February 7, 2017
January 29, 2017
In black gown and bow tie – my father would have said don’t trust that guy.
Seattle’s ‘so-called judge’, James Robart, rules that the State of Washington is the poorer for President Trump’s executive order on immigration.
He grants a temporary restraining order, to be applied nationwide against the international travel restrictions contained in the Federal directive.
Restraint following restriction = freedom of movement, at least for the time being.
Walking down the street, you wouldn’t look at him twice. Having lived well, yet surely without extravagance, Judge Robart is certainly in the pink; perhaps a little portly (close cropped beards can hide a multitude of chins), and beneath the judicial gown, you bet the style of his civilian clothes dates from the 1970s – formative years when he first practised law.
But personal animus hardly comes into it. For no one to be above the law, not even the President of the United States, its guardian must step out of his personal particulars, shedding them like skin (until such time as he steps backs in), entering a frame of reference which has more to do with the 1770s than the Seventies of his early career.
(All the years – and none.)
As he requires this of himself, Judge Robart asks as much of the two young lawyers appearing before him. When he questions them – in detail, cappuccino kid, counsel for Washington State, loses some of his preppy-ness. In white blouse, black suit and not a hint of make-up, the Federal government’s advocate came ready to trans to the impersonal version of herself.
But some of her answers fall flat; just mentioning national security is not enough to make the grade.
What’s revered here is leaping logic: no missing steps in this life of the mind; only logic that climbs upwards and takes us there, too – as long as we are straight and true.
Let us pray on his behalf, O Lord, since he does not know the extent of his weakness.
His is the Power. With the stroke of a pen. But the President’s signatures are as overstated as his blow-dried yellow hair.
With twirly curls and BIG LETTERS, the President writes upon the world the way a child places himself in it (The White House….The Earth, The Solar System, The Universe).
All the while pouting, droopy-eyed, for the cameras, as young women pucker up and glare down for endless selfies.
He knows (or shows) it not, O Lord, but this is Old America weakened by 60 petulant years of never having to grow up.
If given to prayer, I would……
For the Iraqi interpreter who was allowed in eventually. Having clasped the many hands of Uncle Sam’s finest, then clapped in irons at JFK.
For the medical student and her tight-lipped smile, hardly daring to believe, not risking anything as her father made it through Immigration on a waiver.
For the wizened old Muslim man barred by riot cops from handing out free pizzas to airport protesters (‘pizza pies’, as New Yorkers continue to say, native or not).
For the known unknowns, prevented as of 4.42pm EST Friday 27 January 2017 from showing their face in the American West; and all the unknown unknowns, who now will never even apply.