A Statue Statute

I’m not generally in favor of toppling statues. Historically, such action has too often been undertaken in the service of replacing one ruthless political regime with an even more ruthless regime. It’s been part of a 1984 erasure of those suddenly deemed to be politically incorrect. Trotsky is portrayed as a traitor to “The Cause” and a country’s iconography switches overnight, replacing his images with those of Lenin and Stalin.

Or else the shattering of statues comes about as part of an invader’s determination to eradicate the culture that is currently occupying the land. The destruction of statues betokens the slaughter of a resident culture by an invading army. Many times, the old resident culture is completely wiped away by the attacking hordes. Nothing is left to tell the story of the old culture.

What happened to the Olmecs? We see the huge basalt heads this pre-Mayan culture left behind, so many of them smashed and defaced. Was it some internal about-face that led to the destruction of these amazing effigies, some natural disaster, or did the razing take place at the hands of a conquering force? Archaeologists are still uncertain. But whatever the cause, the Olmec culture vanished into the mists of history.

So most of the time, I associate the toppling of statues with the end of civilized discourse or, worse yet, the end of a civilization. When I hear about an attack on statues by angry throngs of nighttime demonstrators, I shudder in fear. I wonder - who’ll be next? I would be in favor of removing any statues celebrating the likes of Hitler, Pol Pot, or Idi Amin. But even in the case of such unregenerate villains, I’d prefer that their statues be removed calmly, in the light of reason – not in the course of anything like the mob’s mindless assault on Dr. Frankenstein’s castle. Except when it comes to monuments erected to cater to the egos of absolute tyrants, I favor keeping statues in place. I favor a gentle continuity over the rush of revolution.

I live in an old building that used to be a series of storefronts. I have made a point of preserving remnants of the old ghost signs painted on the windows of those early 20^th century stores, even though some of the products they sold are now as much anathema as representations of Robert E. Lee. So I have a lingering inducement to smoke “Old Dutch Cigars” on my windows. I keep reminders of all the previous residents of my building in place, the good as well as the moderately bad – as a peace offering to those previous generations and as trail markers of the way we have come, as a neighborhood and as a society.

But I think we ought to augment our existing population of statues with the figures of individuals who made different sorts of contributions. I don’t know why political and military leaders have so often been deemed to be the only ones worthy of such elevation in the public eye. Scientists, writers, and incidental people who exhibited extraordinary kindness and courage should also be featured on public platforms.

I’d like to see a statue raised in honor of the parent who spent forty years lovingly tending to a severely autistic child. When, in my rush of self-importance, I get impatient at being detained by the shuffling pace of a blind person in front of me, I could use the figurative presence of such a parent to remind me of what’s really important and to inspire me to truly see in every moment the possibility of interest, adventure, and love.

There should be more statues dedicated to people who made more obscure, but nonetheless crucial contributions. Honor Elisha Otis who made compact cities possible because his safety elevators made high-rises possible. Honor Rosalind Franklin whose dedicated research with X-ray crystallography laid the foundation for the discovery of the structure of DNA. Honor Jane Jacobs, the woman who fought to make cities livable by putting into practice her insights into how to create lively diversity along city sidewalks. Honor my 95-year-old friend who, for sixty years, never missed a day of work cleaning toilets at various downtown hotels, including the Lexington Hotel, Al Capone’s one-time headquarters.

That last nomination might seem a little contrary to tradition when it comes to choosing people to be commemorated in stone and bronze. But I think such a choice would be more in keeping with rightful priorities. Which kind of person has served better to make the lives of thousands of us more pleasing and healthful – the conscientious restroom matron, or the General brandishing his saber from atop a horse?

If however, a statue to a maintenance worker strikes people as being a little too eccentric – I think I’ve hit upon the perfect recipient of such an honor. I was surprised when I came upon how apt it would be to erect a statue to – Robert Benchley.

Benchley is known as the author of short comic commentaries written for newspapers and magazines from the 1920’s through the mid-1940’s. He was an early Seinfeld, basing much of his humor on the observation of universal foibles. He’d launch into a characteristic “Have you ever noticed…” essay on topics such as the myriad ways in which family holiday gatherings predictably sour, causing the guests to be only too grateful to scatter back home after the requisite hours of overeating, ennui, misunderstanding, hyperactive children, and the inevitable uncle who indulges in too much of the grape. But his observations ranged beyond such common fodder for parody. His briefs covered everything from the anomalous reactions of people at theater matinees, to the tendency to over-annotate Shakespeare’s writing, to the deadly irresolution of the typical business conference. Then beyond that, he became known as one of those masters of the bon mot who gathered around the Algonquin Hotel’s “Roundtable” to bandy wit and whimsy.

But then I recently learned that there was still more to Benchley that would make him statue-worthy. Reading The Benchley Roundup, a collection of some of his articles, I was surprised to find several biting cultural critiques scattered in among the leitmotif of his humor. One very short essay entitled “Whoa” was especially startling. In it, he ponders what Paul Revere would have done if he’d been able to see into the future and witness some of the deadly follies in which our nation would engage. He cited a vision of the flying arms and legs severed from our boys as they fought in wars for some unspecified cause “To Be Determined Later.” Benchley opined that if Revere had been granted such foresight, he’d have turned his horse back to the stables and quietly let the British come. The editor of this collection, Nathaniel Benchley, adds a footnote here stating that the essay was written in 1924, just after the time when publicly issuing such opinions could very possibly have gotten his father arrested for “disloyalty.”

That Paul Revere article article and a few other uncharacteristic ones like it in the collection moved me to read up on Benchley’s biography. I learned that he was a pacifist, perhaps brought to that view by the pointless death of his older brother in the Spanish-American War. As a reporter in Europe during WWI, he made special note of the bravery of our African-American troops, fighting with so little recognition or consideration. Back at home, he took photographs of the horrendous results of some southern lynch mobs. He went on to champion anti-lynching laws, even testifying before a House subcommittee on the issue. These were unpopular stands for him to take. His insistence on making these departures from his usual breezy commentaries got him in trouble with the management of the New York Tribune that was running his column. As a result, he either quit or was fired from his post there.

However, he never became fanatical about any cause. He never became a member of any shouting, truculent crowd of demonstrators intent on promoting an “Us vs. Them” rift. His goal was not to showcase his own presumed moral superiority by being the most vehemently PC. While he stood on the right side of so many of the issues of racial inequality and injustice that are concerning us, the focus of his interest remained on the small battles that weather individuals bit-by-bit. His goal was to commemorate the struggle to keep your hat on in a high wind, to refold a road map, to find some sufficient retort to the person who asks if you’re managing to keep busy.

These struggles are pure Seinfeld, the only kinds of personal interest human struggles that occupy us in our daily lives. They transcend Communism, Socialism, Democrat-Republican, black-white, pro-con. They are the kind of apolitical, non-dogmatic concerns that would be completely alien to any radical partisan for a Cause – all those who shriek in indignation without humor or humanity. The struggles that Benchley documented were our personal struggles against discomfiture and embarrassment and the machinations of shoelaces that regularly untie themselves.

So I’m not for tearing down any statue. To further flummox Seinfeld’s pal Kramer as he got the words “statue” and “statute” mixed up – I’d pass a statue statute prohibiting the destruction of any public monument. I don’t think we should repudiate our past or erase it in a 1984 act of obliteration. Instead of razing old statues, I think we should raise some new ones. Let Robert E. Lee stand. But stand a Robert Benchley next to him in the park or plaza.

And as a pigeon perches on Benchley’s shoulder and relieves itself, we can just imagine how Benchley would wryly respond. When, from up high, he’d voice his mild, one-man protest of “Why does this always happen to me?” – he’d be speaking for us all.