Author: Molly Ivins

She was so generous with her responses to other people. If you told Ann Richards something really funny, she wouldn’t just smile or laugh, she would stop and break up completely. She taught us all so much: She was a great campfire cook. Her wit was a constant delight. One night on the river on a canoe trip, while we all listened to the next rapid, which sounded like certain death, Ann drawled, “It sounds like every whore in El Paso just flushed her john.”

She knew how to deal with teenage egos: Instead of pointing out to a kid who was pouring charcoal lighter on a live fire that he was idiot, Ann said, “Honey, if you keep doing that, the fire is going to climb right back up to that can in your hand and explode and give you horrible injuries, and it will just ruin my entire weekend.”

At a long-ago political do in Austin, everybody who was anybody was there meetin’ and greetin’ at a furious pace. A group of us got tired feet and went to lean our butts against a table at the back wall of the bar. Perched like birds in a row were Bob Bullock, then state comptroller, moi, Charles Miles, the head of Bullock’s personnel department, and Richards. Bullock, 20 years in Texas politics, knew every sorry, no-good sumbitch in the entire state. Some old racist judge from East Texas came up to him, “Bob, my boy, how are you?”

Bullock said, “Judge, I’d like you to meet my friends: This is Molly Ivins with the Texas Observer.” The judge peered up at me and said, “How yew, little lady?”

Bullock continued, “And this is Charles Miles, the head of my personnel department.” Miles, who is black, stuck out his hand, and the judge got an expression on his face as though he had just stepped into a fresh cowpie. He reached out and touched Charlie’s palm with one finger while turning eagerly to the pretty, blond, blue-eyed Ann Richards. “And who is this lovely lady?”

Ann beamed and replied, “I am Mrs. Miles.”

One of the most moving memories I have of Ann is her sitting in a circle with a group of prisoners. Ann and Bullock had started a rehab program in prisons, the single most effective thing that can be done to cut recidivism (George W. Bush later destroyed the program). The governor of Texas looked at the cons and said, “My name is Ann, and I am an alcoholic.” She devoted untold hours to helping other alcoholics, and anyone who ever heard her speak at an AA convention knows how close laughter and tears can be.

I have known two politicians who completely reformed the bureaucracies they were elected to head. Bob Bullock did it by kicking ass at the comptroller’s until hell wouldn’t have it. Richards did it by working hard to gain the trust of the employees and then listening to what they told her. No one knows what’s wrong with a bureaucracy better than the bureaucrats who work in it.

The 1990 race for governor was one of the craziest I ever saw, with Ann representing “New Texas.” Republican nominee Claytie Williams was a perfect foil, down to his boots, making comments that could be construed as racist and sexist. Ann represented all of us who have lived with and learned to handle good ol’ boys, and she did it with laughter. The spirit of the crowd that set off from the Congress Avenue Bridge up to the Capitol the day of Ann’s inauguration was so full of spirit and joy. I remember watching San Antonio mayor Henry Cisneros that day with tears running down his cheeks because Chicanos were finally included.

Ann got handed a stinking mess: Damn near every state function was under court order. She had a long, grinding four years and wound up fixing all of it. She always said you could get a lot done in politics if you didn’t need to take credit.

But she disappointed many of her fans because she was so busy fixing what was broken, she never got to change much. The 1994 election was a God, gays, and guns deal. Annie had told the legislature that if they passed a right-to-carry law, she would veto it. They did, and she did. At the last minute, the NRA launched a big campaign to convince the governor that we Texas women would feel ever so much safer if we could just carry guns in our purses.

Said Annie, “Well, you know that I am not a sexist, but there is not a woman in this state who could find a gun in her handbag.”

I know it’s bad form to brag, but I am now a graduate of Texas A&M University, and you can’t stop Aggie pride. I became a diplomee of the great institution in College Station after successfully completing the three-day course in beef cattle this summer. I specialized in forage management and graduated “Quel fromage!” meaning “avec distinction.”

It is also true that I was banned from the campus of Texas A&M many years ago after some students invited me to make a political speech. So you see how far we have all come.

The most amazing part of cow college was meeting the cow whisperer. Think of everything you know about moving cattle from one place to another: gee, git on, go dogie, whistle, whip-crack, move ’em out, chase ’em down. Turns out all these years we’ve been doing it wrong.

What happens when you scare a cow by making a lot of noise and chasing it down and forcing it to move where it doesn’t want to go is the cow responds by relieving itself. And since a cow has three stomachs, it can unload up to 20 percent of its total weight at one go, the last thing you want just before you take it to market to sell.

So the latest thing in cattle handling is cow whispering. (I’m not making this up — this is straight from A&M.) Either on foot or horseback, you just kind of sidle around your herd without upsetting them, talk to them gently and suggest they might like to go that way for a while, and then perhaps take a tour along the pen line, and then perhaps some consideration of the gate and another little tour of the pen line. But all of this is done without loud noise, sudden movements, or eruptions of testosterone. It’s a revolutionary development of an American macho tradition — a little like watching NFL teams come onto the field in tutus.

I bring this up because I recently attended a women’s peace-movement meeting, sponsored by the Code Pink group founded by Medea Benjamin, Jodie Evans, and Diane Wilson. The women peacemakers also included Cindy Sheehan, writer Anne Lamott, and Colonel Ann Wright, who served 29 years in the Army and more than 15 years in the Foreign Service, before resigning in protest over Bush’s drive to war in Iraq.

I must say, they were a lot more emphatic than the cow whisperer. In fact, as I left, they were saddling up to ride down to see President Bush at his ranch with a people’s posse peace warrant. Lots of whooping about it.

Women peace activists, as a rule, have totally solved the gnarly old dilemma: What do you do about hating the haters? If you’re a woman peace activist, this is Step 101 — you spill love and calm and reassurance and, well, peace all over them. (Which is why it’s especially funny that George Bush is so afraid of Cindy Sheehan.)

Lamott, one of the funniest people in America, has developed a scenario for a Revolution With Good Manners, in which we are all extremely nice to one another. Good manners never hurt anything. “Our Revolution decrees that we will fight tooth and nail for these things, politely.”

I am still lamentably stuck in the middle — not that I hold with hating the haters, we can all see where that leads — but I am always tempted to shout them down. “One, Two Three, Four: We Don’t Want Your F—ing War.” Now, does that repel more potential supporters or attract more people who really need to sound off?

What I learned from Code Pink is that this is not an “either-or” question. The peace movement is a matter of “And” and “And” and “And.” You just keep adding more people, from those like Sheehan, who lost her son Casey in the stupid debacle, to the Iraqi Veterans Against the War, easily the strongest, most moving group of young people in America. They have learned in the hardest way what politics is.

War is about rounding up people with Shock and Awe and really loud noises and about thinking you can herd them by hurting and killing them. Politics is what you do if you’re not so stupid as to walk into an unnecessary and unprovoked war. I’m founding Cow Whisperers Against the War.

While the rest of you were celebrating life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, I was keeping an eye on Karl Rove — because someone has to.

A “Bush Signals Shift in Stance on Immigrants” headline is the early warning sign that we’re about to get an all-out immigrant-bashing campaign for the fall, complete with xenophobia, racism, and blaming the least powerful people in the country for everything that’s wrong with it.

House Republicans, who know a good, socially divisive issue when they see one, are perfectly happy to blame illegal workers for everything. Trade policy, repealing taxes for the rich, corruption in Congress — it’s all done by illegal workers. Everywhere you look in this society, there’s a bunch of people named Gomez and Ramirez, all of them making decisions from the top. They’re in charge of the Pentagon, heading the military-industrial complex, deciding the rich need tax relief, pushing this stupid war, making decisions on Wall Street.

What do you mean, the only people you know named Gomez and Ramirez push brooms and pick cantaloupes? Can’t you see that everything that’s wrong with this country is because of illegal aliens? It’s all their fault. The people in charge have nothing to do with it.

Besides, immigrant-bashing is such an old American tradition. Back at the time of the Revolution, many Anglo-Americans worried about the terrible number of Germans engulfing the country. Since then, we’ve managed to work up a snit over the Irish, the Jews, the Polish, the Swedes, Bolivians, Bavarians, Bosnians, Russians, Italians, Sicilians, a great variety of Africans, Indians, Pakistanis, Maltese (sorry you missed that one — the Maltese once overran New York City deli counters), Cubans, Puerto Ricans, and so forth.

If you haven’t been here long enough to get upset about at least one other group moving in, you must still owe money to the coyote (as immigrant-smugglers are called). Think of the rich verbal history of ethnic insults — Bohunks, Krauts, Polacks, Micks.

I don’t see why we should stop blaming newcomers for our troubles just because they’re not in charge of anything. You gotta admit, prejudice is as American as apple pie. I hear these Mexicans keep crossing the border so they can get on welfare and get health care and other goodies. (Funny, we don’t have goodies in Texas, but they keep moving here to work anyway.)

Bush was planning to take a stab at resolving the problem, particularly on the Mexican border, with a guest-worker program. But the House Republicans had a hissy-fit, claimed it was an “amnesty program” and demanded harsher measures, militarization of the border, a big fence. It’s not gonna work, y’all. Build a 50-foot fence, and they’ll build a 51-foot ladder. Hire Halliburton with a no-bid contract to build the fence, and they will hire illegal workers to do it.

The catch-and-release program currently run for Mexicans by the U.S. government is damn silly. So what will work?

If you want to stop Mexicans from crossing the border to work here, put the Americans who hire them in jail. Since the Americans who hire them are also often large donors to the Republican Party, you will have to take that up with them.

Fixing Mexico certainly does not involve interfering in their elections. I had to laugh at the number of American pundits who solemnly lectured the Mexicans on how their tied election was such a delicate situation for their democracy. Like it never happened to us?

Helping to fix Mexico involves, in my opinion, redoing NAFTA so that labor and environmental standards can be included. I’ve always liked Lou Dobbs, who at least cares about middle- and working-class Americans. But to some extent, he’s got the immigrant issue by the wrong end. If you don’t want Mexicans sneaking into this country, make sure no one is offering them jobs. You could even pass a law about it. You could even enforce the law. Don’t blame the workers. Molly Ivins writes for Creators Syndicate, Inc.

We spent all last week listening to “cut and run” Democrats talking about their cut-and-run strategy for Iraq, and the only issue is whether they want to cut and run by the end of this year or cut and run by the end of next year. And oh, by the way, did I mention that Republicans have been choreographed to refer to the Democrats’ plans as cut and run?

As Vice President Dick (“Last Throes”) Cheney said last Thursday, redeployment of our troops would be “the worst possible thing we could do. … No matter how you carve it — you can call it anything you want — but basically it is packing it in, going home … validating the theory that the Americans don’t have the stomach for this fight.”

Then right in the middle of Cut and Run Week, the top American commander in Iraq, General George W. Casey Jr., held a classified briefing at the Pentagon and revealed his plan to reduce the 14 combat brigades now in Iraq to five or six. And here’s the best part: Rather than wait until the end of this year or, heaven forefend, next year, Casey wants to start moving those troops out in September, just before whatever it is that happens in early November. They don’t call him George W. Jr. for nothing.

One has to admit, the party never ends with the Bush administration. The only question about Cut and Run Week is whether they meant to punctuate a week-long festival of referring to Democrats as the party of “retreat” and “the white flag” with this rather abrupt announcement of their own cut and run program. Was it an error of timing?

I say no. I say Karl Rove doesn’t make timing mistakes. This administration thoroughly believes the media and the people have a collective recollection of no more than one day. Five days of cut and run, one day off, and BAM, you get your own cut and run plan out there.

Republicans have, in fact, a well-developed sense of aesthetics. Regard the superb pairing of the decision not to raise the minimum wage with the continued push to repeal the estate tax. House Republicans had almost opened their marble hearts and raised the minimum wage, now at $5.15 an hour, to a whopping $7.25 an hour by 2009. (Since 1997, when they last raised it, members of Congress have hiked their own pay by $31,000 a year.)

This might have gone well with their decision to reduce the estate tax yet again, so that only the top half a percent of estates will pay it — costing the treasury $602 billion over the first 10 years. But declining to increase the minimum wage to match the vote to decrease taxes on the very, very, very richest? That’s suave.

Also, Republicans pulled a very slick move on the Voting Rights Act extension. No amendments, no exemptions, the South rose again and blocked the whole deal. Which Southern state do you think will be the first to pass laws to hold down the black vote? My money is on ‘Bama — for sentimental reasons.

And now, on to flag burning. What flag burning? you may well ask. Just because something doesn’t happen is no reason not to outlaw it. Or, for that matter, not to amend the Constitution of the United States.

I am considering introducing an amendment to require everyone in the audience at Peter Pan to clap for Tinkerbell. I believe 99.8 percent of them do already, but that’s no reason not to amend the Constitution to require it. I don’t believe we should allow people to be different. If someone wants to burn a flag as symbolic political protest, I believe he should be beheaded. Also, flipping the bird at George W. should merit the same, but not flipping off Clinton — Bill or Hillary.

So, Haditha becomes another of the names at which we wince, along with Abu Ghraib, Guantanamo, and My Lai. Tell you what: Let’s not use the “stress of combat” excuse this time. According to neighbors, the girls in the family of Younis Khafif — the one who kept pleading in English: “I am a friend. I am good.” — were 14, 10, 5, 3, and 1. What are they going to say? “Under stress of combat, we thought the baby was 2”?

“We have a Haditha every day,” said Muhanned Jasim, an Iraqi merchant. “Were [those killed in Haditha] the first Iraqis to be killed for no reason?” asked Ghasan Jayih, a pharmacist. Well no, but we Americans don’t count collateral damage unless we’re forced to. We prefer to ignore collateral damage, especially if they’re under 5.

Someone else with a greater taste for the ironies of technology will have to explain why this “Haditha” was uncovered in part by a soldier taking photos with his cell phone. Good work by Time magazine and Colonel Gregory Watt. Apologies are owed by any on the right to Representative John Murtha, who warned of Haditha early, though none of us is holding our breath. The attacks on Murtha’s patriotism were despicable. When will that tactic wear out?

Meanwhile, back at the full-force fun festival known as Washington, D.C., here’s a moment to cherish: Two weeks ago, Amir Taheri had an op-ed article in the Canadian National Post claiming the Iranians have a law requiring Jews to wear yellow badges. It turned out to be a complete fabrication and has been the subject of much contempt among bloggers. So Tuesday, Taheri was invited to the White House along with other “experts” to give the president their “honest opinions.” With advice like that, our war in Iran will be a slam dunk.

Speaking of slam dunks, Bud Trillin of The Nation is on a tear about Bush’s picks for the Medal of Freedom. First, he gave it to old “Slam Dunk” George Tenet himself, after pushing him out as head of the CIA. Then, Paul Bremer got the medal. Remember him? He’s the guy who screwed up Iraq beyond recall in the first year.

We’re lurching into the ludicrous. So we’re thinking, who else belongs on this distinguished roster? “Heckuva job, Brownie” Brown, of course. And what about the guy in charge of implementing the Social Security drug plan. Or how about Rumsfeld? By golly, there’s a man who never made a mistake.

I think that lets out Tony Blair, who joined Bush in a mistake-admit-athon last week. (The prez is sorry he talked “too tough” to the terrorists.) Neither Bush nor Blair thought to name “the war in Iraq,” for example, a mistake. But, as The Economist rather unkindly put it, their meeting was “The Axis of Feeble.”

Ever hopeful that some good might yet be pulled from the rubble, the appointment of Henry Paulson as Treasury secretary raises hope among the never-say-die crowd. He’s good on global warming — how’s that for a change? But the real irony is that the administration had to bring in someone who can “soothe Wall Street,” which is said to be “nervous.” This whole administration has been eager to favor and grant tax breaks to “Wall Street.” How dare the ungrateful louses be “nervous”?