Life

Portland, Oregon A new year, whether you follow the Greek calendar or the Latinx, is like the first page in a new diary, its date set by patriarchal theocracy, its entries written in guilt. I’ve always questioned the tradition of making and then forgetting resolutions. I view them as an empty promise of redemption, like the fad diets with which late-capitalist dysmorphia tyrannizes the fat-positive. This year, however, I decided to indulge my curiosity. Yes, dear reader, I have made a resolution. ‘B-b-but how on Earth can Godfrey Elfwick’s holistically beneficial way of living xir’s best life be improved upon?’ I hear you stutter in bewilderment.

This article is in The Spectator’s January 2020 US edition. Subscribe here.Malkef, northern Syria I’m sitting under an olive tree about a mile from the front with ‘Agir’, a Kurdish soldier from the Syrian Democratic Forces (SDF). The sharp cracks and dull rumbles of fighting make their way to us over dusty farmland; the shade protects us from the scorching mid-morning sun and omnipresent Turkish drones. Agir tells me how the Turkish-backed Free Syrian Army (FSA) can’t fight — at least, compared with the Islamic State (Isis). Agir fought Isis with American backing for years in Syria. Sometimes, he says, Isis soldiers would tie foam cushioning to their feet, sneak up to your position in the moonlight and slit your throat.

This article is in The Spectator’s January 2020 US edition. Subscribe here.New York City It’s the Sunday before Memorial Day outside the Metropolitan Museum of Art and the street is filling up with families. Navy servicemen and women stop for a friendly word and a photo. But a tragedy is happening here and there’s nothing anyone seems able to do about it. Elizabeth Rossi, a retired disabled Marine veteran in her early forties, runs a hot-dog stall outside the museum. She served in Operation Iraqi Freedom. ‘On my first day we were bombed; you never forget that,’ she says. Her father, Dan, also a disabled vet, runs the van next door. But they feel that they have been rejected by the city of New York and the world around them.

This article is in The Spectator’s December 2019 US edition. Subscribe here. January to March ‘Caucasians Are The Best’ Remark By Biden At Iowa Caucus Renews Concerns Over Age Declaring An ‘End To These Endless Security Agreements,’ Trump Tweet Announces US Will Withdraw From Nato ‘Why Do We Need To Defend Germany? Did They Defend Us At Normandy? NINE!’ New Whistleblower Bombshell: $391 Million Military Aid To Ukraine Conditioned On Start Of Construction Of Trump Tower Kiev Trump Tweet Hints At Displeasure With Lawyer ‘Rudy Is A Great Guy But He Is Making Trump Look Evil And Should Stop Going On TV NOW!!!

This article is in The Spectator’s December 2019 US edition. Subscribe here. ’Tis the season friends. The season to be merry. But also the season to remember. Especially those who gave their everything. For us. Great Americans who made the ultimate sacrifice to protect the greatest nation on earth. I speak, of course, of the true meaning of Christmas. The Yuletide. The winter festival. The hinge of the Judeo-Christian cultural year. The subject of so much opprobrium from the secular left. Christmas is under attack. It has to be defended. President Donald Trump is fighting back. But we all have a responsibility to stand up. To say ‘No!

This article is in The Spectator’s December 2019 US edition. Subscribe here. Kemmerer, Wyoming Before 1965, when immigrants to the American Republic came almost exclusively from Europe, the largest white ethnic group in this country was of German stock. It may still be so, though I am unaware of recent statistics that demonstrate the fact. Certainly, a linguistically sophisticated visitor arriving here today from Europe might easily arrive at that conclusion. The now ubiquitous ‘Yah!’ is phonetically indistinguishable from ‘Ja!’, and while ‘Yah-wohl!’ has yet to be widely heard in American streets, connoisseurs of the American language in the 21st century would hardly be surprised should it crop up there.

This article is in The Spectator’s December 2019 US edition. Subscribe here. I’ve always resented Christmas — because Christmas is a holiday that makes liars out of us all. Let’s not get into whether Jesus was born of a virgin. Suffice it to say, I struggled with this idea from a young age. Back in kindergarten, having no idea what a virgin was, I consulted Anne, my precocious neighbor and classmate at the Convent of the Visitation School. Anne showed me a biology book, which presented in very graphic detail the mechanics of intercourse. Anne explained that being a virgin meant you hadn’t had sex. ‘Mom, how did the Virgin Mary get pregnant with baby Jesus?’ I asked. ‘Oh, God did that,’ she explained dutifully.

New Haven, Connecticut Greetings friends. Old Digby Dent (BR ’89) here. I’ve been press-ganged by the good folks at The Spectator into sharing a few reflections on living well as the fiery splendor of autumn gives way to the dour cold of winter. The leaves are gone, the days grow short and it’s dark by four in the afternoon in Boston. Worse still, the obvious recreations of warmer days having given way to the inconstancy of the third season, we find ourselves waiting for enough snow to ski, cross-country or alpine. What is to be done in the unsteady interregnum from now until The Game? Sailing is no damned good if you can’t guess how cold it’ll be on the water.

This article is in The Spectator’s December 2019 US edition. Subscribe here. ‘If you don’t get your act together,’ I told my husband, Bobby, ‘I’m going to have to find a new partner.’ In life, I had no doubt he was the one. In bridge, it was another story. The four-person game seems to have evolved as a distinct form of whist in the 19th century. Today, people commonly explain it as a more complicated version of spades. It begins with bidding: each player opens his hand, counts his points (aces are four, for example; kings are three) and determines which of his suits are strongest. Teams of two then try to communicate what cards they have through a set of predetermined codes called conventions.

This article is in The Spectator’s November 2019 US edition. Subscribe here. Portland, Oregon It was a bright April morning and the sun shone benevolent golden rays upon me as I strode purposefully up the steps to the door of a house in the London district of Islington. Pressing the Victorian brass doorbell, I heard the comforting chimes of Toto’s ‘Africa’ emanating from within and nodded my head in approval. After a few seconds the door was opened by a charming white-passing transracial man who called himself Babatunde (I later found out his birth parents had named him Rupert). He graciously invited me into a spacious studio apartment decorated with tribal carvings from Ikea’s African Solnedgång collection.

This article is in The Spectator’s October 2019 US edition. Subscribe here. When I was growing up in the late 1960s, boys like me craved the admiration and approval of our dads; we wanted nothing more than to impress them. And now that we are dads, we crave the admiration and approval of our children; we want nothing more than to impress them. But the curious thing is, they don’t care about impressing us. In fact, our teenage children are just like our dads were — distant figures who are busy getting on with their own lives. Today we demonize dads of the recent past for being cold and uncaring. For failing to change diapers, read stories at bedtime, provide the unconditional love and praise children need to grow into happy, well- adjusted adults.