Commentary
America has explosive history
The most cynical observers of the
Oklahoma City bombing have
several ways to look at what
happened. Perhaps the broadest and
most sweeping summation would
acknowledge aspects of American
culture and history that most people
would prefer remain unmentioned.
Suffice it to say that all the bombs
we have dropped on the rest of the
world’s people have come back to
haunt us. However, bombs have
been exploding in this country since
its birth.
Watching news about the
Oklahoma City bombing reminds
me that this isn’t the first time in the
20th century that American-made
bombs have exploded within
American borders. It isn’t the first
time that the seemingly indiscrimi
nate use of explosive devices has
been used to violate the otherwise
peaceful existence of American life.
Nor is this the first time that bombs
have been used on civilians in
Oklahoma.
Few people are aware that in
1921, the U.S. Army Air Corps, in
conjunction with the Oklahoma
National Guard, bombed the black
neighborhood in Tulsa to quell a
race war that was being openly
waged between blacks and whites in
that community. Bombings in this
country are nothing new.
During the civil-rights move
ment, the city of Birmingham, Ala.
had an entire section of town
nicknamed “Dynamite Hill.” The
name was due to its long history of
Ku Klux Klan attacks on well-to-do
blacks in a section of that city.
In relationship to the actual
number of American bombings,
these amount to a drop in the
bucket. In fact, so many American
made bombs have been used on
American people, I couldn’t begin
to tell about them all. The point is
that this is not a new concept.
Americans bombing Americans has
been happening since the very first
and last shells tore through the flesh
E. Hughes Shanks
of a Native American. You might
say that when there were no more
Native Americans to kill, Americans
turned on each other.
People should be reminded that
some 15 years ago, Wilson B.
Goode, an African American and
then-mayor of Philadelphia, gave
the go-ahead to public-service
officials to release percussion
bombs atop a row of apartments
where members of a commune were
holed up with their children. The
bombs worked. Everyone died and
an entire city block was destroyed
because the fire chief chose not to
put out the fires, for no apparent
reason.
People are wrong to say that until
now, Americans have escaped
terrorism. We brought it with us,
and it has continued in different
aspects of our lives. There just
wasn’t a name for it. When the
Spanish conquistador Hernando De
Soto invaded the New World in
1540, he brought with him some 600
troops, including 200 horseman, 100
servants and artillery.
Sweeping across what is now
Florida, Georgia, Alabama and
Mississippi, whole tribes of Native
Americans were wiped out, enslaved
or driven from their homes. Tribes
like the Tunica and Mobile were
overtaken and—I’m sure to them
— it was for no apparent reason.
Last week’s bomb blast in
Oklahoma City will not be the last
lime innocent Americans will be
ravaged by violence in such a large
display. Native Americans would
surely contend that their forefathers
endured the equivalent of hundreds
of Oklahoma City bomb blasts, in
that their culture was devastated and
their people and lives destroyed for
no apparent reason.
I’ll never forget the time I
watched a television broadcast of
our country’s involvement in the
war in Nicaragua, when a village
woman picked up an unexploded
shell from the ground and presented
it to the camera exclaiming, “Made
in the U.S.A.”
The wacko logic and reasoning
of the perpetrators of the Oklahoma
City bombing and our indignation
with them are probably not relevant.
The families of the victims and
survivors of that act, or any act like
this, are grieving.
In the end, a reasonable person
would have to agree that nothing
could justify the bombing in
Oklahoma City, nor any other
bombings.
Bombings aren’t the only
examples of mass destruction. But
they may be the most profound
statements to those of us who are
basically sheltered and naive, at
least until we hear the bang or feel
the shock. People who have endured
years of destruction in other ways
are not naive and may hear no loud
bangs, but rather a series of pops.
The favorite distinction attributed
to terrorism is that it strikes the
innocent unexpectedly. It mars the
lives of people who would otherwise
be living normally. People should
not be surprised at what has hap
pened, least of all African Ameri
cans and Native Americans. All of
whose ancestors were living
otherwise normal lives until that was
taken away for no good apparent
reason.
Of the Oklahoma City bombing,
someone wrote, “No one of us can
pretend to be safe anymore.”
They were right. We never were.
Shaaks Is a gradaate stadeat aad Daily
Nebraskaa colamaist.
Purpose of classes questioned
The end is near, or so I’m told.
The end of this dreadful and lengthy
semester.
Although it is probably equal to
the fall period in pure volume of
silly and mostly useless information,
the spring term feels as if it is
bending die rules of time.
My problem with this semester
seems to be viral; an infection has
spread throughout campus and can
be recognized and identified in the
glazed eyes of weary pupils,
including mine. It is a disease
spawned from die mating of
exhaustion and disinterest, and it is
especially unkind to those who
actually care about passing or
maintaining a GPA.
It has gotten to the point where I
would rather watch bad television
(“The Love Boat” reruns or
“Melrose Place,”) than crack open a
book. I just can’t care. It’s not that I
don't want to; I just can’t. It has
become an impossibility.
Why can’t I negotiate a grade
with my instructors?
“I’ll give you Park Place and a
free pass on a hotel for a B-plus.
OK, two free passes and Baltic
Ave."
How about a class-wide auction
for grades?
“I got 10, gimme 10,10, can I get
10 for the B-plus? I need 10,10...”
“Ten!”
“I got 10, gimme 20,20,20 now,
gimme 20,1 need 20 ...”
These forms of grading would be
about as accurate as, say, giving
final exams.
Think about it. We’re required to
memorize four months worth of
reading and notes and tests so we
t.
iftfea mi Mi r. &.
Michael Justice
can spend two hours regurgitating it
like so many bits of vomit. And this
has to be done for several classes!
Who are they kidding?
I can’t remember what I did 15
minutes ago, much less spit up facts
from January. That’s ridiculous. An
I to be tested like this when I get a
real job?
“Mr. Justice, we have to give a
midterm exam, because we need to
know how much crap you can store
in short-term memory. I trust you
crammed all last night?”
“Of course. What’s the point of
learning anything in advance when,
if it’s not pertinent to my life, it will
simply be forgotten?”
I don’t think so. This brings me
to another problem. Why in the
name of all that is sane do I have to
waste 16 credit hours on a foreign
language? Sixteen credits that could
go to my major, which is something
1 will retain longer than 50 minutes.
When I goto Paramount studios
and apply for a writing job, will the}
ask me to write a composition?
Probably. Will it have to be in
Spanish? NO! Will the interviewer
suddenly trick me by asking me
questions in French? NO!
I’m sure my interview will go
like this:
“Hola, seflor Justice. ^Como
estas?”
“Uh, bien or bueno or whatever.”
‘Tell me about the French
Revolution and name every King of
England in chronological order.”
“What?”
“What do China, India and
Guatemala have in common in
regards to soil content and infant
molality rates?”
“Yeah, uh, I’m here for the
writingjob, remember?”
“Yes, but didn’t you learn this in
college? It's vital for you to have a
successful writing career.”
“Uh, I gotta go. Adios amigo.”
i I can see it now; I'll be out of
work forever because I never
mastered a language. Conversely,
because I took all my goofy required
classes, I have an open road to
riches beyond my wildest imagina
tion.
There’s no getting around it, so
all I can do is gripe. I guess I'll have
to take my finals after all. That is if I
want to get that little piece of paper
that proves I can put up with four
years of absurdity and nonsense for
its own sake. _
It’s the goal of the degree that
pulls me along through the days of
glazed and contused. Some of you
are getting yours soon. I have to
wait before I’m allowed to leave this
disenchanting realm to enter into the
f “real world,” with which I’m quite
familiar.
I just hope I don't have to write
another Spanish composition.
Jasdcc b a Junior broadcasting and
news-editorial major and a Drily Nebras
Death row inmates
deserve final ‘buzz’
After years of soul searching,
wavering and tiptoeing around the
issue of the death penalty, I’ve
finally made up my mind once
and for all. I’m firmly against it.
That was my position when I
was a young man. I went through
my enlightened liberal phase and
argued that it was wrong for
society to take even a monster’s
life and that the threat of death
didn’t deter criminals.
But then I evolved into my
indignant taxpayer phase and
argued that creeps like John
Gacy, Richard Speck and Ted
Bundy weren’t worth the expense
of food and lodging.
This led to my hard-wed, anti
anarchy phase, during which I
called for the immediate execu
tion of slack-jawed boobs who
litter the parks, jar entire neigh
borhoods awake by blasting their
car stereos or don’t apologize
when they dial the wrong number.
Then I switched to an anti
execution position when it
became clear that most death-row
inmates were poor and kind of
stupid. That seemed unjust
because I knew quite a few rich
and smart criminals who were just
as deserving.
uui i luai my ^ui^kuuj lui
poor and stupid menaces when a
couple of young robbers who
appeared poor and stupid stuck a
gun to my nose and I came within
one finger twitch of going out
with a bang as well as a whimper.
Now I have had my final
change of heart.
While I believe in swift and
stem justice for killers, I am
opposed to cruel and unusual
punishment.
And in following the accounts
of recent executions in Illinois, as
well as Texas, Florida and other
states that are really into zapping
killers, I have found that most of
them involve needlessly unusual
meanness. /
The evidence can be found in
the last meals that are consumed -
by the condemned.
As we all know, a person who
is about to be put to death is
allowed to eat just about anything
he wants, within reason.
Some really stuff themselves,
such as an Oklahoma killer who
ordered a Burger King double
cheeseburger, canned spaghetti
and meatballs, barbecued ribs,
steamed mussels and clams, two
milkshakes and pumpkin pie with
whipped cream.
In Texas, a killer was furious
to the end because he was served
regular spaghetti instead of the
can of O-shaped pasta he had
requested.
Bundy had steak and eggs, and
Gacy had fried chicken. And an
Illinois convict recently settled
Mike Royko
for a cup of coffee and a smoke.
But I noticed a strange
omission in all of the last meals.
Not one pre-dinner martini or
Scotch on the rocks. No robust
red wine with that last rare steak.
No snifter of after-dinner cognac.
Not even a humble shot of Old
Skull Popper with a beer chaser.
That struck me as being odd.
I’m sure that many of the people
reading this would agree that if
there were ever an occasion when
a couple of martinis, a bottle of
wine and a touch of brandy would
hit the spot, it’s when you are
about to take that dreaded last
walk.
And I wondered why the
convicts didn’t request their
favorite beverages. It couldn’t be
that they were concerned about
their lives or feared being
arrested for drunken driving.
So I asked the prison officials,
and they said the answer was
simple: Liquor cannot be served
as part of the last meal.
Nic Howell, of the Illinois
Department or corrections, said:
A prison is a state building. And
it is against the law to serve
liquor in a state building.
“Sure, they’ll ask for it, but
they can’t get it. We try to
accommodate them as much as
we can with a last meal, but not
with booze.”
That was what they said in
Texas, Louisiana and other states.
No drinking on prison grounds.
“They’ll say, ‘1 can really use
a drink,’ but it is against the law,”
a Texas official said.
If that isn’t cruel and unusual
punishment, I don’t know what is.
Even a hardened criminal should
be permitted one last buzz before
he departs.
But I'm sure that there are
pitiless avengers who will say
convicted killers don’t deserve
even that small gesture of
kindness.
To satisfy them, drinks could
be served early enough so that the
condemned man would have
enough time to pass out and wake
up with a world-class hangover.
When he moans and says those
ancient words, “Oh, man, my
aching head. I feel like I’m about
to die,” the warden could say,
“How’d you guess?”
(c) 1995 TrlbiH Media Services, lac.
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