"Relax, it's always darkest before dawn," soothed Mr. Optimist.
"Then it goes completely dark," added Ms. Pessimist.
"Now, now, things could always be worse," said Mr. Optimist.
"And will be," predicted Ms. Pessimist.
"Let a smile be your umbrella. April showers may come your way/ They bring the flowers that bloom in May/ So when it's raining have no regrets/ Because it it isn't raining rain, you know . . . It's raining violets," Mr. Optimist assured her.
"Ever notice what happens when you turn an umbrella upside down in a storm? You're drenched. No wonder Neville Chamberlain's trusty old bumbershoot became his trademark."
"Cheer up, Old Sport. it was a very good year, 1936. Oh, how they cheered Mr. Chamberlain--striped tie, wing collar, morning coat and all appurtenances thereto--when he landed at the London aerodrome bearing Peace In Our Time even if it turned out to be war. Those were the days, my friend, we thought they'd never end. Pity they did, but it couldn't be helped. Don't be such a spoilsport, for that year's Olympiad was more fun than a dozen World Series and Joe DiMaggio's hitting streak combined. Old--or rather ever young Jesse Owens--really showed 'em, didn't he? The same way Joe Louis, alias the Brown Bomber, showed Max Schmeling the ropes, or rather out of them."
"And just what did he show 'em--how to fight a world war for freedom and democracy at home and abroad while keeping Negro troops in their separate-but-unequal place out of them?"
"Face it! Those days ended when Martin Luther King Jr. let us all know we all had an ally in the conscience of our enemy. Stop living in the past and start living!"
"You have a better place to live, my old friend and counterpart? Yes, things were clearer then--clear as black-and-white. You marched on Washington, stood gazing up at Lincoln's face engraved with all those lines, one for every tragedy he and the country endured, and you knew which side you were on, all right, and the scary thing was that the States' Wrongs crowd was winning. No, you didn't have to think about which side you were on, you just knew."
"But I thought all that had been clear since Sinai. Why make a big deal out of it now? Every day in every way we're getting better and better. And you're getting better and better. So relax! Progress calls!"
"Ah, yes, the great god Progress! What crimes have been committed in thy name! Think of the dear old days of Jim Crow, segregated seating as far as the eye could see, which was usually all the way up to the crow's nest in every movie theater from Little Rock to Memphis and way beyond. And those handy little signs on every trolley car and bus all across Dixie . . . Oh, yeah, those were the days, my friend, and the nights, too, when the races were not only encouraged to mix but just about commanded to, 'Cause those beautiful bronze-toned Negroes and Negresses didn't come from nowhere, you know, but middle-of-the-night rendezvous. Of course all those terms are now as verboten as race-mixing was in Herr Hitler's Germany, or who do you think that was, Charlie Chaplin in disguise?"
"Not till a Rosa Parks came along, that troublemaker, agitator and general nuisance, did it ever occur to us good
old boys that there just might be something amiss with the hallowed Southern way of life. And only because we didn't care about anything but our own privileged place in this closed little world we mistook for the whole universe, God forgive us. If that was justice, what would oppression be? Yet this was the system our best and brightest, our wisest and kindness, our Atticus Finches, wound up not only defending but being part of. What would have happened if for once we had just said No? Yes, some tried it, and were ostracized and despised for it. Oh, the names we were called--traitor to your race was a mild one. For no matter how low we fell, our consolation was that there would always be someone lower still to look down on. Tell us again what fine specimens of Southern manhood we were."
"But what a beautiful world this would be if only we could ignore such petty irritants. Why go through this world looking like old Don Quixote, Knight of the Woeful Countenance? Why, we don't even have to head out across La Mancha to enjoy the scenery. The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain, as that great philosopher Eliza Doolittle told us. Ah, if only she hadn't had to clean herself up and assume the imposture of a great lady. Oh, why can't we all be happy with our lot?"
"Sir, you may have a point, whatever it is. In any case, motion seconded, approved, and adopted by acclamation! Why worry? Be happy! This eternal quarreling is enough to wear out even the best of us out. Or the worst. So let's head out arm in arm! Whaddya say?"
"I say Hail Britannia, God Bless America, Vive la France! and whatever else you suggest."
"Agreed! Optimist, pessimist? Who cares on such a beautiful day? Much too beautiful to argue about it."
"I'll drink to that, for we have only begun to celebrate what we have in common. Cheers!"
Paul Greenberg is the Pulitzer Prize-winning editorial writer and columnist for the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette.
Editorial on 05/29/2016