Hey J.D., Thought You Might Like This!
- By Jim Hicks
The Honorable James David Vance, United States Senate
288 Russell Senate Office Building
Washington, DC 20510
September 19, 2024
Dear Senator Vance,
I have to admit it. When I first came across that sound-bite moment from your recent interview with Dana Bash, I thought it was a hoot. “If I have to create stories [. . .], then that’s what I’m going to do!” Really? I teach fiction, I publish fiction, and, on occasion, I even write it—though when I do, I never claim to be doing otherwise. That would be lying. And that would be wrong.
Sorry. I’m being unfair. That whopper of a hot dog you served up on CNN—I took the meat out and just left the bread, didn’t I? Actually, you said, “If I have to create stories so that the American media actually pays attention to the suffering of the American people, then that’s what I’m going to do.” Still sounds like make-believe to me, but a lot of fiction is about suffering—the suffering of Americans, or the suffering of other people, in other places—all sorts of humanity, suffering all sorts of horrors. Like you, I think stories are important. If we don’t pay attention to suffering, how can we stop it? Like you, I think we should. Because people shouldn’t be suffering. Not when we can stop it.
And don’t worry, I didn’t miss the spin in your follow-up. I’ll quote that too, but cleaned up a bit, so you sound better than you actually did. Here’s what you spun: “[When] I say that we're creating a story, [I mean that] we're creating the American media[’s focus] on it.” In other words, your claim is you’re not saying “create” or “stories” in the sense of, well, making shit up. What you pretend you’re doing you also call—in a weird fork of the tongue—“surfacing.” Apparently, you and DJ Trump spend a lot of time surfacing; you also told Bash that “until Donald Trump and I started surfacing some of these concerns,” they were “ignored by the American media,” that “all that I have done is surface the complaints of my constituents, people who are suffering.” Got it. As we have established, you and I do care about suffering.
As it happens, I’m very familiar with your sort of spinning, because I’m a student of one of the most influential linguists who ever lived: Humpty Dumpty. You recall, I’m sure, the immortal words of Professor Dumpty to Alice. “When I use a word, [. . .] it means just what I choose it to mean—neither more nor less.” So, let’s go with that, then: when you “create stories,” you don’t actually create anything, you just take someone else’s lies and repeat them—to the whole world, over and over, hoping that the whole world will start repeating them, too. On the other hand, when dozens of schools, hospitals, and government offices get locked down or shut down with bomb threats, and when every hardworking, legal Haitian immigrant in Springfield, Ohio, or anywhere else in this country starts to fear for their life, those concerns aren’t your concern—all that has nothing to do the bullshit you blasted across the entire planet. As Alice replied to Professor Dumpty, that does seem like a very great deal for words to mean, or not mean. I sure hope, like the brilliant linguist you model yourself upon, that when you make a word do that much work, you pay it extra.
Because people shouldn’t be suffering. Not when we can stop it. On January 12, 2010, for example, when Haiti suffered one of worst earthquakes in its history, the suffering was unprecedented. Surely I don’t have to remind you that Haitians are people too, that they suffer, too. Maybe I should remind you, though, that they’re also Americans—like all peoples of the Americas, North and South. We USians tend to forget that. We also tend to forget how natural disasters often turn into unnatural, government-snafu disasters. We have good reasons for forgetting that.
Since you like stories, I briefly thought I should send you, as a present, a copy of What Storm, What Thunder, by the novelist Myriam J. A. Chancy. Myriam recreates the story of that earthquake, and its aftermath, probably as well as anyone ever will. But I decided against that because Myriam is my friend, and I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t want me to gift you anything right now.
So, instead, I decided to send you a copy of the latest Massachusetts Review. Our fall issue, like all our issues, has an art insert, and I think you’ll really like this one. The artist, Mike Ousley, is Appalachian, from eastern Kentucky. Good timing, eh? That’s the way publishing works, sometimes. When you see all Ousley’s cat ladies (and, sure, you can call them witches, since Ousley does), you’re going to think that we designed this issue just for you. Sometimes history just seems to write (and maybe right) itself.
There’s a lot else in this issue that you’ll like, even if it isn’t all fiction, your favorite genre. For instance, there’s a poem by Aaron Coleman, called “Battle flag: ‘Strike for God and [. . .] 25th United States Colored Troops’ (1863-65)”; I’m well aware of how Midwesterners who play up their Southern roots love Civil War history, particularly the battle flags. I know because I’m a Midwesterner too—my dad’s family moved up to Michigan from Obion County, TN. They lost the farm in the Great Flood of ’27, and, dad, the baby of the family, was the only kid out of seven born up North. This issue also has a pair of oral histories from the Vietnam years too. Even if you didn’t see combat, probably you’ll like hearing war stories from those who did.
Did you ever think that your family history of migration might be why you married an immigrant? I have—because I did that, too. Recently I’ve thought about this a lot, mainly because of some translations I did of songs by an Italian singer-songwriter, Gianmaria Testa. One tune in particular, called “Ritals,” made me think about today’s headlines, but also reflect on my family history. Testa wrote a whole album of songs about the wave of immigration across today’s Mediterranean.
In “Ritals,” he wonders why Italians seem to have forgotten their own history. Here’s a couple quick stanzas:
We used to know it too
the language we had to lose
and the other we had to like
quicker than riding a bike
We used to know it too
our breath fogging the window
for a warm piece of bread
and the shame of being spurned
we used to know it too
that look without a word
You get the idea. A few years ago, I managed to get Tim Eriksen—an amazing musician, singer, and ethnomusicologist—to perform this song at a Mass Review party. Do you remember the movie version of Cold Mountain? Probably—after all, it’s about the Civil War and Appalachia, right? That movie was filmed in Romania, not Appalachia, and Eriksen was the guy that T-Bone Burnett got to teach those Romanians how to do Sacred Harp singing. Tim’s really good. If you’re interested, I can send you his version of “Ritals.”
Now that I think about it, you and I do have a lot in common. My wife might kill me for mentioning this, but I do wonder if you’ve ever heard the Italian proverb, donne e buoi dei paesi tuoi? (Women and oxen, from your own town). On my first trip to Europe, I met an Italian girl in London, and when I visited her family in Tuscany, I heard that proverb—from her father. And his wife was Australian. Anyway, like you and DJ Trump, I did end up marrying an immigrant—an Italian girl, in fact, though not the same one. We’ve been together now for over forty years. So much for folk wisdom, eh?
I should mention one way we’re not alike, though, since I know it’s important to you. I don’t have any kids. I’ve taken care of plenty—even did social work for a while, taking care of kids whose parents had failed them. But then, like my wife, I decided to become a teacher. We’ve both have been helping other peoples’ kids for over thirty years, so maybe we have paid it forward. Some might say it’s more important to help others than help your own. Less selfish, maybe.
One more thing, then I’ll quit pestering you. Back in 2010, when Obama granted Temporary Protected Status to Haitians, I was really proud. When Trump failed to end TPS for Haitians, I was happy. Listing all the government-snafu disasters we’ve unleashed on Haiti would take another letter, longer than this one. Put as simply as possible, I was glad we did some good for once and gave Haitians legal status in the US. Maybe even helped some get back on their feet.
Of course, none of that compares to the help my own family got from the G.I. Bill. And a little help can go a long way: my dad ended up running the Department of Youth Services in Michigan, one of his brothers ran a division of Steelcase, another built interstate highways, and the fourth was the only doc in a small town in the U.P. for forty years or so. Our migrant family—with my granddad collecting garbage for years up North, during the depression—could never have done any of that without the opportunities the government gave us, and I know those opportunities didn’t go to everyone. When I see, for once, the US giving Black Americans a chance, rather than putting up more walls for us to shout over, I think that just maybe we’re living the dream at last.
I should sign off now—we’ve got a crew of roofers pounding nails into shakes over my head, so it’s hard to concentrate. Nice to hear that Cape Verdean morna they’re playing, though, and listening to their Portuguese creole is music too. The old Yankee family of the boss who hired them actually has its roots back in Poland and Germany—he’s a distant relative of the great Renaissance sculptor Viet Stoss.
Everybody comes from somewhere, and sometimes their stories can be interesting. Kind of like Appalachia, come to think of it. Kind of like the world.
All the best,
Jim
JIM HICKS is Executive Editor of the Massachusetts Review
