocates.