Read The Undocumented Mark Steyn Online
Authors: Mark Steyn
It’s hardly their fault. If you were told you could walk into a First World nation and access free education, free health care, free services in your own language, and have someone else pay your entrance fee, why wouldn’t you? So, yes, Republicans should “moderate” their tone toward immigrants, and de-moderate their attitude to the Dems who suckered the GOP all too predictably. Decades of faintheartedness toward some of the most destabilizing features of any society, including bilingualism (take it from a semi-Belgian Canadian), have brought the party to its date with destiny.
Or as Peggy Lee sang long ago in a lost land, “
Mañana
is soon enough for me.”
Syndicated column, March 30, 2013
GAY MARRIAGE
?
IT
came up at dinner Down Under this time last year, and the prominent Aussie politician on my right said matter-of-factly, “It’s not about expanding marriage, it’s about destroying marriage.”
That would be the most obvious explanation as to why the same societal groups who assured us in the Seventies that marriage was either (a) a “meaningless piece of paper” or (b) institutionalized rape are now insisting it’s a universal human right. They’ve figured out what, say, terrorist-turned-educator Bill Ayers did—that, when it comes to destroying core civilizational institutions, trying to blow them up is less effective than hollowing them out from within.
On the other hand, there are those who argue it’s a victory for the powerful undertow of bourgeois values over the surface ripples of sexual transgressiveness: gays will now be as drearily suburban as the rest of us. A couple of years back, I saw a picture in the paper of two chubby old queens tying the knot at City Hall in Vancouver, and the thought occurred that western liberalism had finally succeeded in boring all the fun out of homosexuality.
Which of these alternative scenarios—the demolition of marriage or the taming of the gay—will come to pass? Most likely, both. In the upper echelons of society, our elites practice what they don’t preach. Scrupulously nonjudgmental about everything except traditional Christian morality, they nevertheless lead lives in which, as Charles Murray documents in his book
Coming Apart
, marriage is still expected to be a lifelong commitment. It is easy to see moneyed gay newlyweds moving into such enclaves, and making a go of it. As the Most Reverend Justin Welby, the new Archbishop of Canterbury and head
of the worldwide Anglican Communion, said just before his enthronement the other day, “You see gay relationships that are just stunning in the quality of the relationship.” “Stunning”: what a fabulous endorsement! But, amongst the type of gay couple that gets to dine with the Archbishop of Canterbury, he’s probably right.
Lower down the socioeconomic scale, the quality gets more variable. One reason why conservative appeals to protect the sacred procreative essence of marriage have gone nowhere is because Americans are rapidly joining the Scandinavians in doing most of their procreating without benefit of clergy. Seventy percent of black babies are born out of wedlock, so are 53 percent of Hispanics (the “natural conservative constituency”
du jour
, according to every lavishly remunerated Republican consultant), and 70 percent of the offspring of poor white women. Over half the babies born to mothers under thirty are now “illegitimate” (to use a quaintly judgmental formulation). For the first three-and-a-half centuries of American settlement the bastardy rate (to be even quainter) was a flat line in the basement of the graph, stuck at 2 or 3 percent all the way to the eve of the Sixties. Today over 40 percent of American births are “nonmarital,” which is significantly higher than in Canada or Germany. “Stunning” upscale gays will join what’s left of the American family, holed up in a chichi Green Zone, while, beyond the perimeter, the vast mounds of human rubble pile up remorselessly. The conservative defense of marriage rings hollow because for millions of families across this land the American marriage is hollow.
If the right’s case has been disfigured by delusion, the left’s has been marked by a pitiful parochialism. At the Supreme Court this week, Ted Olson, the former Solicitor-General, was one of many to invoke comparisons with
Loving v. Virginia
, the 1967 case that struck down laws prohibiting interracial marriage. But such laws were never more than a localized American perversion of marriage. In almost all other common-law jurisdictions, from the British West Indies to Australia, there was no such prohibition. Indeed, under the Raj, it’s estimated that one in three British men in the Indian subcontinent took a local wife. “Miscegenation” is a nineteenth-century American neologism.
When the Supreme Court struck down laws on interracial marriage, it was not embarking on a wild unprecedented experiment but merely restoring the United States to the community of civilized nations within its own legal tradition. Ted Olson is a smart guy, but he sounded like Mary-Kate and Ashley’s third twin in his happy-face banalities last week.
Yet, beyond the court, liberal appeals to “fairness” are always the easiest to make. Because, for too much of its history, this country was disfigured by halfwit rules about who can sit where on public transportation and at lunch counters, the default position of most Americans today is that everyone should have the right to sit anywhere: If a man self-identifies as a woman and wants to sit on the ladies’ toilet, where’s the harm? If a woman wants to be a soldier and sit in a foxhole in the Hindu Kush, sure, let her. If a mediocre high school student wants to sit in a college class, well, diversity is our strength. American “rights” have taken on the same vapid character as grade-school sports: Everyone must be allowed to participate, and everyone is entitled to the same participation ribbon.
Underneath all this apparent “fairness” is a lot of unfairness. Entire new categories of crime have arisen in the wake of familial collapse, like the legions of adolescent daughters abused by mom’s latest live-in boyfriend. Millions of children are now raised in transient households that make not just economic opportunity but even elementary character formation all but impossible. In the absence of an agreed moral language to address this brave new world, Americans retreat to comforting euphemisms like “blended families,” notwithstanding that the familial Cuisinart seems to atomize at least as often as it blends.
Meanwhile, social mobility declines: doctors who once married their nurses now marry their fellow doctors; attorneys who once married their secretaries now contract with fellow super-lawyers, like dynastic unions in medieval Europe. Underneath the self-insulating elite, millions of Americans are downwardly mobile: The family farmers and mill workers, the pioneers who hacked their way into the wilderness and built a township, could afford marriage and children; indeed, it was an economic benefit. For their descendants doing minimum-wage service jobs about to be rendered obsolete by
technology, functioning families are a tougher act, and children an economic burden. The gays looked at contemporary marriage and called the traditionalists’ bluff.
Modern Family
works well on TV, less so in the rusting doublewides of decrepit mill towns where, very quickly, the accumulated social capital of two centuries is drained, and too much is too wrecked. In Europe, where dependency, decadence, and demographic decline are extinguishing some of the oldest nations on earth, a successor population is already in place in the restive Muslim housing projects. With their vibrant multicultural attitudes to feminism and homosexuality, there might even be a great sitcom in it:
Pre-Modern Family
—and, ultimately, post-
Modern
.
“Fiscal conservatives” recoil from this kind of talk like homophobes at a bathhouse: The sooner some judge somewhere takes gay marriage off the table, the sooner the right can go back to talking about debt and Obamacare without being dismissed as uptight theocratic bigots. But it doesn’t work like that. Most of the social liberalism comes with quite a price tag. The most reliable constituency for Big Government is single women, for whom the state is a girl’s best friend, the sugar daddy whose checks never bounce. A society in which a majority of births are out of wedlock cannot be other than a Big Government welfare society. Ruining a nation’s finances is one thing; debauching its human capital is far harder to fix.
The Daily Telegraph
, March 1, 1997
THE DAY HAD
been going downhill ever since lunch. “This lamb tastes awfully bland,” I said.
“Sorry, darling,” apologized the wife. “I could only afford clone this week.”
We made Covent Garden with minutes to spare, just in time for the inevitable announcement: “Ladies and gentlemen, at today’s matinee, the part of Cho-Cho-San will be played by Dame Kiri Te Kanawa’s clone, Dame Kiri 2 Kanawa.”
“Not again,” I groaned. “Ninety-eight quid a ticket and all we get is the clone.”
“Oh, come on,” whispered Chloe, determined to look on the bright side. “She can’t be worse than Dame Clone Sutherland.” As she spoke, I spied the familiar figure of Sir Georg Solti making his way to the podium, though, on closer inspection, it proved to be Sir Georg Soltoo. They’re almost indistinguishable, but Soltoo likes to wear a revolving bow-tie and a buttonhole that squirts. As he passed, he glanced down my wife’s cleavage and said, in that distinctive Hungarian accent: “Don’t get many of those to the pound, luv.”
“You see?” I hissed. “Solti would never have said that. You can’t tell me that’s an exact clone.”
“I know,” said Chloe. “But it’s his own fault. He had it done on the NHS. And at least this one doesn’t start with ‘I Will Survive’ like Sir Georg Solthree does.”
Well, it drove me mad sitting there thinking that the real Dame Kiri was probably cleaning up at La Scala and the real Sir Georg was getting in a little light lunchtime recital with the Chicago Symphony. Things got worse at the interval, when my ex-wife Arabella spotted me from across the bar. It had been
a messy divorce, resolved only when the judge came up with the ingenious solution of awarding sole custody to both of us.
“Mark!” she said. “You look great! Been cloned?”
“Certainly not,” I retorted, and made a perfunctory inquiry about the kid. “How’s Rupert One?”
“Oh, he’s fine,” said Arabella airily. “How’s Rupert Two?”
“He’s doing well,” I said. “He’s out on probation and we’ve got him into a good substance abuse clinic and the vicar says he’s thinking about dropping the charges.”
“Really?” said Arabella. “We’re very concerned about Rupert One. I’m worried that being captain of the First Fifteen this year will leave him less time to concentrate on his violin—EMI did so want a second album. Calvin Klone has asked him to do one of those heroin ads, but we’re not sure. Might be more suited to Rupert Two?”
By now, I was grinding my teeth so much I never heard the orchestra tuning up. As we walked back down the aisle, a young lady complimented me on my cologne/after-shave. “Why, thanks,” I said. “It’s Clone Cologne—For Men Who Want to Smell like Themselves. What they do is extract the DNA from your armpit, put it in an attractive bottle, and sell it back to you for forty-seven pounds.”
The next day, I was up bright and early for my role as Mr. Rochester opposite Demi Moore in the new
Jane Eyre
. I hadn’t seen Demi in a while, but I instantly recognized her as she stood there naked oiling her breasts in a scene I couldn’t quite recall from the novel. “Hi, Demi!” I said. “I believe we’re doing the next bit together.”
“In your dreams,” she said snootily. “Everyone knows I don’t do clothed scenes. I leave that to my body double.”
“Which one do you want today, Demi?” shouted the director, Oliver Clone, and on cue a veritable entourage appeared—Semi-Demi Moore, Hemi-Semi-Demi Moore, and Demi Moore-Or-Less—all entirely indistinguishable, give or take a cup size or two.
I’d only taken the role because I was still a bit short after giving a hundred thousand dollars to Bill Clinton’s re-election campaign in return for a night in the Lincoln Bedroom and coffee with the president. The bed was incredibly historic, complete with a sign saying: “Abe Lincoln Slept Here. So Did Barbra Streisand And Several Dozen Indonesian Businessmen.” But at coffee I began to suspect something was wrong. “Great coffee, Mr. President,” I said.
“Thanks. It’s Nescafé,” he said, and looked soulfully into my eyes.
“You mean I paid a hundred thousand bucks for instant coffee?”
“Ah feel yo’ pain,” said the President, putting on his sincere expression, and stroking my hand. Which I thought was very thoughtful of him, until his other hand flew up to my chest and started unbuttoning my shirt. Instantly I leapt to my feet.
“You’re not the President! Bill Clinton’s ferociously heterosexual. You’re a clone. . . .”
“The clone with the gay gene,” said a sinister Manchurian type in a white coat who’d slipped into the room quietly behind me. “Normally, we don’t let him host fundraisers except in Fire Island, West Hollywood, and Riyadh. But we were short-staffed this morning.”
“But where’s the real Clinton?”
“Ha-ha-ha-ha,” he cackled, in an oddly Hillary-like manner. “Ha-ha-ha-ha, you poor deluded fool. Don’t you get it? There is no real Clinton. There’s a left-of-center Clinton, there’s a right-of-center Clinton, there’s a tax-raising Clinton, there’s a tax-cutting Clinton, there’s a non-inhaling Clinton, there’s a triangulating Clinton, there’s a demagoguing Clinton. . . . But they’re all Clonetons. There’s no such thing as a genuine Clinton.”