That Particular Village
On October 22nd and 23rd, 2002, U.S. warplanes strafed the farming village of Chowkar-Karez, twenty-five miles north of Kandahar, killing at least ninety-three civilians. When asked about the incident at Chowkar, Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld said, "I cannot deal with that particular village..."
Look, here's the thing. I can deal with it
about as well today as I could deal with it
yesterday, which is to say, I cannot deal
with that particular village at all.
Other villages I can deal with, have dealt
with and will deal with in the future, but
not that particular village. Look, think
of the situation I'm in like this: I'm a tightrope
walker in a circus tent in a prairie town
in 1911. I perform always with my wife
and without a net. Unbeknownst to me
my wife, who is very beautiful, has fallen
in love with the tiger tamer. On this night,
while tightrope walking towards her
where she stands on the platform, I see
she has a big pair of golden garden shears
and she's preparing to cut the rope.
Tell me, what do I do? If I start to scream,
she'll cut the rope. If I say nothing,
she'll cut the rope. I can't deal with that
village in particular because I really
have to try to focus on sinking this
putt. I can't deal with it because this week
I was invited to participate in the Associated
Writing Programs conference in Chicago.
I'll be on a panel called “Tangled Umbilical:
What We Can Learn from Paying Attention
to Syntax in Contemporary Political Discourse
and How We Can Use It to Write Better
Flash Fiction.” I can't deal with that particular
village because I was born in 1932. I cannot
deal with it today or yesterday because
my senior thesis at Princeton was entitled
“The Steel Seizure Case of 1952
and Its Effect on Presidential Powers.”
I can't deal with it because I have three children
and six grandchildren none of whom will have to go
to the holy wars. I can't deal with that
village, that particular village, right now
because I live in Mount Misery, the former
plantation house where a young Frederick
Douglass was sent to have his teen spirit
broken by the brutal slaveholder Edward
Covey. I can't because one day, after
being beaten many times by his master,
in the very yard where my wife keeps camellias,
Douglass fought off Covey's cousin and then
fought Covey himself. I can't because the fight
ended in a draw. I can't because Douglass
was never assaulted by Covey again. I can't
deal with that particular village in this life
nor shall I be made to answer for what happened there
in the next. Certain things about my past
make it impossible for me to: I was an Eagle
Scout, I wrestled in high school, I didn't graduate
from Georgetown Law. Nixon said I was
a ruthless little bastard. I sold the company
I was CEO of to Monsanto for $12 million.
I cannot deal with that particular village.
I can't deal with it because once upon a time
I delivered a few pistols, some medieval
spiked hammers, and a pair of golden cowboy
boots to Saddam Hussein on behalf of
President Reagan. I can't deal with it because
a few years ago I had to make a special trip
to Abu Graib to personally turn the volume
of a Bach symphony up so as to make a man's
ears bleed yet more profusely. I can't deal
because on the afternoon of September 11th
an aide observed me speaking quickly
and scribbled down in shorthand what I said.
I said, “Best info fast — Judge whether good
enough hit Saddam at same time — not only Bin
Laden — Need to move swiftly — Near term
target needs — go massive — sweep it all up
— Things related and not.” I can't...Look...
That particular village? That particular one.
Ughh