By Katharine Moody*
I was born in the USA, but left prior to the release of Springsteen’s widely mischaracterised anthem.
Which means I missed the elections of Reagan, Bush I, Clinton, Bush II, Obama, Trump and Biden ̶ yet I vividly recall as a child, awaiting the lottery of birth days, that would determine whether or not my only brother missed or made the draft. From a family with a proud history of service across two World Wars and the Korean conflict, we weren’t having a bar of Vietnam and were planning to flee to my mother’s home in Canada if November 13th got called up.
In later life, I dated a traumatised veteran of that war who was working as a bartender. Hence, I never misunderstood the meaning of Springsteen’s anthem ̶ just as I well understood Hendrix’s discordant rendition of Star-Spangled Banner at the Woodstock Festival in 1969.
I was too young to attend Woodstock, but not too young to witness and wonder at what was happening around me on the steps of the University of Alabama, in the grassy fields of Kent State University; on the assassinations of Medgar Evers, President Kennedy, his brother, Malcolm X; Martin Luther King Jr and Harvey Milk.
Before leaving the US, the only person I knew who had fired an AK47-like rifle, was my tormented Vietnam vet boyfriend, who would wake suddenly in the middle of the night sweating profusely.
There was no ‘Fake News’ in my growing up years – neither cable nor the internet were in existence then. All we had were the national networks, who reported the ugliness in full (and without editorialising) regarding the turmoil enveloping our nation and its people in the 60s and 70s. And each time I thought we were overcoming the hatred of our prejudicial past – the individual events mentioned above became, for me, yet another day the music died.
I can’t quite explain how overwhelmed I was arriving here in 1978 where inter-racial marriage was celebrated; where my Pākehā husband had as many Māori and Pasifika friends as white ones and no one ever thought twice about it; where we stood and chatted around bar leaners in the local pub in the company of people of all colours, work backgrounds and generations. Where the Sallies made their rounds every Friday night, and everyone generously supported them for their diligence, compassion and noble work in the community ̶ without a thought as to their religious beliefs or whether the money would actually get to the people who needed it.
And so, through eleven US presidential elections, I kept my head down ̶ expressing no political opinions to my relatives stateside. After all, I wasn’t being governed by their lawmakers anymore – so I didn’t vote, as I saw it as their country, their choice.
My sense of moral abandonment of my homeland became more heightened during the 2016 election campaign. I tolerated the prejudice expressed in so many Facebook and Twitter meme posts from family and friends without saying a word. I held my tongue when the presidential candidates traded blows about sexual impropriety; and when one of America’s veterans was crudely disrespected. I even said nothing when this happened.
None of this was easy for me, as I loathe prejudice, bullying and mockery in every form.
And then, for four years, I stood silent as well, when the Facebook gloating began in earnest following the 2016 election.
In hindsight, I see that I have been a coward. I should have spoken out from the start to my loved ones. I should have seen the indoctrination coming. And now, for most of my generational-peers, the cement has dried and they are stuck on what I see as the wrong side of what might become a new writing of the rule of law in US history.
Their children (my nieces and nephews) are divided between the also-faithful and the very-fearful.
I have become a kind of confidant to those who don’t know how their parents got to this state of idolatry. I try to encourage them to be tolerant and forgiving. However, they too are parents now, and in my heart of hearts, I know that were it my children and grandchildren who might be forced to live under Project 2025, I’d be fighting like a feline mother possessed to see that never happened.
And so, over the holiday break, I decided to stick my head above the parapet with my Facebook family and friends, and I posted the below video with the comment;
“Not only bizarre but blasphemous to my mind. I keep telling myself this can't be happening”.
But my only responses, despite the plethora of family and friends I have back home, were from two non-relatives: a Chilean national living in New Zealand and a British national living in Australia.
It seems almost no one I keep in touch with across the Pacific wants to put a hand up either for, or against, the man who relishes being characterised as having been anointed by God.
I suspect the “fors” don’t want to publicly admit to their continued support and the “againsts” don’t want to offend the “fors” they know are mutual friends and relatives of mine on Facebook.
Thing is, I don’t see this as a contest between conservativism and liberalism; rather I think it is an epic struggle to retain the rule of law and the separation of powers in the relatively nascent, but most committed democracy in the world. Or so I grew up thinking it was.
And now, I can’t stop pondering the question as to whether art imitates life or life imitates art, as I am haunted by one of my favourite movies, The Devil’s Advocate. And the scary thing is, I’m unsure in the current real-life American context, who Milton is.
I guess I really don’t know life at all.
*Katharine Moody is a senior tutor at Massey University's College of Humanities and Social Sciences in Palmerston North, who comments on interest.co.nz as "Kate". The views expressed in this article are her own and don't necessarily reflect those of Massey University.
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