Something there is that doesn’t love a wall…

Robert Frost penned those words in “Mending Wall.” But enough culture and gentility—let’s talk politics.

To keep up with the almost unprecedented ignorance of Donald Trump has become a full-time job, one in which I wasn’t going to involve myself because I always believed that the American system of checks and balances would preclude the possibility of any one man, no matter what his depth of bungling incompetence, from destroying the country.

Now with Congress an ongoing battleground, the Supreme Court without a majority, a presidential election only eight months away, and in the lead, I’m not so sure.

(I like “”—it makes him sound less real, and these days I need that.)

But first things first: the Pope’s opinion in matters unrelated to Catholic doctrine is no more or less valid than’s. Or mine. Sorry, that’s the way it is. And if the Pope wants to call someone a non-Christian (see my previous post—”Why Boxers should Box”)—then that’s his prerogative. And if said wants to defend himself, again—his prerogative.

But to claim that a proposed wall between Mexico and the U.S. even remotely resembles the wall of the Vatican is not only illogical, but shows such a failure to grasp history and culture as to disqualify anyone who believes it from being president of anything. Now I’ve never visited the Vatican, but apparently a few people have—none of them shot at by guards posted above them; and unlike’s wall, no one needs a passport or visa to get through—or to leave. It’s a bit like Washington D.C.: we can come and go as we please, but there remain restricted areas—administrative offices and the President’s living quarters, to name two. Same with the Vatican.

If is claiming that all such separations should be removed, then I’d like to be able to fly his plane sometime. Anytime. I’ve always dreamed of lowering the flaps, holding above stall speed, and gently touching down before I engaged the reverse thrusters and came to a stop. I’ve done it on the computer—how hard could it be?

Something there is that doesn’t love a wall. In Frost’s poem a nearby farmer—cemented in his ways—holds to an old belief that good fences make good neighbors; but when the narrator calls him on it, he can’t defend the belief.

Sound familiar?



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