Reflections In a Jaundiced Eye

by Florence King

  The Carters marked a turning point in our closet royalism. At long last we were forced to admit that God made too many common people, so we elected Ronald Reagan and turned our attention to the royal wedding of the Prince and Princess of Wales. It was just the fix we needed; Princess Diana’s intimate response on this occasion is not known, but July 29, 1981 was the day that everybody in America had an orgasm, even Jane Pauley.

  Now that we are tired, poor, huddled, and here, what are the chances of someday having a monarchy of our own?

  The biggest stumbling block is our fear of an Established church. You can’t have a monarchy without an Established church because you can’t have a coronation without one. The problem is one of holy oils. An unanointed monarch is invalid and viewed as a pretender to the throne, yet only three faiths—Roman Catholic, Eastern Orthodox Catholic, and Anglican—have holy oils.

  What do do? A greasy king being better than no king at all, the American monarchist is tempted to suggest that all three oleaginous faiths conduct a tripartite coronation. But this solution is fraught with danger. Americans are terrified of leaving any religion out of things, so we would have to have an ecumenical coronation that included representatives from every creed, oily or not, practiced in the land.

  There is no telling where it would end, or if it would ever end except in the death of the monarch. By the time he was Born Again, Circumcised Again, held underwater, and forced to play with rattlesnakes, we would find that we had once again snatched self-defeat from the jaws of compromise.

  Vexing problems such as this aside, hereditary monarchy offers numerous advantages for America. It is the only form of government able to unify a heterogeneous people. Thanks to centuries of dynastic marriage, the family tree of every royal house is an ethnic grab bag with something for everybody. We need this badly; America is the only country in the world where you can suffer culture shock without leaving home. We can’t go on much longer depending upon disasters like Pearl Harbor and the Iranian hostage-taking to “bring us together.”

  Some American monarchists have suggested offering the crown to a descendant of the Adams or James families, but that would only perpetuate the Wasp hegemony that so many resent. A better solution is the time-honored practice of inviting someone from another country to take the crown. Importing a descendant of one of the European royal houses would give us a polyglot prince with an inborn capacity for traveling well. If, for example, we put a Stuart on our throne, ethnic Catholics, Lost Cause Southerners, and readers of When Bad Things Happen to Good People could all identify with him.

  Hereditary monarchy would put an end to the politics of Nice Guyism. Richard Nixon’s royal counterpart, Louis XI of France, was called the “Spider King” both for his pot belly and spindly legs, as well as for his habit of lurking motionless in windows to spy on people. Louis repelled everyone; even his wetnurse quit, saying “There’s something about that baby I don’t like.” All he had going for him was a brilliant mind. With no need to make himself pleasant to voters, he was able to devote all of his mental and physical energies to the task of governing. Today he is acknowledged as one of France’s best kings and one of history’s foremost administrative geniuses. Eavesdropping, list-making, misanthropic, paranoid insomniacs do things right if they’re let alone, but the strain of pretending to like people will destroy them every time. (I know, I’ve been on four book tours).

  A nation of hypochrondriacs is fit only for a king. Hereditary monarchy would punch up the American disease scene. Late-night public service announcements could dwell on gout and scrofula, and Jerry Lewis would be so busy doing telethons for Capet foreskin and Hapsburg jaw that we would never again have to look at a cute crippled kid.

  Hereditary monarchs are unsurpassed as patrons of the arts because every monarch wants his reign to be called the Age of Himself. Culture piped through great vanity emerges as great culture, but a just-folks president must hold the pillar of the church dearer than the flying buttress and pretend to be content with Zane Grey. The pretense seldom strains credulity.

  Finally and most important, hereditary monarchy would please feminists by putting the arrogant medical profession in its place. No one is impressed with the title “Doctor” when real titles like Duke, Marquess, Earl, Viscount, and Baron abound.

  Aside from knee-jerk bleatings about the inherent political genius of the People, the leading objection to hereditary monarchy is hereditary insanity. Americans have imbibed the idea that all monarchs are sadistic maniacs who pop off and commit bloodcurdling deeds, like the night Catherine de Medici invited France’s Protestant leaders to dinner and had them murdered at the table. The massacre of St. Bartholomew’s Day was a bit much, but at least it was livelier than White House prayer breakfasts.

  Because madness and horror make the best novels and movies, it is all too easy to forget that more monarchs than not have borne sobriquets like the Good, the Wise, the Well-Beloved, and the Green Gallant. In any case, I would much rather be at the mercy of someone with the power to say “Off with her head!” than be nibbled to death by a bureaucratic duck. Kings and queens might do wicked things but they don’t nag. One thing I like about Bloody Mary: she never said a word about lung cancer.

  12

  TWO KIDNEYS IN TRANSPLANT TIME

  I am afraid of organs. Make that “organ-afraid” in honor of our hyphen-obsessed times. I am also transplant-afraid. In fact, I don’t like anything about this whole switcheroo business.

  Many people feel the same way but are loath to say so because organs are all tied up with America’s twin gods, Compassion ‘n’ Humanitarianism. We’re supposed to be organ-positive, but I am organ-negative and not at all loath to say so.

  My fears are not triggered by the plethora of information about organs (“organ awareness”) with which we are bombarded because I don’t understand medical matters, but I understand all too well the Orwellian phraseology the experts slip into when they get going on the subject.

  Take, for example, that sentence we hear so often: “A donor heart was located and flown to the hospital.” The rational part of my mind knows what this means: one set of doctors removed the heart of someone who just died and rushed it to the sick patient who needed it so that another set of doctors could perform a modern, miraculous transplant operation.

  So much for the rational part of my mind. But what of the other part? The American part: that ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir, that dank tarn of Auber wherein dwell the spectral tendrils of egalitarian mist? This is the part that tells me George Orwell was right when he said that bad English is the beginning of the end.

  Note the two passive verbs in our sentence: “was located” and “[was] flown.” The passive voice is the voice of Sneaky Pete. Now look at the noun used as an adjective: “donor” heart. People who tailor words to suit their own needs will tailor anything to suit their own needs. The originator of that “donor heart” phrase snatched the noun out of its proper place and put it in where it was needed. See what I’m getting at?

  At this point I should write that familiar qualifying sentence that begins: “Of course, I am not implying … .” But I am implying. Not only am I implying, I am saying flat out that I am worried (make that “concerned”) that somebody out there in Democracyland is getting ready to render some of us organ-free for the benefit of the organ-deprived.

  I keep a file of transplantese that I take out and read every now and then, the way a normal woman my age reads old love letters. Among my favorite clippings is one from the Washington Times dated June 18, 1982, headlined “MOUSE BRAIN TRANSPLANT SUCCESSFUL.” It says:

  SAN FRANCISCO—A piece of brain has been successfully transplanted from one mouse into another, where it not only survived but correctly hooked itself up and functioned near normally, a scientist reports. “This is what I call my science fiction experiment—except that it works,” said Dr. Dorothy T. Krieger, chief of endrocrinology at Mount Sinai Medical Center in New York City.

  How do
you like them droppings? I suppose the discrepancy between the San Francisco dateline and the New York (make that “New York-based”) doctor is no cause for alarm. Perhaps Dr. Krieger was interviewed while attending a convention, or better yet, took a well-earned vacation from her tiny labors in the city of mislaid hearts.

  Much more disturbing is what comes next:

  Although the partial brain transplant succeeded in seven out of eight tries with mice, Ms.[sic] Krieger said, “I will make no speculation as to any possible relation of this procedure to humans. I wouldn’t touch that with a 10-foot pole … This is only the first experiment.”

  Note the unclear slide from the writer’s summation to the doctor’s quotation in the sentence beginning “Although … .” Did the writer ask Dr. Krieger to speculate on the possibility of applying her procedure to humans, or did she bring up the subject herself? Somebody brought it up. And what do we make of her defensive reference to ten-foot poles? And what do those elliptic dots stand for? It all bodes ill in a country where “equality before the law” has been shortened to “equality.”

  Since experiments on mice are always done with human medicine in mind, we are justified in reflecting on Aulus Gellius’s dictum, Ex pede Herculem: “From the foot alone we may infer Hercules.”

  The last paragraph of the mouse clipping says: “The research, the most dramatic ever done with such transplants, is to be described this month in the British journal Nature.” I don’t subscribe to the British journal Nature but I do subscribe to the Washington Post. Imagine how urine-dead I felt on September 19, 1983 when I found myself staring at a five-column headline: “VA. DOCTOR PLANS COMPANY TO ARRANGE SALE OF HUMAN KIDNEYS.”

  The article is by Post staffer Margaret Engel, who really knows how to write a riveting lead:

  The growing demand for human body parts has prompted a maverick Virginia doctor to establish a company, believed to be the first of its kind, that would broker human kidneys for sale by arranging for donors throughout the world to sell one of their kidneys.

  The colorful Wild West word maverick describes Dr. H. Barry Jacobs, “whose license to practice in Virginia was revoked after a 1977 mail-fraud conviction involving Medicare and Medicaid.” While this is not cheering, it doesn’t bother me too much because my fear awareness is not white-collar-criminal-oriented: con men can be fun. However, the article goes on to say: “Jacobs, who served 10 months in jail for his 1977 conviction, said he now works as a consultant in medical malpractice lawsuits.” Check that phrasing. Not he is a consultant, but he said he is. This is turning into a fine kettle of fish on its way to becoming a fine kettle of kidneys.

  The piece goes on to describe the medical and legal problems of Jacobs’s projected plan. It is extremely long and involved but fascinating nonetheless, for tucked here and there amid the scientific and bureaucratic detail are certain buzzwords and convoluted euphemisms guaranteed to give the America-wise reader a jolt.

  “It will be pure, free choice on their part,” Jacobs said of the donors. Why did he feel it necessary to emphasize this? He goes on to say that the motivation to sell their body parts “would be whatever motivates someone to sell: greed, bills.”

  Can’t you hear it? “Hi! This is Pam at Friendly Credit Bureau. I’ve worked out a debt-consolidation plan for you.”

  The colorful maverick continues: “There will be proper, written informed consent. Since many potential donors can’t read, it [the informed consent conference] will be tape-recorded.” Written, yet tape-recorded, you see?

  Now we come to some exposition by reporter Margaret Engel:

  Other health professionals active in transplant activities say they had feared the creation of such a venture and supported a bill introduced in August by U.S. Rep. Albert Gore (D-Tenn.) to prohibit the sale of human organs.

  Note the phrase: “Other health professionals active in transplant activities … .” This is a perfect example of how the search for euphemism destroys a writer’s ear. Using “active” and “activities” that close together creates a discord. Such a lapse tells me that a writer is concentrating on not saying something. Exactly who are these “health professionals”—doctors, nurses, technicians, candy stripers, Burke and Hare?—and what is the difference between transplant operations and transplant “activities?” If it’s anything like the “shower activity” so active in weather reports, I want to know the exact definition of rain.

  Now comes something that will make you feel red, white, and blue all over. Explaining Medicare’s role in reimbursing hospitals for removing a donor’s kidney, a spokesman for the Health Care Financing Administration said: “The cost of harvesting” is covered.

  Harvesting … what a soothing euphemism for the land of Thomas Jefferson, who said “Those who labor in the earth are the chosen people of God.” Or as Thomas Cowper put it: “God made the country, man made the town.” Americans believe wholeheartedly in these maxims. If it’s country it must be cool, so apply the rustic word harvesting to what that city boy Jack the Ripper did, and no one will remember that Jack the Ripper did it.

  Back to reporter Engel’s exposition: “The problem of the great demand and low supply of human organs is one that the federal government itself is trying to solve … .”

  Yes, indeed. Can’t you see the civics textbooks of the future? Duties of the federal government: print the money, deliver the mail, declare war, and harvest kidneys.

  Next we hear from Surgeon General C. Everett Koop, who wants to keep the government out of the organ business. To this end, he called a meeting of medical officials to set up a privately funded foundation to encourage people to donate organs. Said a spokesman for Dr. Koop: “We’re hoping that a leader will emerge.”

  They needn’t worry. If the American hyphen-harvesters keep churning out Germanic compounds, it won’t be long before we have one nation, one leader, and lots of kidneys.

  Back to reporter Engel:

  … worldwide demand for such operations is expected to further overwhelm the meager supply. This inequity could lead to some organ-selling companies who might not take the proper medical and legal precautions in obtaining organs, some worry.

  Some had better worry; this tactful paragraph translates into visions of the Mafia going into the kidney business.

  Always leave ’em laughing, so the article ends with a statement by Dr. Harold Meryman, past president of the American Association of Tissue Banks, who worries that the whole transplant movement will take an elitist turn: “Any millionaire with cirrhosis of the liver will gladly pay a half million dollars. That’s not considered to be the American way.”

  Of course it’s the American way, but that’s not why I am organ-afraid. What worries me is that other American way, the one that is even more tempting than money. I have visions of a mad dash of Nice Guyism gone awry. The lugubrious pleas for a kidney here, a liver there, a heart in Sheboygan that descend like a sledgehammer on a neurotically friendly nation could easily inspire an organ Robin Hood to kill healthy people just to be able to arrive at the hospital in the nick of time with the needed part. When the melting imprimatur of Joan Lunden beckons, a line will form at the thorax.

  Organ transplants have joined motherhood and apple pie on the list of things Americans must not be against. Well, tough titty—God knows whose—I’m against them. As Edgar Allan Poe said in the poem I ponied earlier: “But Psyche, uplifting her finger, said ‘Sadly this star I mistrust.’”

  The name of the poem is “Ulalume.” You know what a ulalume is, don’t you? It’s the tiny gland that feeds the spleen, and I’m keeping mine.

  13

  UNSPORTIVE TRICKS

  Junk mail used to look so obviously junky that we tossed it unopened into the trash or marked it “Return to Sender” and dropped it back in the box. But this cost the senders money—“dollars” in junk mailese—so they devised pitiless ways of tricking us into opening and reading it. Taking as their motto, “The only thing we have to use is fear itself,” they
decorated the front of their envelopes with messages calculated to scare us to death.

  “URGENT! IMMEDIATE REPLY REQUESTED!” is on just about everything.

  “OPEN THIS BEFORE YOU PULL OUT OF YOUR DRIVEWAY!” is from an auto insurance firm.

  “WILL THIS BE OUR FINAL EPIDEMIC?” in rash-red letters next to your name is the inspiration of Physicians for Social Responsibility, who presumably decided to use the AIDS panic to get us to open their letters about nuclear war prevention.

  “SUPPOSE SOLDIERS CAME AND TOOK YOUR SISTER AWAY IN A TRUCK?” asks Amnesty International. Not mother, not wife, not daughter, but that star boarder of the male id, the first virgin in his life, his sister—as in: “Would you want your sister to marry one?”

  Junk mailers have also invented peekaboo greed. This is the window envelope containing a letter folded in such a way that an incomplete but intriguing sentence is visible above the recipient’s name. Meant to look as if the letter was folded wrong by accident, the partial sentence reads: “Consideration and Compensation for Your Expense of Time and … .” No, it’s not a check. The unfolded letter says that if we stay at one of the company’s resorts, we will get discounts on items for sale there.

  Then there is the official-looking envelope. This one is from the “Department of Verification” and has a Washington, D.C. return address and a seal of office. Have we inherited Montana or are we being billed for it? Neither. It’s a letter verifying the recipient as an official buyer of discount items.

  The smarmiest piece of junk mail—actually junque mail—comes in a starkly plain, pearl-gray envelope in whose lower left-hand corner sits a small but tasteful instruction.