Category Archives: small town USA

The Monday Book: FASCISM A WARNING by Madeleine Albright

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Published in 2018, this book is both a history of how democracies turn into dictatorships while still holding elections, and a warning of how often elections stop or become meaningless in democracies that dance with fascism. Albright (along with ghostwriting co-author Bill Woodward) starts by describing her Jewish family fleeing Czechoslovakia –twice. First they fled Hitler, then they fled the pendulum swing of the corrective regime that quickly turned her home country Soviet. Without ever using the term, Albright talks quite a bit about the horror of pendulum swings as regimes move between types of governance.

One of the things that impresses me about this book, which covers a whole lot of rises and falls, is how evenhanded she is. Starting with Mussolini as the Godfather of Fascism, she analyzes multiple countries without blaming specific systems–not even in Americam where she outlines three ways Fascism could rise here (one by liberals, one by conservatives, and one by disaster) nor in any of the multi-party countries she discusses.

It’s as if a wise grandmother sat you down in front of a warm stove, gave you a bowl of soup and hunk of homebaked bread, and said, “Now listen carefully, dear. Here’s how it happens, and here’s what to do about it personally, and collectively if possible.” She has a lot to say about personal responsibility in her final chapter.

She also defines Fascism and doesn’t let name-calling rise to a fine art, as it has in so much of America today. Fascism was Number Two on definitional searches of the Merriam Webster dictionary in 2016, she points out with the casual humor that pervades this book–in surprising and useful ways, given the heaviness of the subject. The only term more searched was “surreal.” And she points out that Fascist is a word people use when they disagree with each other as a one-size-fits-most insult.

This is not helpful, Albright suggests. Fascism might best be viewed “less as a political ideology than as a means for seizing and holding power.” It builds from a sense of what people in a particular group feel, usually a smouldering resentment that they have been denied something, people upset about what they should have and what they fear they may never get unless they take back something they used to have. Which gets complicated because fairly often what they used to have isn’t what they want, and therein lies the manipulation of class, race, ethnicity, geography, ideology, and a few other identifiers. Take back what never belonged to you, is the beginning of many histories that wind up in Albright’s book.

Fascism isn’t always right wing, and not every dictatorship is fascist, but fascist leaders become dictators. And they are almost always charismatic. She ticks through the usual suspects and hits a few others: Stalin, Orban, Putin, Kaczynski, the unusual North Korean dynasty from grandfather to grandson, unusual among Fascist regimes. Also how long they last, and why. The history is fascinating.

The warning is a little less fascinating than subtle. Here is one of my favorites quotes: to a small d democrat, process matters more than ideology. The fairness of an election is more important than who wins.

With that quote, Albright indicts all politicians who manipulate process in an attempt to increase power, and she does it throughout the book. She is less concerned with outcomes than with the ways in which those sworn to uphold the Constitution, the System of Checks and Balances, the promise of Free and Fair Elections are now trying to interpret loopholes and pivotal words.

It is an apt warning, directed equally at all sides. Fascism isn’t right-wing or populist alone. A person who seeks power, even if originally for a good reason, can be corrupted into believing their way is the correct way. Or they can start with the intent to become The Only Leader. It doesn’t matter, both roads lead to violence without due process.

Albright died in early 2022. I wish she had written an epilogue to this book before she passed. It would have been quite a read.

Brian’s Eulogy

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Today our friends Joe and Elissa are waking up without their little buddy Brian. As dachshund rescuers, the couple are accustomed to loss. But this one was sudden.

Brian, for those who did not know him, was best described as a lump of dough left that wee bit too long in the bowl. He was blue/grey/white to the untrained eye (apparently this is a common doxie color) and he liked to, well, lounge.

I met Brian at Elissa’s house one fine summer’s afternoon, when I mistook him for a couch cushion and sat on him. Brian gave a slight yawn and a small movement with one paw, to indicate perhaps I could shift the tiniest bit so as to avoid smothering him. Not many things reached emergency range with Brian. He was a low-energy performance artist.

Not that Brian didn’t get exercise, oh no. I personally witnessed the little–ehm, the lad–slither down from the couch, legs extended in something akin to an alpine descent until he reached the point where gravity took over and his bum landed with a resounding WHUMP. At this point he would waddle to the food dish in the kitchen, have a strengthening snack and some water, and then make the long arduous journey back to the couch. Ascent is more difficult, so when possible he used human elevators. He had this look that would make you do anything for him, a slight head tilt, a softening of the eyes, a radiation of a vibe that said, “I know you are a kind and compassionate person…”

The first time I attempted lifting him, he remained on the floor. Elissa had to help me.

Besides these sprints for snacks, Brian’s main form of exercise was pursuing turtles. He never caught one, but he liked the thrill of the chase. Elissa has a small hillock in her back garden where turtles burrow, a kind of low-rise condo for the discerning shelled buyer. Brian never achieved his goal to eat one, but he pursued turtles with, if not vigor, at least, well no not determination either. Mostly if he saw a turtle he started toward the hill and the turtle shot him a look of condescending pity and ambled away. But we always cheered for him; it is important to have ambitions in life.

On a cold Wednesday morning, Brian arose from his fleecy bed and appeared at Elissa’s side. This was not unusual; he liked to sleep on her head the last hour or two before dawn. But when she placed him on the pillow as her dachshund crown, Brian suddenly went into cardiac arrest. And was gone. Just like that, lying on the soft warm pillow that had been his to claim for the last decade.

It was the way Brian would have wanted to go.

Now Brian will cross the Rainbow Bridge and join his siblings Nellie (aka the Nelligator, a dog to be feared and obeyed) and Black Jack, the neutered stud who was the face of spay-and-neuter campaigns among purebred beauties everywhere. (Brian was neutered, of course, but the idea that he would have exerted energy on a sexual campaign prompted behind-the-hands giggling among rescuers.)

We hope the struts on the Bridge were reinforced in preparation for Brian’s arrival. His rotund, actual-sausage-shaped body was a dense weight on four small balancing points that tended to shake structures wherever he walked. Brian will cross the bridge wearing the slight smile he adopted after Joe and Elissa adopted him. (Once Brian knew he was safe, he cut loose and lived his best life with gusto–on a couch cushion, burrowed under a blanket, watching the cooking channel.) And the Bridge will sound like thump-whomp ssssss, the rhythm of his four paws making contact while his tummy drags along.

Fare three well Brian. I believe you knew that you were my favorite of Joe and Elissa’s herd. We figure it will take you about fifteen minutes to cross the Bridge. They will bring you a cushion halfway, don’t worry. And once you reach the other side, your heated couch-on-wheels will be waiting, with a driver to park you where you can watch the activities at the fishing pond, the play fighting park, or the rabbit chase run. You can also have them take you straight to the Bark-b-que joint or the Perpetual Puppy Charcuterie restaurant. Your table will be waiting, dear heart.