By Chris Tucker, KERA Commentator
http://stream.publicbroadcasting.net/production/mp3/kera/local-kera-651550.mp3
Dallas, TX –
Supreme Court Justice Clarence Thomas released his autobiography a few weeks ago, and almost every commentator seemed surprised at his lingering bitterness over the tumultuous confirmation hearings 16 years ago, when he and his accuser, Anita Hill, clashed on television.
I'm surprised at all the surprise - first, because of the particulars of the Thomas case, and second, because long-simmering grudges are not exactly alien to human nature.
In the case of Thomas, his smoldering anger is understandable when you think about what happened. He was accused in front of the whole world of being an overbearing lecher, harasser, porn lover, and crude-joke teller.
If Thomas was telling the truth, he was smeared and defamed in what he called "a high-tech lynching." If he was lying, he was not only humiliated, he committed multiple acts of perjury and lied his way onto the Supreme Court. Whatever the truth of the matter liar or victim - it's easy to see why he's not all sweetness and forgiveness today.
Beyond Thomas, it's not at all unusual to find highly successful people who don't know the meaning of "closure." Richard Nixon was compiling that Enemies List long before he reached the White House, and the sainted Bobby Kennedy was a master grudge holder. On the current scene, how could Hillary Clinton not carry a truckload of anger over the sordid Monica Lewinski affair? That anger may well be one of the forces driving her to seek the presidency.
Nor is lingering bitterness confined to politicians. A year or so before he died, I wrote a magazine profile of the cartoonist Charles Schulz, whom one expert called "the most successful artist of the 20th Century." And yet, for all his accomplishments and riches, Schulz never forgave one wrong that was done to him.
When he was young and seeking to spread his name, Schulz approached a publishing syndicate with some cartoons he'd done about a group of unusual kids. The syndicate decided to hire him, but they did not like the title he had given to his strip, which was "L'il Folks". So, in their wisdom, the suits came up with a new name: Peanuts.
Schulz hated the name, but, being young and unknown he was in no position to do anything about it. And by the time he was, the name was stuck on a famous cartoon strip, TV shows, lunch kits and myriad other knick-knacks bringing him millions of dollars a year. But as he told me that day in his office, he always thought the name was stupid and demeaning--and illogical, since nobody in the strip was named Peanuts.
When Schulz told that story, almost 50 years after it happened, he shook his head and grimaced as if he had just gotten off the phone with the big shots at the syndicate. The bosses made their decision; he had to live with it. But he never forgot, and he never forgave. Such behavior may not be pretty, but it's human, all too human.
Chris Tucker is a writer and literary consultant from Dallas.
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