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NEW YORK - Here he was, driving through the intersection of history and culture, wearing a face brighter than a thousand, brilliant suns simply because he would be getting a chance to vote on Tuesday, his oldest son’s ninth birthday. His name is Francois “Frank” Pluviose, a 42-year-old New York City cabdriver who commutes to work each week from Reading, Pennsylvania — a two and a half hour bus ride — and he is totally immune to the disease of cynicism that has managed to infect so much of our politics for too many years.

“I come here from Haiti twenty years ago,” Pluviose said the other night. “First my father, he come. Then my mother, she come. Then they send for me. It is, America is, the greatest country on earth.”

Pluviose works five straight 15 hour days behind the wheel of a taxi he and a friend from the Bronx lease at a cost of $1700 a month. His wife Natasha and four children, James, 9 Tuesday, Laury Anne, 6, Victoria, 4 and Nathan, 2, remain in Reading while the father hammers out a living in the big city. At the end of his five day shift, he goes to the Port Authority terminal in mid-town Manhattan and boards a bus home.

“This week I go home early,” he said. “To vote and to celebrate my son’s birthday. I am very proud.”

The other evening, Pluviose listened intently to the radio as he headed across the Triboro Bridge toward Manhattan. His favorite station — 1190 AM — was playing a recording of Martin Luther King’s “We Shall Overcome” speech given in Washington 40 years ago.

“A great man,” Frank Pluviose said about King. “Like Obama.”

Here we have a guy who arrived in America in 1987 nearly giddy with excitement and anticipation over being able to vote Tuesday for another guy nearly unknown to the country and the larger world around us 24 months ago. It is a story — this feeling of pride and potential felt by so many people of color — that those of us who live largely in white America may have failed to record in true depth because we are so busy blogging and talking about the obvious that we ignored what eyesight tells you: the clamor among so many of the young along with huge numbers of minorities to look at Bush and other 20th Century politicians only in history’s rear view mirror.

This is because nobody living a normal life — paying taxes, raising a family, worrying about a future they now define by the month — could ever prosper or even survive if consumed with the kind of anger that seems to fuel so many on both the left and the right of our politics. It has gone on now for — what? — a decade? Two? And it is beyond nasty with too many running for office not content with defeating an opponent; they must demonize and destroy them as well to achieve true success.

So, quite naturally and very predictably, the arrival of this calm, confident Obama on the stage, a man capable of explaining both himself and his positions in clear English sentences filled with verbs that are not employed as buzzsaws, has been greeted with relief and expectation by so many who have spent the past years taping their eyelids open whenever a politician spoke. And he has managed to prod optimism out of millions who felt run down, run over or simply ignored by a politics that took many of their children to war and too much out of their paychecks that had nowhere to grow in the first place.

“I think McCain, he is a good man,” Frank Pluviose said. “But Obama, he makes me happy because he is the change. I look at him and I see my son and I think, in America you never know.”

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Now, with less than three weeks to the end, he comes to the country staggering toward defeat, his pride and honor certainly diminished by the incoherence of his campaign and the absurdity of the choice he agreed to when it came to picking someone who would share a national ticket charged with talking, coaxing, massaging the country through a tough and turbulent time. And as the clock winds toward the conclusion, America looks and listens to a different John McCain than the man who captured so many hearts when he first ran for president, only eight years ago.

That guy is MIA, missing in action, held captive by ideologues who dominate his strategy sessions and what is left of the Republican party. So John McCain sat there on the stage at Hofstra Wednesday night, looking and sounding like an angry old man, bitter at the lack of traction — or belief — in his candidacy, uncomfortable with what he has allowed himself to become: a cranky senior citizen seething with resentment over how his glory days are lost in the long shadow cast by youth and change.

It is a sad story: a proud and independent man permits a handful of advisers to take his hard-earned reputation and alter it to such an extent that the original is now hard to recognize, nearly invisible behind a curtain of cynical ads and the preposterous pronouncements of a woman whose candidacy is an insult to intelligence.

John McCain used to know that the country was larger than any crowd he could ever draw; that it was filled with ordinary people who live their lives in the middle of a political spectrum, too busy making ends meet, to be driven to extremes by the fevers and fears that consume so many of the talk-radio set. He used to be aware that in order to win, a candidate could not simply preach to the converted, snarl and run with a resentment aimed at the fringe, the mixed mobs of the curious and angry that turn out for Palin.

Now, with time running out, he has only a few days left to try and reclaim himself, to find the man he once was, the whole man who could charm a crowd with his version of the truth. He criss-crosses a country filling up with fear and debt, a land fighting two wars as it fights for a weekly paycheck, a nation where more people worry about General Motors than think about General Petraeus. Political campaigns, like much of life itself, often revolve around one universal issue: the absence of money.

So, when John McCain tosses out a name from yesterday, William Ayers, it means nothing to people who want only to be told about tomorrow. These are the people who vote, the people who have seen the distant dream of retirement crushed by the collapse of so many 401K’s in — what? — less than a month. They have no time for spite or a candidate’s smirk or snarl. They are consumed with concern for the value of their home, the stability of their job, the immediate future of their family.

Unfortunately for McCain, he did little to stop the thieves who took his honor and reputation and tossed it out like so many discarded items for a yard sale, figuring that Americans could once again — one more time — be fooled into voting their fears. But what they really did was take the one Republican who may have had a legitimate shot at surviving the disaster that has been the Bush administration and strip him of the basic appeal he once had for people looking for someone who could lead.

The dreary dialogue of the past few weeks has finally managed to make the man look his age, look old and tired and embarrassed to be defending Palin while awkwardly injecting the absurd — Ayers — into the national dialogue when nearly everyone is riveted on the obvious: the family budget.

Soon, the ‘Straight Talk Express’ will bank west and head for the Arizona desert and election eve. And John McCain will sit up front, staring out the window, exhausted, as the plane crosses the land he loves and the people — millions of them — he failed to connect with because while he was once indeed a prisoner of war, he has spent the last ten weeks letting himself become a prisoner of the past.

http://www.bostonherald.com/news/opinion/columnists/view.bg?articleid=1095433

By Mike Barnicle

Wednesday, May 21, 2008

It seems as if he’s been with us always, his history, ours; his voice, his views taken for granted like some permanent landmark that would forever be part of life’s landscape. Now, a medical bulletin changes everything. Mortality, always there in his own mind, has potentially arrived with the cruelest of phrases: Malignant brain tumor.

So, Edward Kennedy, at 76, rests comfortably in Mass. General, waiting for tests and treatment that will put a number on his days. He is, this very public man, part of the last, unique chapter of a great sprawling American story shared by whole generations.

He is a walking compendium of history, political and personal - as if the two could ever be separated given his last name. He can sit on the front porch of his home in Hyannisport, beneath the cloudless sky of a crisp autumn day and clearly recollect the long gone morning in the summer of 1944 when a priest and a soldier arrived to tell the family that the eldest boy, the one to first carry the father’s dream, Joe, was dead at war; his plane exploded over the English Channel. The end of chapter one.

“Oh yes, I remember,” Ted Kennedy told me once. “My mother was in the kitchen and dad was upstairs. I remember clearly.”

The deaths, the disappointments, the wins and losses, the tragedies, the historic along with the self-inflicted, have all been there like open, very public wounds that halted a nation and, with one, road-blocked any ambitions Ted Kennedy had of gaining the White House.

We have all been there for the ride. The country has careened across the decades with the man. From Dallas to Los Angeles to Chappaquiddick and Palm Beach, very little has happened outside of the harsh glare of publicity.

But the man has endured and today he remains the most accessible and familiar of our politicians.

In Bedford this morning, a man named Brian Hart greets the day with an added measure of grief, knowing Kennedy as something more. Hart is a transplanted Texan, a conservative Republican and in October 2003 he and his wife lost their only son, Pfc. John Hart, to the ill-planned and ill-fated war in Iraq.

On a cold day in November, after their boy was killed in a Humvee that offered the protection of tissue paper, the Harts buried their noble son in Arlington National Cemetery. The father, turning from the grave, saw the familiar face of a man he’d never met.

“That’s the first time I ever met Sen. Kennedy,” Brian Hart once told me. “I didn’t know him from a hole in the wall and he didn’t know me. He came out of respect for John’s service.”

Brian Hart was outraged at the Pentagon’s indifference and incompetence. Like thousands of other soldiers, John Hart, 20, had been sent to battle without the best equipment he might have had.

“Within one month after John’s death, I had several meetings with Sen. Kennedy and he started Senate hearings and he changed things for a lot of other soliders who might be dead today if it were not for him,” John Hart said. “You tell me: Is that being a liberal? I would do anything for Sen. Kennedy.”

Now it is October 2006 and Ted Kennedy, days from being re-elected for the eighth time, is home again in Hyannisport. It is a spectacular Cape Cod day, the water glistening beneath a late fall sun. The senator’s boat, the Mya, sits in the harbor, perhaps 500 yards in the distance, swaying with an Indian summer breeze.

“When you’re out on the ocean, when the color of the sky and water change and you’re sailing,” he was asked. “Do you ever see your brothers?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ted Kennedy answered, his eyes welling with tears. “I see them all the time.”

And so too, we see Teddy.

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http://www.huffingtonpost.com/mike-barnicle/race-is-all-the-clintons_b_100660.html

Race Is All the Clintons Have Left

Sitting there on the set, listening to the endless wrap-ups and explanation of the exit polls, I was on the verge of faking my own death on national TV in order to go talk to myself about the obvious, unspoken equation in the little there is left to this fight between Obama and Clinton. The beast that is nearly always there in American life, the danger that rustles the shrubs at the edge of our daily existence — race — was routinely ignored in the recitation of numbers pouring out of North Carolina and Indiana.

Now, faced with a mathematical mountain climb that even Stephen Hawking could not ascend, the Clintons — and it is indeed both of them — are just about to paste a bumper sticker on the rear of the collapsing vehicle that carries her campaign. It reads: VOTE WHITE.

That’s the underlying message propping up a failed candidate. Check it out, you superdelegates: the buttoned down black guy is having trouble with blue collar white guys so cast your vote with the white chick who has transformed herself into an arm-wrestling, shot and a beer, kitchen table advocate for the working class and now it’s on to West Virginia and Kentucky where she’ll prove it.

So, after all the years they have been with us, after all the triumph and tastelessness, the accomplishments and embarrassments, we’re about to watch them act out an updated, mixed gender re-make of Thelma and Louise with Bill behind the wheel, the two of them sharing a knowing look, a wink, in the front seat as they take the Democrat party right off the cliff, the whole thing crashing and burning in a racial divide both he and she sought to heal all those years ago in Little Rock and then Washington.

Look at the numbers, the Clintons say: Your son didn’t get into the college that was his first choice but the black kid with lower SATs did? Your brother didn’t get the civil service slot on the fire department because he was white and there is an unspoken quota? You didn’t get the promotion because corporate diversity policy mutely suggested a person of color get it? Your kid is being bused an hour and half a day to a public school with low reading scores?

Scratch a sore, baby. Vote for Clinton.

Her campaign began — When? Last year? Last century? It moved across the landscape a summer ago like a cash cow, arriving at each stop surrounded by an air of incumbent expectancy, never sensing, never seeing the black guy who had the audacity to get in her way.

It was a campaign run and dominated by a fat, arrogant pollster, this Penn who once conspired to concoct a question in order to figure out where the Clintons would swim one summer. Martha’s Vineyard or Wyoming? In the past few weeks, Geoff Garin has turned Hillary Clinton into a very formidable candidate by doing something that apparently never occurred to the numbers cruncher Penn: Having her behave like a human being. Clearly, if Garin had been in the driver’s seat from the start of this spectacle, Obama would have a lot more time to watch White Sox home games.

But presidential politics does not exist in the land of ‘what if.’ It is an exhausting, seemingly endless process, fueled by money and ego and an ability to withstand mistakes of commission or omission as well as hands coming out of the recent past, like the strangling grip of Jeremiah Wright, a racist himself, who still might inhibit any chance of an Obama success.

It’s been an amazing ride, this whole campaign. It has three actors left on the stage, all with compelling personal stories to tell in this land of ours, itself the greatest story ever told. Everyone knows McCain’s history, an epic of the age. And more and more are getting to know Obama’s; a black guy from Chicago who, two, three years ago, would have had difficulty hailing a cab on a rainy afternoon in midtown Manhattan because of his skin color, suddenly within striking distance of being nominated for president by one of our two major political parties.

And Hillary Clinton, always ambitious, an over-achiever, tough, smart and resilient. And now on the edge of writing a truly ugly chapter for all to see.

http://www.newsweek.com/id/83855

http://www.nydailynews.com/sports/2007/12/28/2007-12-28_boston_getting_used_to_idea_of_beating_n-2.html

BOSTON GLOBE

May 31, 1998

At the intersection of VFW Parkway and LaGrange Street in West Roxbury there is a sign that stands like a silent sentry reminding us of a proud past filled with a quiet sadness that lingers still across all the years even though the American memory seems to have less and less capacity to recall the cruel and true costs of war. It is a memorial to brothers — Thomas and Gerald Keenan — who died in 1944.

Each day, thousands pass through the busy crossroads. And, each day, the sign is there, nearly invisible to those idling in autos: “Keenan Memorial Square,” the top line reads. “Thomas W. Jr. — US Marines, 1920-1944.” And, right beside the brief reference to that young man, “Gerald J. — US Navy, 1925-1944. Brothers who gave the supreme sacrifice for their country. For a long time I wondered about those brave boys. Who were they? Where did they live? When did they die? Who — and what — did they leave behind?

The other day along LaGrange, nobody seemed to know. It’s understandable; too much time has passed. People come, people go. Families move, taking local lore or the treasure of stories spawned on city streets to new ZIP codes and suburban destinations where the past is homogenized, packed away or even forgotten, like relics in an attic.

Fifty-four years ago, the United States was a different country. The dimension, the scope and the staggering casualties of a great war fought on two fronts had reached into every household. The Depression had been defeated. D-Day sent a coast-to-coast current of electric euphoria that was offset only by the continual drumroll and the sound of “Taps” that echoed in graveyards of small towns as well as big cities where so many families were touched with the tears and the toll of burying their heroic dead.

St. Joseph’s Cemetery is just a quarter-mile from the sign. And there, in a lovely grotto surrounded by the shade of a mature elm, a flat, stone marker was discovered in freshly cut grass. This is where Thomas and Gerald came after being brought home from their war.

Shut your eyes and you can see them still — and you can sense the society that mourned them after they lost their lives in battles that helped deliver the gift of liberty we open each morning. They returned to a place where self-pity was a stranger, where neighbors knew each other, where people actually volunteered for duty and willingly went without staples like sugar or gas because the cause was greater than any individual need, the collective will stronger than the smug selfishness thatoften sets us apart today.

But who were they? And what did they leave behind?

“I think you need to talk to my uncle,” said the young man who answered the door at the house where both boys grew up. “They know the story. And it’s still sad to talk about.”

Thomas and Helen Keenan had 10 children, seven boys and three girls. The father was a Boston firefighter. The family lived in West Roxbury. After Pearl Harbor, the oldest, Tom Jr., joined the Marine Corps. A few months later, his brother Gerald enlisted in the Navy after Roslindale High.

“Thomas died in the battle for Tinian Island,” his brother Joe, 71, recalled yesterday. “He died July 14, 1944. A priest came to the house with the fellow from Western Union. That’s how we were told: a telegram.

“Two weeks later, Gerald died when the Japs torpedoed his ship, the Canberra. Funny thing is, I helped build that boat at the Charlestown Navy Yard. It was a very difficult time. My parents never got over it.”

Both brothers came back to Boston together in death. They were waked at the old Legion Post in West Roxbury, blocks from their boyhood home, and buried side-by-side on Aug. 28, 1944.

Less than a year later, World War II was over. Germany surrendered the following spring. The Japanese conceded defeat in late summer, all because so many brave young men swallowed their fear and delivered their lives to a common cause not often recalled all these years later.

Thomas Keenan was 23. His brother Gerald was 19. And yesterday — Memorial Day — was all about them.

BOSTON GLOBE

May 26, 1998

BELFAST — It is a balmy, lemon-yellow evening and I am standing outside a large glass and cement structure called Waterfront Hall, completed last year along the River Lagan in Belfast where people have the capacity to loathe a stranger based solely on beliefs or a baptism. Community input here means a funeral or a fire, yet it occurs to me that in the middle of shootings and bombings they have managed to achieve something that seems out of reach in Boston: They have built a convention center. Earlier, with the town in the grip of unseasonably warm weather, I am strolling Whiterock Road in West Belfast, reminded again that a hot sun is truly the full moon for the Irish. Half the men out on stoops are nearly naked, their skin the color of boiled lobster claws.

Here is what you can get in the North: An Armalite-rifle. C-2 explosives. A bazooka. Hand grenades. Flamethrowers. Surface-to-air missiles. A majority voting for peace. And here is what you cannot get: Sunblock.

At the intersection of Whiterock and Ballymurphy, Cian Moran is sitting on a milk crate outside his flat. He is wearing a tight blue Speedo bathing suit. He is a heavy man. It is not an attractive sight because his stomach is at war with the elastic waist of the swimsuit and from a distance it appears Moran might be eight months pregnant as he basks alongside his girlfriend, Claire Corrigan, who, incredibly, is not blind.

“Did you bring any of that Viagra with you from America?” Moran wants to know. “That would do the boys a world of good, wouldn’t it luv? That’s the worst moment of a man’s life, failing in bed. I vote yes for Viagra.”

“Worse moment of your life was when the Park View was shut for repairs,” Corrigan tells him, referring to a bar alongside Milltown Cemetery.

That cemetery serves as sort of a huge community center for a people raised on funerals and sad farewells. The caretaker, Sean Armstrong, talks about it as if he were the curator of a macabre Hall of Fame, pointing out where various people’s remains lie, how they died, and whether they were on “active duty” when they fell in the long fight against England.

“Oh, cemeteries are big stuff in Ireland,” Monsignor Denis Faul points out. “Big stuff.”

So are priests. In the absence of a true, old-fashioned political network, priests are a combination of state reps and city councilors who are wired throughout their parishes. Nothing happens without their knowledge. Not a birth. A death. A fight, a plot, a prayer, or a promise. Nothing!

Back in Holy Trinity Church, Mary Kelly sat with bowed head a few days prior to the biggest event in her life. She is 91 and could barely wait to cast a ballot for the future last Friday.

“Not so much for me but for the younger people,” she observed. “People like my son.”

“How old is your son?” she was asked.

“70,” she replied.

In one day, she sat through two Masses, a First Communion, and a gypsy wedding. The church is actually her second home. It is a quiet haven from the horrors that have stalked the old lady’s neighborhood for at least 30 years, filling the streets around her with an awful sadness and a nearly constant violence that leveled off only in the past three years but now, with a tremendous “Yes” vote, could actually recede to the point where children born today could assume a normal childhood tomorrow.

That sound — laughter — remains the hallmark of a resilient people who have survived a horrible history due, in some small measure, to the safety net provided by their own sense of humor. Their city and country have been mangled by murder and bigotry, but the people are still standing, some of them even hopeful, in a place progressive enough to vote for peace as well as build a convention center that can’t get off the ground back in Boston.

BOSTON GLOBE

May 20, 1998

DUNGANNON, Northern Ireland — He has stood over too many fresh graves filled with victims of a stale hatred that is quite pervasive but he manages to greet each day with a grin along with a hope that the children he teaches will somehow manage to prosper here in a small country where education might eventually prove to be a larger asset than a ballot measure that has all the politicians talking while the public on both sides — Catholic and Protestant — approach the election with sealed lips anda grim pessimism.

He is 66 years old, Monsignor Denis Faul is, and he is the principal of St. Patrick’s Academy, where 940 boys and 930 girls attend classes in a huge school set on a hillside alongside an awkward neighbor — a British Army post — as constant noise from helicopters interrupts geometry and geography. “They’d never get away with flying in and out over a Protestant school,” the monsignor said yesterday. “It’s just the way it is here.”

Denis Faul is not a shy man. He has specific views and certain opinions. He also has credentials among Catholics: For years, he said daily Mass for prisoners in the Maze prison and alienated the IRA when he was instrumental in ending the hunger strike nearly two decades ago.

“We had 10 already dead and they had had 20 more ready to die,” Faul recalled. “Enough was enough. Ireland doesn’t need any more funerals or any more martyrs. I helped get the lads to stop and the IRA never forgave me.

“Let me tell you what will happen Friday,” he declared. “It will be a 55 to 45 vote for the Yes position. Just enough to create chaos. People are truly torn about this because it’s an argument between the head and the heart.

“For most people on both sides — the majority in the middle — their heads tell them to stay with Great Britain because they’re afraid of losing their benefits, their free education, free health as well as what they get from the dole. But their heart tells them to vote with Dublin. And, of course, they’ve had “Moses” Mitchell and “Moses” Hume with their new commandments, but the real issues are not discussed.

“There is indeed a strong element of bigotry among Protestant leaders and the only way this will work is for everyone to take a vow to protect human life, get rid of the guns, and look after the victims. That will have to be done street by street, parish by parish, and town line by town line. And it will only succeed by bringing charity and a lot of forgiveness to the task.

“There are very long memories here,” he added. “People know that whenever Catholics have shown advances in acquiring legal rights, civil rights, poltical and economic rights, that’s when the assassinations begin again. The Protestants fear Catholic advancement.

“When Sinn Fein had the prisoners appear at the rally last week, it was a dreadful blunder, but it was done because the IRA runs Sinn Fein. Gerry Adams is a very clever man. But he’s a vain man, and that’s dangerous. Yet he’s patient. He knows time is on his side, so he can wait to see how unmanageable the new process will be because he knows, in the end, the British will have to deal with him. Not Dublin. Not Washington. Him. He views a Yes vote as a tactical vote for the IRA and Gerry Adams.ts do not know who they are. They have no sense of identity. They’re not Irish, not British, not Welsh; all they have to cling to is the fact that they won the Battle of the Boyne in 1690 — not that long ago in Ireland — and that’s why they go crazy during marching season in July.

“That gets to the issue of justice, too. The application of the law toward Catholics is unjust. It’s at the heart of the whole debate over the release of the prisoners. Since 1968, not a single RUC [Royal Ulster Constabulary] man has served a day in jail for killing while on duty or torturing people arrested under emergenecy laws. Twelve children and many adults were killed and no one was ever charged. So the Catholics say, “Why am I doing 25 years in prison when the man who killed my son or

“Now I’ll be voting Yes on Friday,” Monsignor Denis Faul stated. “But you can’t build a government on a 55 to 45 vote. You have to have education with a spiritual background as well as human rights, and you must have a soul and be willing to forgive. That’s the foundation we need to build.”

Then he stood at his desk and glanced out the window behind him at an Army helicopter skidding through the sky above his school. The noise was fierce, but the priest’s smile was gentle as he said, “They wouldn’t dare do that to any other people.