By Patrick F. Cannon

Although he oozes insincerity from every pore, as a politician Donald Trump was right to criticize President Biden for his administration’s abrupt and poorly planned withdrawal from Afghanistan, even though his own administration had made the deal with the Taliban that made withdrawal inevitable.

            American soldiers needlessly lost their lives, and many of our Afghani friends were abandoned to their fate. Even though they signed up for it, the soldiers found themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time. Not for the first time, it made me think about how members of the armed services are hostages to fortune. For example, I was drafted early in 1961; if I had been drafted in 1963, I might well have been sent to Viet Nam.

            As it was, I was in the Army for both the Berlin Wall and Cuban Missile crises.  When the East Germans began construction of the Wall in August 1961, I had been stationed for only a couple of months in LaRochelle, France (lucky me; that’s it in the photo). While I worked as a cryptographer in the communications center in La Rochelle itself, we lived at an Army post outside of town. The main Army activity was at the Port of La Pallice, just south of La Rochelle, a main port supplying the Army in Europe. Most of our message traffic involved this activity.

            One of our country’s responses to the wall was to beef up our forces in Europe. As a result, there was a substantial increase in coded message traffic since much of the equipment and material came in through La Pallice. On our own post, several empty buildings were converted to barracks for a National Guard truck battalion that was activated to handle increased truck movements from the port.

            The irony of all this was that, while all this was going on, we were providing signal support for the crew of The Longest Day, which was partially filmed on an island off the coast which had a beach much like Omaha Beach in Normandy. The Army also provided soldiers as extras, during a period when the USSR armed forces in Europe were nearly three times as numerous as NATO! In the end, of course, the crisis subsided, but at least I got to have dinner at a local restaurant where Robert Mitchum was drinking too much wine with members of the movie crew. He amused himself by throwing snail shells at his fellow diners.

            October of 1962 found me stationed with a combat signal company at Godforsaken Fort Irwin, California, in the middle of the Mohave Desert. Our role in wartime would have been to support a corps headquarters. A corps usually consists of at least two divisions. As such, we were loaded onto cargo planes and shipped to Fort Hood, Texas to provide support during maneuvers that would pit one armored division against another.

            Being in the field meant living in tents. One fine morning, after a violent storm, our area was flooded. As we surveyed the flooded tent city, a sergeant came along and said: “Is there a cryptographer who would like to help out at the post?” Feeling the mud under foot, and going against the “never volunteer” dictum, I immediately said “I’ll go!”

            Although it took me a day or so to figure it out, my temporary assignment with the Strategic Army Corps (STRAC) was related to the Cuban missile crisis. I watched President Kennedy’s October 22 television address in a Ft. Hood barracks. By then, the maneuvers had been cancelled and outside I could see tanks being loaded on railroad flat cars. The next day, we started loading our own vans and trucks.

            The main access road ran north to south to the main east-west highway. The Army never tells you what’s happening, so we figured if we turned left at the main gate, we would go to Florida; if right, back to Fort Irwin. We turned right and it took us three full days to get back. By the time we did, the crisis was over.            

            In 1965, when I was out of the Army for over two years and newly married, a bartender I knew who had also been a cryptographer was called back to service. Why him and not me remains a mystery. I confess I was apprehensive for the next couple of years as our troop levels in Viet Nam gradually increased. By the end of 1968, we had two children, and maybe that saved me. If so, thanks Patrick and Beth!

Copyright 2024, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

In his endless search for the meaning of life, young Andy Gump thought he might travel to the mountains of Nepal to find the cave wherein lived an ancient monk who was said to be the most recent of a lengthy line of wise men who held the elusive secret.

            After checking travel web sites, he discovered to his dismay that his funds would take him only as far as Honolulu, pleasant enough but hardly a font of wisdom. Plan B took him to the web again, to a site frequented by fellow seekers, where he discovered information about a wise man who was more accessible, indeed in the mountains of West Virginia, close to the small town of Dismal Seepage.

            The actual location could only be found with map coordinates. Through the miracle of modern science, Gump had merely to enter them on his trusty phone, which gave him directions through the woods to a creek, next to which stood a modest cabin. To get there, he had to cross the creek on a kind of bridge made of stones. As he approached the cabin, an old, bearded man emerged, clad in bibber overalls and a plaid shirt. He carried a kind of staff.

            “Are you the Grub Hub man?” he asked.

            “No,” Gump replied, “I’m seeking the meaning of life.”

            “Shit, I was hoping you were from Grub Hub. They’re always late…I’d like to get some hot food for a change!”

            Just then, the sound of a motor could be heard, and out of the woods emerged an all-terrain vehicle. It motored right through the creek and up to the cabin. The old man was given a container, and Gump was surprised to see him take out a phone to make the payment. It was then he noticed that one side of the roof was covered with solar panels.

            “Well, come ahead young feller. There’s plenty of food for both of us – I usually get enough for leftovers.”

            Gump followed him into the cabin. He put the food container on a small table and got two plates and utensils from a cabinet. While he was doing this, Gump noticed one wall was completely given over to bookcases, which were full of books of assorted sizes and colors. Out of the container came various cartons from the Olive Garden! There was pasta, and all the bread sticks and salad you could eat.

            “I’m a little surprised,” he said, “that you have an Olive Garden here.”

            “Well, if they made it to Dismal Seepage, I guess they’re just about everywhere now. Ran the Railroad Café right out of business. Let’s eat, then we can talk about why you came to visit.”

            After finishing the rigatoni with sauce bolognaise, he poured each a measure of a clear spirit out of a Mason jar. “I couldn’t help but notice your wall of books,” Gump said after taking a sip and regaining his ability to speak.

            “That there’s the accumulated knowledge of the ages,” he responded. “Those tomes contain the thoughts and ideas of all the great thinkers, philosophers, religious figures, and cranks from the dawn of time. I spent years learning Latin, Greek, Hebrew, Sanskrit, Sumerian, Babylonian, Egyptian – and all the modern languages – so I could read these great men and women in their original languages. My goal was to absorb all that wisdom and discover the true meaning of life.”

            “Did you succeed?” he asked with trepidation.

            “No, I’m afraid not. I found a lot of advice about how to live your life, but no one convinced me that really knew why we’re here, other than the same biological process that created that tree out there. Young fella, you’re on your own. The meaning of life is what you give it. You can let some religion tell you how to live your life, and you could do worse than follow one that preaches love and tolerance, even when most of its adherents seem to do the opposite. You could follow some political ideology. You could even be the one that finally makes it work. I do believe you should love your neighbor as you love yourself, but I prefer to do it at a distance. Anyway, have some more salad and breadsticks – you’ll need your strength.”

Copyright 2024, Patrick F. Cannon     

By Patrick F. Cannon

This is a public service message. If you don’t have a last will and testament, you should. Although my former will is still valid, I decided to tidy it up to reflect my wife Jeanette’s death 2-1/2 years ago. Her having a will then made things much simpler than they would otherwise have been. At the same time, I had my trust and power of attorney documents updated.

            My children will get copies of all this stuff, so will be fully informed in the event I ever die (so far, so good). I don’t think there will need to be a public reading of the will, which has been a staple of fiction for many years. Agatha Christie used it in several books, including The Mysterious Affair at Styles. In this and other mysteries, we usually find the local solicitor reading the will at an English country house to a gathering of relatives and old retainers. Greed oozes from most of them, so when they discover that all the dough has been left to some ne’er-do-well, the plot thickens!

            Beginning in the 1920s, Christie’s books became wildly popular. This offended the serious literary critic, Edmund Wilson, who wrote an article in the New Republic (I think) titled: “Who Cares Who Killed Roger Ackroyd?” He argued against wasting valuable time reading this trash when one could be reading James Joyce or other serious writers. Obviously, he shouldn’t have wasted his breath.

            The mystery genre is of course ripe for parody. “Murder by Death” from 1975 manages to gather many of the legendary crime fiction figures in a suitably spooky country house. Agatha Christie is represented by characters based on Miss Marple (Elsa Lancaster) and Hercule Poirot (James Coco). Dashiell  Hammet’s Sam Spade is impersonated by Peter Falk, and his Nick and Nora Charles by David Niven and Maggie Smith. We even, in those less politically correct days, have Earl Bigger’s Charlie Chan, played by the fearless Peter Sellers.

            As if there wasn’t quite enough comedy, we also have laugh out loud turns by Alec Guinness as a blind butler, and Nancy Walker as a deaf housekeeper. To top it all off, none other than Truman Capote hams it up as their host, Lionel Twain (you must be shameless in naming your characters!).

            A more recent parody is 2019s “Knives Out.” Here we do have a will reading. Christpher Plummer in one of his last roles plays a famous mystery writer who dies under mysterious (of course) circumstances. Brought in to solve the riddle is famous detective Benoit Blanc, played with relish by Daniel Craig with an outrageous sort of New Orleans (?) accent. Greedy relatives include Jamie Lee Curtis and Don Johnson. When the bulk of the estate goes to nurse Ana de Armas, the fan is duly hit.

            Both movies are available on streaming services. I would advise you, however, to get your will and other documents in order before you watch them, because you might well die laughing.

Copyright 2024, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

Now that Bobby Kennedy (Jr) has left the race and endorsed his hero, Donald Trump, we are left with a two-horse race, except for write-in candidates like yours truly. As the election gets closer, you may have noticed that the candidates have changed their positions on certain issues. Both will, of course, accuse the other of flip flopping. The term dates from around 1900, and originally described a kind of dance move, but now is mostly used to describe a change in political position.

            Trump, for example, was originally pro-choice, then became pro-life to pander to the religious right. Indeed, he became their hero when he packed the Supreme Court with devout Roman Catholic justices who helped put the screws to Roe v. Wade. Do you see the irony here? The evangelicals who thought John F. Kennedy was going to bring the Pope over to help  him govern, being handed the end of unlimited abortion by a bunch of papists!

            Because of the backlash against the decision by many female voters, Trump is now claiming a flexibility on the issue that has some of his bible thumpers wondering about his steadfastness.  Harris, not to be outdone, has gone from favoring a single-payer health care system, to the current status quo. In both cases, political reality has triumphed over principle (not that Trump has any, except as they directly affect him).

            As it happens,  the majority of American voters are moderate in their views. Most would generally agree with the following statements:

1. Capitalism, abuses, and all, is the only economic system that makes sense. Most support social programs, but not Socialism.
2. The Federal budget is out of control, and something needs to be done about it.
3. Not everybody loves us, and we need to  be able to defend ourselves.
4. No more going to war unless there is a clear national interest, and we plan to win.
5. Every elective office should have term limits.
6. People who game the system should be both fined and jailed.
7. Social Security is here to stay, but that  doesn’t mean it can’t be tinkered with. Ditto Medicare and Medicaid.
8. If your religious or other principles reject abortion, don’t get one. On the other hand, don’t impose your religious beliefs on others. This goes for a lot of other religious stuff too!
9.  People know what’s best for themselves and would prefer that governments at all levels mind their own business.
10. Americans are the most generous people on earth and are happy to help their neighbors out if they are willing to go to work every day.
11. Because they or their ancestors came from somewhere else, most American support reasonable and legal immigration, not open borders.

Now, I don’t think every voter would agree with all of this, but most would agree to most of it. Although it might not have dawned on them, the rigid positions of candidates like Bernie Sanders and Elizabeth Warren are what has doomed them to remain forever in the Senate, where they can scold us to their heart’s content. It is the wise politician who tailors his or her message to what the voters want, instead of what they might wish they want. So, expect more flip-flopping. It can make sense. But don’t be surprised if the candidates revert to their old positions if elected. That’s called, I guess, flop flipping.

Copyright 2024, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

Most of us have looked at a house or other dwelling and thought “I could never live there.” I personally value a house that provides a sense of shelter and privacy, with a pleasing form, built of natural materials, and one that fits well in its neighborhood or landscape. As an example of what I don’t like, there’s a new house nearby that is constructed of a kind of concrete, with a vast front window that displays one of those suspended staircases favored by some architects.

            But the person who spent much more than a million dollars building it must like it just fine. As in most things in the world, to each his own. I’ve learned it’s never wise to make over-generalizations – after all, my opinion is just that, my opinion. But my friend and collaborator on eight books on architecture, Jim Caulfield, recently told me of a statement made at an event he attended by an acquaintance of ours, an architectural historian. “I could never live in a Frank Lloyd Wright house,” he exclaimed.

            As it happens, Wright designed several hundred homes during his lengthy career. From all accounts, most of his clients loved them. I’ve visited approximately 50 of them. I could see myself living in some, but certainly not all of them. In a career spanning more than 70 years, at first Wright designed houses not a great deal different than the more conventional ones designed by older, established architects. So, if you told me you could never live in one of his houses, I’d have to ask you: “which one?”

            Houses can be a bit contrary though. I remember a friend, now gone, who had quite a nice prairie school house designed by the well-known architects Purcell & Elmslie. Like many of Wright’s prairie houses, arts and crafts or craftsman furniture suits them best. His, however, was filled with elaborate French and English pieces from the 18^th Century. Looked strange to my eyes, but not to the owners. I often wonder what kind of stuff the new owners put in.

            Of course, that period furniture looks natural in a place like England’s Blenheim Palace, which was a gift from his country to John Churchill, the first Duke of Marlborough, for his victory over the French at the Battle of Blenheim in 1704. The public rooms, and there are dozens, are furnished in the French taste, which seems odd, considering why it was built. I guess John was willing to let bygones be bygones. By the way, his famous descendant, Winston Churchill, was born in the  house, but in a more humbly furnished bedroom.  

            I have also been in many Victorian period houses (Italianate, Queen Anne, etc.) that have been filled with modern furniture, their elaborate woodwork either removed or painted over. Yikes! But I have also been to several that have been lovingly restored or preserved, with appropriate furnishings, like the Oak Park home in the photo above by James Caulfield.

As for me, I live in an undistinguished condominium building built in the early 1970s. The apartment interiors have no particular style, so you can create your own. When we moved in eight years ago, we had the windows framed and replaced the plain dark brown doors with paneled white ones. Since I couldn’t afford Rembrandt or Valasquez, the walls are covered with paintings and prints that have meaning to me. There are several signed and hand-colored original etchings bought on travels (Vienna, Oxford, Florence, etc.); water colors in a similar vein; prints of cover images from some of my books; one original oil; and just a couple of reproductions. (By the way, I could legitimately ask a lady “up to see my etchings.”)

Although two or three of them are worth more than I paid for them, they were not bought for that purpose, but because they have meaning for me. Recently, a Harry Bliss cartoon in the Chicago Tribune showed the back of a couple sitting on a couch and looking at a vast abstract painting on the wall facing them. The caption: “I love the way it says ‘Hard Asset.’” They should have loved the way it looked instead.

Copyright 2024, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

As I’m running for president, I thought I should have a platform. Both the Republicans and Democrats go through the motions of creating one, which they ignore because they know no one takes them seriously (have you ever read one?).

            Nevertheless, as a serious candidate, I thought I should have one. I set aside an hour of my valuable time and produced a program that should gain the support of most of my fellow Americans. And unlike the major political parties,  it’s short enough to read in one sitting (or even standing up if that suits you better).

            My foreign policy is simple – we oppose anything the Russians, Chinese and Iranians want. Take Ukraine, for example. President (for life) Putin wants to reconstitute the old Russian empire (which once included most of Eastern Europe). If we let him have Ukraine, he may cast his greedy eyes on Poland, which was once part of Russia. I’m reminded of British Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain’s remark justifying giving Germany part of Czechoslovakia. He called it “a quarrel in a faraway country between people of whom we know nothing.” So, they gave Germany the Sudetenland, then Germany took the rest, then Austria, then Poland, then (well, you get the idea).

            My barber is from Albania. He grew up under the Communist regime, one of the worst in the Soviet bloc. Now, when he returns to visit, he wonders at the steady economic progress it has made since the Russian left. He says the Albanians fear that if Russian is permitted to prevail in Ukraine, they might be next. Of course, the Baltic states have even mor reason to worry.

            Immigration? I believe in it, but only legal and planned immigration. Not sure we need a wall, but we certainly need better border security. Since our birthrate is so low, sensible immigration is the only way the country can thrive economically. Japan’s economy was once the envy of the world. A low birthrate and restricted immigration have resulted in Japan’s population aging and declining, along with its economy. My father was born in Ireland. If he’d been kept out of the USA, I’d be digging turf in County Mayo. As it happens, quite a few of our politicians believe in immigration, but only for folks from Western Europe. Guess what? They mostly like it where they’re at.

            Occasionally, our knucklehead politicians mutter something about balancing the budget. Obviously, they don’t mean it. While the president doesn’t control all spending – the dreaded entitlements are largely immune from any controls until Congress comes to their senses  – he or she does have a say on a lot of it. On my first day in office, I’m going to order all those departments and agencies to cut their next year’s budgets by 5 percent. And the next year, another 5 percent. They’ll scream bloody murder, and they’ll never admit how easy it turned out  to be.

            I’m going to put my old idea of consolidating all income-related programs into one cabinet department front and center. Instead of the earned-income tax credit, housing vouchers, and food assistance (and God knows how many others) being administered by separate departments, families should get one payment from one department, maybe Treasury through the IRS. And the formula should be simple – family income and number of dependents. And while I’m at it, I’m going to ask Congress to consolidate and/or eliminate existing cabinet departments. And I’ll veto any attempt to make the current tax cut permanent unless the budget is cut (and I hate taxes!).

            George Washington made do with four – State, Treasury, War, and Justice (Attorney General). We now have 15! To begin with, I would return Veteran’s Affairs to the Defense Department; put Energy into Interior; Housing and Urban Development into Health and Human Services; Transportation into Commerce; and consider the outright elimination of Education and Homeland Security. The education of our children has always been a local matter; and Homeland Security just added an extra layer of bureaucracy with no discernable improvement in our actual security. Oh, and let’s not forget the numerous independent agencies and boards that come under the heading of “it seemed like a good idea at the time.” For many, that time has passed!

            And while I’m on our muddle-headed legislators, if I’m elected, I will veto any bill that leaves any doubt about how it is to be implemented. Too much legislation is open to interpretation by career civil servants who may have personal opinions that tend to broaden the scope of the legislation far beyond its original intent. Why do you think everything takes longer to get done, and costs far more than it should?

            On the environment, let’s take a deep breath, shall we? While global warming is a reality, and a serious problem in some parts of the world, it can’t be stopped overnight. We now get about 20 percent of our power from non-fossil sources, including wind, solar, hydro, and nuclear. This is slowly increasing and will someday largely eliminate the need for fossil sources. In the meantime, let’s get our coal, gas, and oil from our own land. In the short term, we should take advantage of new nuclear technology, and support research into carbon capture, hydrogen, and other clean sources.

            Finally, although I think Trump’s claim that he actually won the 2020 election is absurd, I do think that voters should be required to show proper identification. Although you might be forgiven for thinking otherwise, most states (and other countries) already require it. I would support a uniform Federal law making it mandatory. And while I support early voting, I think absentee ballots should be limited to voters living temporarily out of state; or to voters who can’t get to the polls for health reasons.

            So, that’s my platform. And I warrant it was prepared without recourse to A.I., so you have only me to blame. (And by the way, it took you about five minutes to read this. Could my opponents claim the same?)

Copyright 2024, Patrick F. Cannon  

By Patrick F. Cannon

That’s the title of my latest book, done with one of America’s best architectural photographers, James Caulfield. We have been partners for 20 years, and this is our eighth book on Chicago architects and architecture. It may well be our finest.

            This year is also the 100^th anniversary of Sullivan’s death. He was 67 in 1924, broke, and without any architectural work. One of the friends who helped him in his last years was his former pupil, Frank Lloyd Wright. Largely forgotten by the public, his highly decorated designs were out of fashion in a profession that was moving towards simpler and more “rational” designs. But in his heyday – from the late 1880s to around 1905 – he created an architecture free of European influences, and gave form to the new tall buildings, today’s ubiquitous skyscrapers.

            While many of his greatest designs fell to the wrecking ball, each of the 40 that remain has been lovingly photographed for the book. They range from private homes to skyscrapers and include three magnificent tombs he designed for clients. Because he and his partner Dankmar Adler had a national practice, the book includes buildings from throughout the Midwest, and from New York, Tennessee, and Mississippi.

            The book is a generous 9×12, with 288 pages of stunning photographs to go with the story of Sullivan’s life and work. It is just now becoming available, published by Chicago’s Glessner House, and distributed by the University of Minnesota Press. The cover price is $49.95. Publication was made possible by a generous grant from the Driehaus Foundation of Chicago. 

You can purchase it from the Press’s web site; from the usual online sites; and from your local bookseller, who may offer a discount. To assist them in ordering, the ISBN number is 978-1517918859. It would also make a great holiday gift!

Copyright 2024, Patrick F. Cannon

1. Where’s the Cat?

By Patrick F. Cannon

Dr. and Mrs. Fenton of Lake Forest, Illinois worked hard all their lives and looked forward to retirements filled with new hobbies and luxury travel. He had been a respected cardiologist, and she a beloved English teacher at the local high school. Their accomplished children were scattered around the country and had given them bright and loving grandchildren.

            The couple lived in a large and stately home with Mrs. Fenton’s mother and their beloved cat, Muffins. They had planned an extended trip to East Asia, and because of her age, didn’t want to leave mother alone with the cat. As it happened, Mrs. Fenton’s bachelor brother lived nearby and agreed to stay with them during the trip.

            Those were the days before cell phones and the internet, and it was only when they arrived in Japan that they were able to call home. They placed the call at 10:00 pm Tokyo time, which would be 8:00 am at their home in a suburb north of Chicago. When the brother answered, he asked how the trip was going. Mrs. Fenton said they were impressed with the bustle of Tokyo, and they planned to travel to Kyoto the next day, then on to Hong Kong. When she finished, she asked how Muffins was doing.

            “The cat’s dead,” replied her brother rather curtly.

            There was a stunned silence, then the sound of sobbing. Finally, Mrs. Fenton got herself together and said: “Why did you have to be so matter of fact and curt? Why didn’t you try a gentler approach?”

            “What do you mean?” he replied.

            “Well, you might have said ‘Muffin’s on the roof. I’ve put food on the ground, and I’m sure she’ll get hungry and come down soon.’ Then the next time we called, you could have said ‘She still hasn’t come down, so I’m going to call the Fire Department and have them go up and get her. That should work.’ Finally, on the next call, you could have told us the Fire Department found that she had died from hunger and dehydration. Then, at least we would have been somewhat  prepared for the sad news!”

             “Gee, sis. I get your point. I’m so sorry. Next time I’ll think before I give sad news.”

            “That’s good. Now, how’s mom?”

            “Mom? Oh, she’s on the roof.”

2. Why the Clock?

Back in the 1950s, Seamus O’ Callahan, one of New York’s finest (he was a cop) was reassigned from the far reaches of Queens to a downtown Manhattan precinct. As he was a bachelor, and it would have been a long commute to his new job, Seamus decided to find an apartment closer to work. He lucked out and found a nice one bedroom in the West Village, still affordable in those simpler days. It was on a quiet side street, but convenient to a grocery store, a deli, and a couple of nice little restaurants.

            There was also a store with a big clock hanging in front, which he assumed was a watch and clock repair shop. When he began having trouble with his own watch, he decided to stop by and have it looked at. He went in. No one was around, but there was a counter with one of those little bells, which he rang. Eventually, out came an old man, bearded, with a yarmulke on his head. “What can I do for you,” he said.

            “Well, this watch of mine is running slow and I’d like you to have a look at it.  Maybe it needs cleaning and adjusting.”

            “I can’t help you, young man. I’m not a watchmaker. I’m a mohel.”

            “What’s a mohel?”

            “ I do the bris. You know, the ritual circumcision, removing the foreskin from the penis, that’s performed on Jewish boys when they’re eight days old.”

            “Oh, I see,” said a confused Seamus, “but then why do you have the big clock outside?”

            “What do you want me to have?”

Copyright (sort of) 2024, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

Pity the poor doctor or nurse who checks either “male” or “female” on a birth certificate without asking the baby in question, or at least “its” parents for their preference. The evidence of one’s eyes – or science or logic – no longer applies when making such a momentous decision. It’s like saying Donald Trump is sane, or President Biden is just entering his prime.

            If sex can be reassigned, what are we to say to the man who thinks he’s Napolean? Don’t invade Russia? Or, instead, try to determine why he harbors this delusion and seek ways – medical or psychological – to return him to some sense of reality. We certainly don’t give him a uniform and a musket.

            Yet, when some prepubescent child decides he or she was “assigned” the wrong sex at birth, doctors in this country are only too willing to prescribe puberty blockers to prevent a stage on the natural progression from childhood to adulthood.  And, of course, they could not do this without the complicity of the parents.

            (By the way, does anyone doubt that the internet and social media sites have contributed to the reasons why increased number of kids are “confused” about their sexuality?)

            Later, after hormone and other treatments have given the patient some of the physical attributes of the other sex, a surgeon may be called upon to perform so-called sexual reassignment surgery. Now, when you go under the knife, you expect it will cure some defined illness. You have blocked arteries; the surgeon opens them up, thus restoring better circulation. You have a bum knee; it’s replaced with something that works better and doesn’t hurt all the time.

            Sexual reassignment surgery – once, more properly, sex-change surgery – cures no physical condition. Even plastic surgery can have a positive effect beyond just giving you a nicer nose – it can help burn victims, or those born with birth defects. But sexual reassignment surgery is irreversible. It removes existing sexual organs and replaces them with non-functioning fantasies. In truth, nothing can be done – not chemically, nor surgically – to change the sex you were born with (“assignment” is a euphemism, isn’t it?).

            In this wonderful modern age we live in, we often do things because we can, not because we should. So, it came as something of a shock when Britain’s National Health Service (NHS) published a study by Dr. Hillary Cass that found that the evidence for medicalized treatment of adolescent gender distress (or dysphoria, as its commonly known) was “inadequate or poor.” As a result, the NHS will no longer cover such treatment. Other European countries, including the ultra-progressive Scandinavians, have followed suit.

            Not the United States. Groups like the American Medical Association and the American Academy of Pediatrics predictably held fast to their support of puberty blockers and gender-affirming care. But they can’t offer any study comparable to the NHSs to support their position. If you’re looking for reasons why so many Americans are drifting away from the Democratic Party – which is associated, fairly or not, with such policies – this must be on the list.

            There have always been people who would prefer to be the other sex and have lived their lives that way. And if they reach an age when they can make an informed decision (which I contend must be at least 21), then gender-affirming care and even surgery should be available to them, so long as they don’t ask me to pay for it. Of course, although you may not be aware of it, some insurance plans are required to cover it, and the Federal Government pays for it in prisons and in the armed services. The barracks shower must be a far more interesting place than it was in my day.

Copyright 2024, Patrick F. Cannon