From my perch in my living room, if I look out to the west I have to look through floor-to-ceiling glass windows out to my deck and then through a 42” high plate glass railing out to the distant vista beyond. It’s a tad misty this morning, but as I look out in that direction, what I see is an end-to-end array of rolling hills that populate the dozen or so miles from this hilltop to the coast. This morning they are showing a blend of sun dappling and mist with a sky that has patches of blue, fluffy white clouds and scattered greying clouds with the hint of imbedded rain. It’s quite a scene, but what is really catching my eye is the line of rolling hills that seem never-ending, going north and south from here. That’s one of the beauties of Southern California from my perspective. Its magnificence to some may be in its coves and sandy beaches, or perhaps its vast and quiet deserts or majestic craggy mountains. But to me, the real beauty of this state is its rolling hills, often of golden grass with regular green patches of live oak, but also sometimes with boulders of odd shapes and meaningful size sprinkled like butter crumble across the landscape.
Perhaps the most therapeutic thing for me about living in California is that I am constantly reminded of my insignificance in the grand scheme of things. I recently exited a text chain that had a preponderance of political debate (a polite term for the two-way ranting that is a more accurate characterization of it). I became tired of being told that my views no longer mattered since Trump and, more significantly, his manner of thinking and acting, is here to stay. The implication is that the civility we all came to know and expect in the world of governance is gone and it has been replaced by some grotesque combination of crass humor and offhandedness. I have a hard time disagreeing with the sentiment. Other than getting maudlin and talking about lighting one candle in the darkness, I have come up with few arguments to contradict that assertion. So I look out at the rolling hills and keep reminding myself that the beauty of the world will long outlast whatever trivial nonsense that we humans engage in during our short stays on earth. And the silliest part of it all is that our nonsense will leave almost no mark on the landscape of the rolling hills to be seen by future generations, whether they be humans, humanoids, androids or something else altogether.
There is a great deal of chatter in the press today about the White House, and specifically about the unplanned and unapproved (by anyone other than the President himself) demolition of the East Wing of that esteemed property. At its most dramatic interpretation, this represents the destruction of American democracy.
The White House has served as the official residence and workplace of every U.S. president since John Adams in 1800. The building was designed by Irish-born architect James Hoban, who won a design competition in 1792. Construction began on October 13, 1792, using white-painted Aquia Creek sandstone. The design was influenced by neoclassical architecture, particularly the Leinster House in Dublin. President John Adams and his wife Abigail became the first residents in November 1800, even though the building was still unfinished. During the War of 1812, British forces burned the White House in August 1814, leaving only the exterior walls standing. What better act of vengeance towards an ungrateful child could a parent nation undertake? But it was soon rebuilt and restored by 1817, when President James Monroe moved in. Over the ensuing two centuries, the White House has undergone numerous renovations and expansions. The West Wing was added in 1902 under Theodore Roosevelt. The Oval Office was created in 1909 during William Howard Taft’s presidency. The East Wing was built in 1942 during World War II. A major structural renovation even occurred from 1948-1952 under Harry Truman, when the interior was completely gutted and rebuilt with a steel frame.
The White House has been at the center of American political life for over two centuries. It contains 132 rooms, 35 bathrooms, and 6 levels (that we know of). The building serves multiple functions as an executive office, ceremonial space, museum, and family home. It’s also one of the most recognizable buildings in the world and a powerful symbol of the American presidency. The White House is often referred to as “the People’s House”—a nickname that emphasizes its symbolic role as belonging to all Americans, not just the president who temporarily resides there. This designation reflects the democratic principle that the president is a public servant elected by the people. The term has been used by various presidents and politicians throughout history to reinforce the idea that the White House represents the entire nation. The nickname is also reflected in practice: unlike many other world leaders’ residences, the White House has historically been accessible to the public for tours (though security concerns have led to more restrictions over time, especially after 9/11). In the 19th century, it was even more accessible—President Andrew Jackson famously held an open house at his 1829 inauguration, and thousands of citizens flooded in to celebrate, reportedly causing quite a bit of chaos and damage. Today, while public access is more controlled and requires advance reservations, the tradition of White House tours continues, reinforcing the idea that it remains, in spirit and principle, “the People’s House.“
I have a long-time friend who is not American, but has enjoyed permanent resident status for a number of years. A number of years ago he rented a sizable house in New Jersey as a weekend residence to get away from the city when desired. It had a three-car garage. He happened to buy a very large minivan with all the latest bells and whistles, for his growing family. It was too tall to fit through the garage doors. So, my friend took it upon himself to bring in a contractor to dismantle and enlarge the middle of the three doors to accommodate his minivan. The garage entrance was visible from the street and not in the least bit unnoticeable. In fact, the odd garage door configuration broke the symmetry of an otherwise symmetrical house facade. When I asked my friend how he was able to convince the owner of the house to let him do it, he said he hadn’t asked. He said he preferred to seek forgiveness than approval. I was shocked and appalled and remember telling him that we didn’t do things like that in this country and that property rights were something like sacrosanct. He laughed and went on with his day. I recently asked him if he ever passes by that house since he now owns a home of his own near there. He said that he has and that the garage remains as it is and the owner neither sued him not took any action to correct it. His reaction was a shrug.
As I contemplate the horror and symbolism of Donald Trump’s destruction of the East Wing of the White House, something he specifically declared he would not do just four months ago and I read about the illegality and ominousness of the act, I look out at the rolling hills and remind myself that none of what man creates matters anyway in the long run. That is the only solace I can find in this otherwise despicable act of self-indulgence. Stay calm and carry on. This too shall pass.