By Michael Brendan Dougherty
Tuesday, June 04, 2019
‘This generation will pass away and give rise to a race
of Americans.” So predicted Gouverneur Morris, perhaps the oldest of America’s
Founding Fathers. Morris was following the direction of his own heart. He was
born in Westchester County in 1752. He had French and English blood. He went to
a Huguenot school. He was a leading drafter of America’s constitution and a
deeply conservative man in his outlook. He also hated American chattel slavery
and denounced it at the Constitutional Convention. Morris was eventually the
United States’ plenipotentiary to France and spent years afterward touring
Europe and having affairs there.
I’ve been thinking of Morris’s prediction about the Revolutionary
generation and their heirs while promoting my book My Father Left Me Ireland.
In an attempt to make sense of the “nationalist” moment in our politics, the
book relays a highly personal appreciation for Irish nationalism in a series of
letters to my own Irish father. Naturally the book has occasioned questions
about my relationship to America. Eve Tushnet put it pointedly: “The other
great elision is Dougherty’s unreadiness to talk about who he is as an
American, in America.”
That’s fair. After all, I am an American, and America is
my home. America wasn’t the proper subject in a book of letters to my Irish
father about the inheritance I have through him. But I am ready to talk about
the American nation — namely, to defend its existence from those who doubt it.
Over the past weeks, my book has provided an occasion for
conservatives such as Rusty Reno and Ross Douthat to doubt that Americans have
the same access to a cohesive sense of national identity and story as European
nations do. Douthat wrote that the book left him “feeling a curious kind of
envy for its author — not for his childhood fatherlessness, but for his potent
personal connection to a tradition that even in its weakness, its abandonment
by many modern Irish, still seems like a potentially coherent national
narrative, an integrated thing.” While not in response to the book, Matthew
Walther of The Week held out that “America is an empire, not a nation,”
writing that “if one means that there is an ‘American nation’ in the same sense
in which there is a French or an Italian one, I am afraid the answer is that
there is no such thing, nor will there ever be one.”
To this I feel like stuttering: Wrong! Entirely wrong.
Incredibly wrong. You’re all wrong.
But maybe my friends are understandably wrong. We think
the French not only have had a stable population group and a national language
but that they also possess a very particular character. We find ourselves
reaching for words like “hauteur.” This is a generalization, of course. And the
eminent Morris also generalized about “the sedentary Belgian, the wandering
Tatar, the sprightly Frenchman, the sober Spaniard, the proud Briton and
obsequious Italian.”
Perhaps the character or the unity of other nations seems
obvious to Americans, and our own character elusive or too various. Walther
asks, “Which are the virtues common to Davy Crockett, William T. Sherman,
Sitting Bull, Louis Armstrong, and Dick Butkus?”
But one can draw up similar lists for other nations. What
virtues are common to Jeanne d’Arc, Charles de Gaulle, Thierry Henry, and
Sylvia Guillem? What unites Owen Roe O’Neill, Wolfe Tone, Patrick Kavanagh, and
U2’s “The Edge”? Perhaps we should not look for virtues, because no nation can
say all its members are one way or another. But we can say that these people
collectively, belong, respectively, to America, to France, and to Ireland. And
belonging is not nothing.
Just as we know and struggle to describe the French or
the Filipino but recognize a collective personality that emerges across them,
people of other nationalities know they are brushing up against the American
nation as it barges in. A Hungarian friend drew my attention to the fact that,
after the Cold War, American media had filled in many of the spaces vacated by
Russia. She complained how American movies — particularly Disney movies played
on Sunday afternoons in her childhood — were slowly changing the Hungarian
attitude toward love, which was more reserved, more intimate, and presumably
weightier in some way I cannot begin to comprehend. She didn’t want Hungarians
to be remade as moon-faced American high-schoolers.
How do we know that we belong? My contention in many
columns and across my book is that conflict, risk, political stress, and
collective ambitions bring our nationality to the fore. Sometimes this is an
insidious process, where happy “citizens of the world” discover to their dismay
that, in a clamor of conflict, the world will hang them for the national
character they deny in themselves.
But in any case, the difference between Ireland and
America that Douthat senses is, I believe, a difference about not coherence but
power. Ireland too has religious and ethnic variety, it has competing political
philosophies and camps. It has its own internal contradictions and problems.
And in times of peace and prosperity, those conflicts take center stage in the
Irish mind.
The United States of America is currently so powerful and
preeminent that it can effectively stay engaged in two wars it had won and stay
in them long enough to lose them through inattention. But humiliations in Iraq
and Afghanistan have resulted in no noticeable diminishment of prosperity and
health in the country itself. The most powerful nations have occasionally
confused their nationalist ambitions for universal ones. This has been true of
France, Britain, and Russia. Their escapades and trespasses across the globe
inspired what? Nationalist reaction and rebellion. But when France or Russia
have been humiliated afterward, their response has been nationalist
self-assertion. The United States, perhaps very happily, is insulated from the
kind of history — often a miserable history — that seems to make the Irish,
Polish, or Hungarian stories seem so coherent and urgent compared with others.
But when America is someday again exposed to greater
dangers and risks, our love for what we share in common — the common
inheritance of Americans — will come back to us. The parts of our political,
cultural, and military legacy that are relevant to some future conflict will
feel like “ours” again, and be immediately relevant. We will credit ourselves
for industry, improvisation, and a deep desire to be and remain freeborn men
and women.
What drove Morris and others to feel themselves to be
Americans was the Revolutionary War and the ambition to establish an American
government for posterity. Someday we, or our children, will wake up on a dread
day and find great consolation and strength in the fact that we do indeed
belong to one another, and that we are Americans. Men who today seem to have
nothing in common — neither religion nor color — will find the rhythm of “The
Battle Hymn of the Republic” beating in their chest, and on their lips the
words of John Paul Jones: “I have not yet begun to fight.”
No comments:
Post a Comment