Hentoff Layoff Won’t Silence the Man in the Skunk Suit

Nat Hentoff, now formerly a Village Voice writer, never figured as a master of the understatement in my thinking. He is outspoken, direct and forthright in his hard hitting columns.

Hentoff’s five decades with the New York alternative weekly ended with a telephone call from his editor. Two other Voice writers were also let go on December 30.

Reacting to the layoff, he told the New York Times, “I’m 83 and a half. You’d think they’d have let me go silently.”

Understatement!

Let him go silently? How could it have been done?

With other recent grasping (and gasping) strategies in the newspaper industry, I shouldn’t be surprised by the Hentoff Layoff. But you don’t let a journalist of his stature go silently. He has been making noise for 50 years.



And for good causes, not the least of which is First Amendment freedoms. The rights of free speech and religion are foundational. He understands this, writing and speaking of it frequently.

Take a stance, then take what comes -- that’s Hentoff. His pro-life stance in the 1980s encouraged those of us peacefully occupying the sidewalks in front of abortion facility doorways. He didn’t share our theology (he’s a self declared atheist) but saw the rightness of defending life at personal risk.

He expects the free world to use its freedoms to speak out for those less fortunate. His writing makes people uncomfortable – puts on his skunk suit and goes to a garden party, as one of his editor's once said. He makes me uncomfortable – the kind of itch that shouldn’t go away in a world of injustices.

He told the Times “in all due immodesty,” that he will be missed by Village Voice readers. What Immodesty? Of course they will miss him. In the same spirit, Hentoff’s closing column isn’t about himself; he again throws accolades to his mentors: I.F. Stone and George Seldes.

The good news: he’s not retiring. May he live – and fight – til’ he’s 100.

Top photo by permission of N. Hentoff



Liner notes in 1960s long play record "The Golden Flute of Yusef Lateef". Hentoff's book, At the Jazz Band Ball: 60 Years on the Jazz Scene is expected this year.

Autumn to Our Hearts, Not Spring

If you want to enjoy every laugh, you have to cry every tear.

                                         -Kahlil Gibran 

                                                                                            Jan 6,1883 – April 10,1931

For its sunshine, flowers and perfect weather, Quito is known as the land of eternal spring. 

It wasn’t named by a foreigner living here, obviously. There is always a piece of us that is dying. 

We live in a transient community. Somebody is always leaving, and this brings autumn to our hearts, not spring. 

After a while, I’d try to make friends and as soon as I did, sure enough we’d have to move out again.
Finally I decided not to let anyone get close enough to hurt me again . . . I guess I’m still doing that.

                                                                             Major Margeret “Hotlips” Houlihan on the 

                                                                            TV sitcom M*A*S*H

We enjoy the laughter as we watch old episodes of M*A*S*H. And yes, sometimes tears. Theirs is a wartime
setting, a mobile surgical hospital, and different from our situation. But we relate to some of the story lines, the
characters’ struggles,  of this television program. 

A spring several years ago, Kathy lost three friends. An ocean would soon separate her from Ros (it was
pre-Facebook, a veritable lifetime ago). Susan was dying; her journey to Jesus occurred while we were in the
States that summer. 

Her friend/mentor/surrogate mother, Lois, had invested lifetimes in us, which included hosting and nursing
Kathy as she recovered from hepatitis. Lois helped not only Kathy, but our whole family. Lois too was leaving.
How much can one heart endure? 

Greg put it this while preaching awhile back, “Long-term friendships here are unusual. We in Ecuador who are
not Ecuadorians come and go a lot.” 

“In some cases,” he said, “We will never see them again this side of eternity . . . and that’s hard to take.” Just
like Major Houlihan, people find a way not to take it. He’s been told, ‘I don’t make close friends anymore. They
all leave and it hurts too much.’ 

Fortunately, Kathy hasn’t quit or
shut down emotionally.  Today,
he has confidants, casual friends
and a friend list on Facebook.
With the social networking on the
Internet, she is connecting often
with former Quito friends. 

Death . . . then life . . . then
another death. And life again
as friendships are renewed.  

These are the seasons, this
is is the life we choose. 

As we serve the One. 

Who left heaven for us. 

A Favor: Bring Me a Small Drum

Exchange in Sheila's office in Ecuador:

Ralph: Think you could bring me a small drum when you go to Ghana?
Sheila: Sure, I can do that.

E-mail message three weeks later . . .

Ralph: Is Sheila still in Ghana? Could you help her select a djembe drum?
Lee: We're going shopping tomorrow and it's on our list.

A week after that in Sheila's office

Sheila: Lee sent this for you. (Hands me a djembe drum key ring, then reveals it's only a joke.)
Sheila: Show me what you had in mind. Show me how tall.




I hold my hand eight inches above her desk. From behind the desk, he pulls out a drum about three times as tall as what I'd indicated. (See photo. Sheila is at the right with her hand on the drum. Sharon is on the left.)

Sheila: Lee told me 'I know this is what Ralph would want.' (Lee doesn't do anything in a small way.)

Result: A nicer drum than I'd ever imagined.

Consequence: Received an e-mailed favor request from Sheila which ended with "Remember the drum."

Conclusion: Drumtalk (different drum sounds heard over long distances) may work just as well as talking and e-mail messages to get your point across.

Please check out the editorial (Africa, but broader and more significant than above story) by Matthew Parris.

15 Seconds to the Ground

Falling, gathering velocity, cables whistling.

In relative silence the tower fell, its descent punctuated only by onlookers’ comments.

“Cayo mal . . . cayo mal.” (It fell badly . . . it fell down wrong.”)

The transmission lines to a nearby antenna array were ripped down by the tower, but workers quickly repaired those lines for the next day's radio programming.

In 15 seconds it was over as the tower cut through the sky and crashed to the ground. Horizontal, mangled and bent, it belied the hundreds of man-hours invested decades earlier. At 416 feet tall, it had served as HCJB Global Voice’s tallest at the international transmitter site in Ecuador, and also the highest tower supporting the parabolic screen behind the steerable antenna.

Loud was the silence in the Andean pasture in a valley near Quito where the tower now lay on the grass. Loud also had been the signals emanating from its antenna, sending a powerful radio voice that proclaimed refuge, security and strength in Jesus Christ to people in distant locations: the Middle East, Japan, and the former U.S.S.R to name a few.

(Please see the full story at this blog site.)