Anne Lamott

It is ostensibly about Vietnam, a full-length movie about the American pilots who were shot down over North Vietnam and their captivity, which lasted in some cases for almost nine years. It is about their torture and their torturers, the effort to survive, physically, spiritually, with their humanity intact and to return to the United States with honor — to have looked out for each other, to have refused to divulge military secrets. But it is also about you and me and God and greatness, faith, hope and love.

All these years some of us have had heartfelt opinions about the war, that it was a bad war and we were right to protest. I still have this opinion. And all these years, most of us have felt horror and disgust toward the Vietnamese who tortured the POWs. In this movie, there are indeed heinous descriptions of the tortures inflicted. But because the American pilots portrayed in the film do not seem to hold any hatred in their hearts for their captors, I was brought to neutral, which, because my scale of antipathy started in the minus zone, is actually positive. Also, I have not been the biggest booster of former captives John McCain, the Republican senator from Arizona, or James Stockdale, who was Ross Perot’s befuddled running mate; and now I am humbled before both.

Freida Lee Mock and her partner, Terry Saunders, guide us through history, weaving a tapestry of interviews with dozens of these pilots 30-some years later, and with their wives, who lived for years without knowing whether they were wives or widows. Mock and Saunders have included never-before-seen footage shot in 35 mm black and white of the men in the days immediately after capture, which the filmmakers discovered in Vietnamese government archives. There is footage of the prisons, of the men in their cells, of the propaganda tapes they were forced to participate in and which were then sent to the U.S. government and the devious ways the prisoners thought of to get the truth across. One man repeatedly blinked out the first letters of “torture” in Morse code while spouting dull assurances that they were all being treated well. Another pilot, with his hands hanging casually in his lap, is giving the bird: When the image was reproduced on the cover of Life magazine, the offending gesture had been airbrushed out, leading the pilot’s little nephew to believe for years that the Vietnamese had cut off his uncle’s middle fingers. “Return With Honor” documents the pilots’ transformation from top gun aviators — as one pilot says, John Wayne and Superman rolled into one — into tenderhearted people, trying to stay alive and to take care of one another, hoping against hope to see their families again.

One pilot says early on, “I can’t even stand unpleasantness, let alone torture,” and this pretty much says it for me. And then he does — endures the unendurable. He does it, this superhuman feat of endurance, in the same ordinary way the rest of us bear hardship: one day at a time, and sometimes one hour, and always with a little help from our friends.

Though separated from each other by thick walls, sometimes by empty prison cells as well, the pilots came up with brilliant ways to communicate with each other. Mostly they tapped, five or six words a minute in an ingenious code based on a grid of the alphabet, sounding, as one pilot says, “like a den of runaway woodpeckers.” They swept in code, coughed in code, sneezed in code. They tapped and swept and coughed for two and three years to men they had never seen, and eventually learned to read each other’s moods, to know when someone was close to madness and needed a little spiritual CPR. One pilot says, “The Vietnamese wanted to keep us from communicating so we couldn’t gain strength from each other, but they couldn’t.”

In tapping on the walls, the walls came down — not the physical
walls, which did not crumble, but the more psychically dangerous walls that
the torturers put between the POWs, of being separate and desperately anxious
to get one’s own pain to stop. And yet the torture of listening to someone else
being tortured was worse than anything happening to them, which they were
more easily able to bear. When they had come through another bout of
torture, they tapped, in effect,
Hello! I’m still here, and so are you; we are here together.

One of the most powerful moments in the film is an interview with a man describing a
session of torture, during which he was trying against unspeakable odds not to break and
give his torturer any useful information. He ran through every prayer he
knew, and then he gave up; he thought, OK, you’ve got me, and surrendered
to the pain. It was as if he had moved over a track, so that what was happening to
his body was not even relevant, that it was happening over on another track.
And his prayer was answered: Finally out of the loop of resisting, he felt
freedom from pain and fear. Moments later, the torturer fell apart, crying,
running from the cell, shamed. It was as if the torturer saw something so profound that
it can’t really be put into words — but, to try: such goodness, something so
big, so shining,
so full, like seeing source — that he saw that what he was doing wasn’t
working. Maybe he finally felt the bond of being human, lost the distinction
between us and them and just saw the us.

Vietnam was so long ago that it’s sometimes almost quaint,
and it’s hard not to feel that it’s over. But it’s not. The deep wound of
this war is just less obvious, like an old abscess you’ve gotten used to.
Watching this movie I never felt ashamed that I protested. It was a crappy
war. But at the same time, I’ve never before felt such profound pride in our
military.

Listening to the American pilots (and their wives — tender, feisty,
tough, loyal, as heroic and articulate as any of the pilots themselves) will
leave you stunned
with admiration, for what and how they endured, for how far gone they were,
and how one step at a time they came back from that. One pilot speaks so
calmly that he could be discussing sports technique, yet what he’s talking
about is his effort to commit suicide by smashing his head against the wall
of his cell. Another man describes and then displays the drawings he made in
his cell using the discharge from his infected wounds. One pilot
demonstrates his memorization of the names of 200 POWs, a
rapid-fire mental ticker tape stream that he could give to his commander
when he got home.

“Return With Honor” is finally about humanity, about people under
extreme duress who have
had to jettison all they knew before, all security and comfort, like people
you may know who’ve had cancer or lost a child. They came through reaching
for courage, with the best of being human, and so we listen. The ego here
has fled; there’s not one vainglorious phrase in any of the interviews. All
they had to deal with was what was — and what was in this case was about as
terrible as could be. So they did the best they could, with what they had to
work with, and at first it seems like so little, but turns out to be as big
as life, as breath, faith, concern for others. Somehow even in their cells
they sometimes found the spaciousness of hope and friendship; somehow, more
often than can be imagined, they praised the day.

And that Obama is nothing if not brilliant. This guy has had some liberal victories legislatively, and when word of these victories — the realities of healthcare, financial reform, student loan reform, etc. — trickles out, we will have pride and stamina again. We will experience grace again, the grace of generosity to the underdog; the grace of second winds, and psychic WD-40. The grace of unseen water wings.

I say, buckle up, buckeroos and buckerinas. Fingers crossed and heads high. Once more into the breach. Also, figure out how you, in your area, can help mobilize the Latino vote. We owe Harry Reid to Hispanic outrage and get-out-the-vote efforts — send someone money today. (I love Mi Familia Vota, but there are organizations in every state.) Or go somewhere nearby and register Latino voters, and the youth, who accidentally forgot to show up on Tuesday — the “yout,” to quote the great Joe Pesci in “My Cousin Vinnie.” Help whip up the Youts for 2012. Lots to do! Kids to mentor, wars to protest, homeless people to help through the coming winter night. Time to rest and get ready.

So goodnight, moon. Goodnight, long national nightmare of the last two months, when it looked like we might lose John Dingell, and Barney Frank, and HAR-RY. Good night, Carl Paladino, with your cute red bat! Goodnight, Christine O’Donnell, with your election night list of demands — fabulous! I don’t know a living writer who could have thought that up, or the “I Am not a Witch” campaign. Maybe the late, great Terry Southern? But anyway, excellent — and goodnight. Goodnight, Dino Rossi, but can we keep the name? And goodnight, icky Meg Whitman, thank you from the bottom of my heart for not being my new governor. Money and power and ego can’t buy ya love, huh? Does that suck, or WHAT? And we all know what it’s like to spend money unwisely — who among us does not have some crazy purchase in our closet or drawer and garage right now? The stories I could tell — the blisters, the eyeglass frames that look so adorable on Justin Timberlake. Oh well, good night, Meg; and thank you for your courage, Meg Whitman’s housekeeper. And good night, Joe Sestak — but DON’T go very far away. You’re the real thing. Good night, Joe Miller, even with all those rascally votes still to count. But goodnight, and thank you for sharing.

Let’s all go have some well-earned rest. A new day dawns.

I’m not thinking of the San Francisco Giants here, although I have been following them with love and a sick stomach for most of my 56 years. This year they are almost certainly going to the Series, a great and unique team. Yet some of my earliest memories are of coming into the kitchen of the small coffee-colored house we rented in the late ’50s, to find my parents and older brother seated around the radio, with their arms folded across their stomachs. They’d be doubled over with worry as the Giants seemed poised once again to throw away victory, blowing a comeback at the last possible minute.

I’m not thinking about how much being a lifelong Giants fan is like having been a lifelong Democrat — they are both such beautiful teams, from the Willies May and McCovey in that coffee-colored house, to Tim Lincecum and Pablo Sandoval; from Adlai Stevenson to Lynn Woolsey and Russ Feingold. They have taught me that when it comes to playoff games and midterm elections, you can’t let your hopes get too high — but of course you do, and once again, the Giants or the Democrats break your heart — or totally, hilariously kick butt.

The Giants are usually described as rag tag, kind of a great garage sale team, and the Democrats are described as the Mommies to the Republican Daddies; and everyone hates the mommies, but wait, wait — I didn’t intend to get into the pathos and thrill of being a Democratic Giants fan. There is a certain delusional nobility in the wild ride.

And I’m not even thinking of a recent discussion I had with my Sunday School kids, about how when we as individuals or nations get so terribly lost, we have prophets to call us back. The prophets aren’t like the guys on Christian radio, predicting the end of the world for sometime next Thursday, right after lunch. They are truth tellers, lights, Dr. King or Nelson Mandela, calling us back to decency, sanity, to each person being treated exactly the same.

All I started out to say was that I remember so many matches I played as a junior tennis star, when I got off to a bad start, and was losing big time to someone I either should have been able to beat, or needed to beat to keep up my ranking. My opponent was frequently an awful arrogant, stupid person, which I say without judgment. It was simple reality — most competitive tennis players in my day were privileged, spoiled, entitled and white. Also, many of them were beautiful, fit, tan and of good stock — great big hair and white teeth and long legs. Then there were the rest of us.

Future Democrats, and Giants fans.

Anyway, you’d be losing by a set and a service break, say 6-3, 4-1, to an athlete whose practice partner has come to watch her, and whose father was hiding behind a bush nearby, giving her hand signals (whereas your pathetic Giants-and-Adlai-Stevenson-fan father has such bad nerves that he couldn’t even watch you play, even when you were in the finals). Your stomach ached, but you held serve, 4-2. Then, about to serve for 5-2, your opponent got a little cocky, began wondering who was winning the match over on court 12, which would be her next opponent on the march to the finals. And so your opponent double-faulted. Love-15. And because you had nothing to lose, and the game was surely over, and you did not have much of a chance, let alone great hair, long legs and braces on your future perfect white choppers, you secretly got back in the game. You secretly dared to hope.

When your nonplussed opponent crossed over to ace you from the backhand side, you’d nick one of your stealth serial killer moves with your eyes looking away quickly. Then she caught your eye as she aimed at a spot on your service court. You flicked your eyes over to the left, and it threw her. She served long, and her second serve is weak, and you suddenly have the advantage, because you have nothing to lose. And you rallied hard for, and eventually won the point.

Now it’s love-30, and your opponent starts to fall apart. Her nerves fail her, and her left arm on the next toss is as herky-jerky as a tennis ball machine, and she actually has to change down the toss to hit it, or do it over. She’s reduced to pushing in her serve, and you make winners. And she begins to come apart like a two-dollar watch. She’s grinding down those teeth, and her father is losing his mind in the hydrangeas, signaling for her either to serve as hard as she can, or smash in your head at the net. You can’t tell, but he’s furious. Oh, well. Ha ha, as we Christians like to say.

I won a lot of matches when there was almost no hope, and even less time, and it always started with winning one point here, and one point there. It always depended on not giving up, on getting my focus and courage back. It was the greatest feeling on earth, and, I imagine, it would still be so today, to take such a risk, and God only knows, maybe prevail.

But Mother’s Day celebrates a huge lie about the value of women: that mothers are superior beings, that they have done more with their lives and chosen a more difficult path. Ha! Every woman’s path is difficult, and many mothers were as equipped to raise children as wire monkey mothers. I say that without judgment: It is, sadly, true. An unhealthy mother’s love is withering.

The illusion is that mothers are automatically happier, more fulfilled and complete. But the craziest, grimmest people this Sunday will be the mothers themselves, stuck herding their own mothers and weeping children and husbands’ mothers into seats at restaurants. These mothers do not want a box of chocolate. These mothers are on a diet.

I hate the way the holiday makes all non-mothers, and the daughters of dead mothers, and the mothers of dead or severely damaged children, feel the deepest kind of grief and failure. The non-mothers must sit in their churches, temples, mosques, recovery rooms and pretend to feel good about the day while they are excluded from a holiday that benefits no one but Hallmark and See’s. There is no refuge — not at the horse races, movies, malls, museums. Even the turn-off-your-cellphone announcer is going to open by saying, “Happy Mother’s Day!” You could always hide in a nice seedy bar, I suppose. Or an ER.

It should go without saying that I also hate Valentine’s Day.

Mothering has been the richest experience of my life, but I am still opposed to Mother’s Day. It perpetuates the dangerous idea that all parents are somehow superior to non-parents. (Meanwhile, we know the worst, skeeviest, most evil people in the world are CEOs and politicians who are proud parents.)

Don’t get me wrong: There were times I could have literally died of love for my son, and I’ve felt stoned on his rich, desperate love for me. But I bristle at the whispered lie that you can know this level of love and self-sacrifice only if you are a parent. We talk about “loving one’s child” as if a child were a mystical unicorn. Ninety-eight percent of American parents secretly feel that if you have not had and raised a child, your capacity for love is somehow diminished. Ninety-eight percent of American parents secretly believe that non-parents cannot possibly know what it is to love unconditionally, to be selfless, to put yourself at risk for the gravest loss. But in my experience, it’s parents who are prone to exhibit terrible self-satisfaction and selfishness, who can raise children as adjuncts, like rooms added on in a remodel. Their children’s value and achievements in the world are reflected glory, necessary for these parents’ self-esteem, and sometimes, for the family’s survival. This is how children’s souls are destroyed.

But my main gripe about Mother’s Day is that it feels incomplete and imprecise. The main thing that ever helped mothers was other people mothering them; a chain of mothering that keeps the whole shebang afloat. I am the woman I grew to be partly in spite of my mother, and partly because of the extraordinary love of her best friends, and my own best friends’ mothers, and from surrogates, many of whom were not women at all but gay men. I have loved them my entire life, even after their passing.

No one is more sentimentalized in America than mothers on Mother’s Day, but no one is more often blamed for the culture’s bad people and behavior. You want to give me chocolate and flowers? That would be great. I love them both. I just don’t want them out of guilt, and I don’t want them if you’re not going to give them to all the people who helped mother our children. But if you are going to include everyone, then make mine something like M&M’s, and maybe flowers you picked yourself, even from my own garden, the cut stems wrapped in wet paper towels, then tin foil and a waxed-paper bag from my kitchen drawers. I don’t want something special. I want something beautifully plain. Like everything else, it can fill me only if it is ordinary and available to all.

Anne Lamott’s latest novel is “Imperfect Birds.”

I mean no offense, but the belief that Snowe’s vote made the bill bipartisan was delusional from the start. It was exactly the sort of thing my mother would have come up with — and she was from Liverpool. I rest my case: Those of us with English parents faithfully attend special 12-step meetings to break through the uniquely English forms of denial. The vote of one extremely withholding woman — and I say that without judgment — never changed the nature of the bill, no matter how much you and your staff convinced yourselves it did. It is a Democratic bill — a quintessentially Democratic bill, in that it’s about trying to help those in need. It is about fairness, decency and the common good, the values most Americans were raised on. But you can’t even mention those words and ideals these days without getting laughed at by the Republican leadership — or, worse, tea-bagged.

A great pastor in New York City once said that if you wanted to get into heaven, you needed a letter of recommendation from the poor. Teddy Kennedy got his. So did Lincoln, FDR, Shirley Chisholm. And now it’s up to you.

To get Ms. Snowe’s mingy vote, you would have needed to include her little pet rock, the trigger option. But the trigger option was the emperor’s new clothes. Perhaps a more precise way of saying this is that the trigger option was a figment, a dodge from greatness. My mother would have called it a “crock.” My 20-year-old son, “Totally bogus.”

I am not saying that continuing to waste our time — while people die every day from lack of healthcare — will keep you out of heaven, although you may get an inferior seat, possibly in the room serving only nursery snacks. How will you face Teddy if you muff this historic moment? Do you think he will share his eclairs with you? His brie?

It’s OK that you wanted Ms. Snowe’s vote so desperately, but the truth is that she was getting high on not giving it to you. She was getting a hit, like a junkie, from withholding. Believe me, I have dated men like her. She had a chance to participate in greatness, which does not happen all that often anymore in American politics, but the possibility is there now — for you, for us, for our country.

A huge majority of people in America and specifically in Maine want the public option. For a few months there, she had the power to kill it. Dude, what was that about? Was it some form of Kabuki theater, wherein you knew she would never give you her vote, but you needed to pretend she might for another week? Was it a multilevel chess game that all the people who voted for you were too dumb to figure out? She didn’t want decent medical care for the poor and middle class: She wanted power. She, like so many of us, is hungry for what she is not giving — for generosity of spirit, the only thing that can fill us up. And yet, she chooses to withhold, this woman who happens to have great government healthcare. I bet she and her extended family never worry when they get sick, or even when they need psychiatric care. Not to mention dental, which just kills me to think about — me and my family, with our terrible English teeth.

So we’ve lost two or three months to that business. And now we have Lieberman. In some ways, he’s even worse, because of — well, you know — the voice.

We do not personally blame you for the fact that we have to listen to him. It’s political life, on political life’s terms. And maybe his therapist or rabbi will help staunch his latest episode of swerving sickness. But recently on “The Rachel Maddow Show,” the great Jane Hamsher compared the healthcare debate to a beauty contest in which the contestants who feel ignored start stripping and said that, at some point, one of the directors will convince Lieberman to put his shirt back on. So I am wondering, why can’t that be you? Why can’t you do what Leon on “Curb Your Enthusiasm” keeps urging Larry to do? Take him the ruckus.

Use your most reliable parenting skills: Joe Lieberman is acting like a petulant, icky little kid — I say that with love. Use those classic parental standbys, bribes and threats. Back-channel him. Try reverse psychiatry — “Thank God you stepped in, Joe. Otherwise, we would have been responsible for all those slacker poor people. All those feverish babies and children. All those English expats, with their bad teeth.” If that doesn’t work, maybe you could just remind him of the famous story from 15 years ago, that family with a 5-year-old girl with leukemia who needed blood in massive quantities to stay alive. You remember: Everyone in her family except her older brother was tested and found to be incompatible. But the boy was afraid of having blood drawn in order to test it, and his parents respected him enough to let him come to the decision by himself.

One day he came to them and told them he was ready. They took him to the doctor, his blood was tested, and it was an almost exact match with his little sister. So the two of them were put on beds side by side in a hospital room, and the nurses withdrew blood from his arm, and let it flow into his sister’s. He lay with his eyes closed, in silence for the entire procedure, until the doctor gripped his shoulder and asked how he was doing. The boy opened his eyes.

“How soon ’til I start to die?” he asked.

This kind of profound and innocent moral courage is the most attractive characteristic a person can display, especially a politician. It is time for you to come out vigorously and loudly for Harry Reid by getting your people in line. Reid has managed, with a lot of help from liberals and progressives and too much time lost, to whip most of the Senate Democrats behind what you campaigned for. Now it is time for you to roar. Ms. Snowe and Joe can still choose greatness, too: They have free will, and they may surprise us all. Or, hey, while we are at it, why not hit up George Voinovich? He is not running for reelection and is — or should be — rooting around for a legacy. Otherwise, people will scratch their heads while trying to remember who he was. “Oh, Voinovich? Wasn’t he the guy up on Laurel who had to tent his house for termites?” He could go out a hero, by simply doing what public servants are supposed to do — stand up for the people, for greatness, for compassion, fairness and the common good.

So again I ask you, do the right thing, and do it now. Shoot the moon, Boss: right between the eyes. 

Another troubling thing: I do not know when you first began to insist that Sarah Palin’s baby boy would need to appear before one of your panels, but I can tell you this, Mr. President, it is not going to fly with the American people. If you are going to try to ram the death panels through Congress, I have three words of advice: Easy does it. Certainly there are people we can all agree are of borderline value. For instance, there is this guy I know named Harold who is a total monster. Everyone hates him. No matter how friendly we are to him, he never returns our greetings, but instead gives us the stink-eye, and a sneer. It is hard for me to believe that even Jesus would argue on his behalf at one of your panels. But the little Palin baby? No way, no how.

There would need to be a system of checks and balances so that we could all rest assured that favoritism was not a part of determining who would receive healthcare. Some people would say that if someone more closely resembled an Alturien than an American citizen, that person might be considered for the death pile. But that strikes me as being very cavalier. Life is precious, Mr. President, and just because somebody’s appearance makes you think of space aliens and anal probes rather than car seats and root beer, it is no reason to throw them away, as you have proposed. Obviously, if there is going to be a lot of killing going on in your healthcare program, panels would have to be made up of people with impeccable credentials. Otherwise, this would be a real deal-breaker for a lot us. For God’s sake, what if someone like Harold ends up as a judge on the panel, instead of coming before it, like the little Palin baby, or someone’s perfectly good grandparents?

This death panel of yours will require people of sensitivity, fairness, efficiency and patience. And that is why I would like to volunteer to serve: I am fair, fast and fun. Mr. President, I am at your service.

Best wishes,

Anne Lamott