By now, everyone must have heard, or heard of, Pat Robertson’s ignorant appraisal of the horror wrought upon the tiny island of Haiti by a massive earthquake. As I am neither a CBN viewer nor a fan of television news, word came to me second-hand. I wasn’t surprised to hear that Pat Robertson had said something I might find distasteful. I almost always disagree with Mr. Robertson’s point of view. But, upon witnessing the magnitude of my friend’s disgust, I turned to my go-to source for all things surreal and/or distasteful. I went to youtube.

As Mr. Robertson haltingly explained the way in which we might perceive the tragedy as a blessing, I understood why people were offended, but I felt something else. I felt I was listening to a doddering old man. Watching him reminded me of visiting my ex-husband’s elderly uncle, who had apparently left something more than shoe leather on the beaches at Normandy. I was warned, ahead of time, that he “wasn’t quite right”, which is a southern phrase often substituted for the colloquialism “touched”, so it didn’t surprise me when he described people by race rather than name or relationship. He was old, he was southern, and he was touched. I think the same can be said of Mr. Robertson.

What did surprise me was the response of Pat Robertson’s co-host in the second segment of the video, in which he told the tale of the Haitians’ pact with the devil. The woman standing beside him appeared neither old, southern, or touched, and yet she nodded her complicity as Mr. Robertson told his sordid tale. Occasionally she murmured “yes” or “uh-huh”, as though sitting in a pew on a Sunday morning.

What went through her mind? Did his words shock her? Did she struggle in her response? As he stumbled through his mythology lesson, did she worry about her job?
I can’t begin to answer. I only know that she, and her response, offended me much more than Mr. Robertson’s unfortunate fairy-tales. He’s old, he’s southern, and he’s touched. Just as though he were an elderly uncle, she should have nodded her head, patted his hand, and diverted his attention by asking him about his collection of World War II airplane models.

More offensive to me than Story Time at the 700 Club was an email I received later that day. I’ve known the sender since we were in elementary school. I know her to be good, kind, intelligent, and giving.

She began her note by explaining her relationship to the subject of an article she had attached. Her friend had begun the process of adopting a young Haitian boy. She was weeks away from bringing him home when the earthquake struck, and though she had received the news that he was alive and well, she was anxious to bring her son out of the horrific aftermath. My friend ended with these words:

“Please take the time to write or call your senator or congressman to request help in getting all the children who are in the process of being adopted from Haiti out of the country.”

I actually held my breath as I reread the sentence.

I have to believe that love for her friend blinded her to the selfishness of her request. I have to believe that. She’s my friend. She can’t have meant that children who have piqued the interest of American benefactors are more valuable than the hundreds of others who haven’t the same fortune…could she?

As so often is the case, human experience sparks a literary memory. My mother didn’t allow the use of Cliff Notes. I didn’t really mind until I noticed all the cool kids, even the really smart ones, brazenly carried Cliff Notes into literature class.

Today I am grateful. Today I can recall the look on Hester Prine’s face as she turned one shoulder inward in an effort to hide the scarlet letter. I remember the horror suggested by Dorian Gray’s ruined visage, and Caesar’s pain upon learning his most trusted friend had betrayed him. And I remember, vividly and with great sadness, “The Ugly American”.

The reminders are everywhere…

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