Nazism It's Not
Why is it, that for some people it is always 1939, with the spectre of Hitler looming on the horizon? I am referring to the silly article ["Xenophobia Made Easy," Oct. 3] that extensively quotes Pamela Schoenewaldt, a "writer in residence" at UT's English Department. According to Ms. Schoenewaldt, what appear to be at worst mildly objectionable regulations designed to verify that people granted entrance in this country as students actually attend school, are in fact; "the beginning of a somewhat sinister xenophobic exercise."
The requirement, she tells us, resemble "electronic armbands" which Barry Henderson helpfully explains is a "pointed comparison with mandates that Jews wear identifying armbands in Nazi Germany." Oh.
Henderson also explains that the prospect of UT students wearing armbands identifying themselves as "international"—as Schoenewaldt urges when the regulations take effect—"recalls the king of Denmark's wearing of a Star of David armband when all Danish Jews were ordered to do so by occupying Nazi forces." Uh huh.
The method of argument that Schoenewaldt is using, and Henderson is amplifying—reductio ad hitlerum—can only be designed to close down debate. After all, you wouldn't defend Nazism, would you?
And surely she and Henderson understand that while it took tremendous moral and physical courage to stand up to Nazi occupiers in Denmark, the wearing of an armband on the UT campus more closely resembles the warm feeling one gets from recycling tin cans.
Even if the regulations that she is protesting were as remotely threatening as her overheated rhetoric suggests, she, as someone entrusted to teach writing at the college level, should be expected to come up with a less cliched metaphor.
The cry, "Nazi!" is so overused that it is devoid of meaning. Every tin pot dictator that the powers that be in this country want to war against—Saddam Hussein, Slobodan Milosovic, Manuel Noriega—is compared to Adolph Hitler. Rush Limbaugh frequently denounces "feminazis" during his tirades. And a couple of years ago, Michael Moore compared the Butterfly ballot imbroglio in Palm Beach County to Kristallnacht.
This silliness has got to stop somewhere, and it may as well be in the pages of Metro Pulse. Now if you will excuse me, I have some tin cans to recycle.
Clark Stooksbury
Knoxville
Editor's note: Part of the Jesse Barr profile in our recent "Where are they Now" cover story was accidentally deleted. Here are a few things about Barr, a former executive with Jake Butcher's United American Bank, that we wish we had included in the story:
Getting rich again doesn't seem to be high on Barr's personal agenda, which features raising money for charities like the March of Dimes and the Boy Scouts, being the "M&M granddad" to his two granddaughters, talking to high school students about ethics in business, and spending time with his wife Dianne at their home overlooking the Clinch River.
"There were days when the bank would need $200 million just to keep alive, and the only way to go to sleep at night would be to get half drunk, and then I'd wake up the next morning at 3 a.m. worrying," Barr says. "Now, I get off work in the afternoon and go home and sit out on the patio and look at the birds and the river and try to be a human being again."
Barr still has plenty of friends, and although he stays clear of political and business entanglements, he is a keen observer of current events. He is watching the most recent reincarnation of his old nemesis, Lamar Alexander, with some amusement.
"He's a brilliant man.... I just don't like his politics."
And the wrangling between Mayor Victor Ashe and Chattanooga financier Franklin Haney over Ashe's desire to boot the Haney-owned Holiday Inn Select (which dates back to World's Fair days) out of the new convention center's neighborhood causes a smile to cross his face. "They deserve each other," Barr says.
Barr had been planning on writing a book about his experiences, tentatively entitled Sex and Southern Power, but he didn't get around to putting it on paper. So when a woman named Sandra Lee came to him for help with a book she proposed to write about the Butcher empire, he gave her the boxes of documents he'd been saving. They became the basis for Whirlwind, a book that "left out the sex," Barr says, "because she wanted it to be able to be put in schools."
The picture of Barr painted in the book isn't uniformly flattering, but it's clear that Lee developed great affection for the man who says he "could have carried 200 people with me when I went to prison," but has crafted a personal philosophy that allows him to keep moving ahead.
"I tried never to hurt anybody." Barr says. "I never stepped on anybody going up and I always carried my friends with me. Yesterday's over and done and you can't change it.... Hate scars the soul, and I've never wanted to fool with my soul in any way. I hope people will remember that I've tried to do some good."
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