07-03-2010, 01:47 AM
We're not supposed to speak ill of the dead, so let's remember some good things about the late Senator Robert C. Byrd.
He was diligent, intelligent and resilient, a self-taught child of the dirt-poor hollows of West Virginia who became the longest-serving Congressman in U.S. history. He was the undisputed master of Senate procedure, a legislative workhorse in a body increasingly dominated by party-line show horses. He was big enough to admit some of his mistakes, like his stint as an exalted Cyclops in the Ku Klux Klan, and he was never too old to change some of his ways, finally supporting efforts to address climate change and allow gays in the military during his last year of life. He was a strident critic of the Iraq War when that was still a courageous thing to be. He cast his vote for health care reform by saying, "Mr. President, this is for my friend Ted Kennedy(ed hardy clothing)!" — a lovely gesture no matter what you think of the bill.
He also seemed extremely devoted to his wife Erma.
O.K. Now can we speak ill of the dead?
It was no accident that a traditionalist with such an instinctive aversion to change became such a passionate defender of the U.S. Senate, the most powerful and consistent obstacle to change in America. Byrd actually wrote a four-volume history of the institution that gives 2 million West Virginians the same power as 38 million Californians. (He also wrote a history of the Roman Senate; it was always easy to imagine him in a toga, practicing his windy speeches in front of a mirror.) He saw the Senate as an elite club of gentleman solons, putting the brakes on the populist whims of the House, just as the Founding Fathers envisioned it. But today, the Senate puts the brakes on just about everything, thanks largely to the filibuster, the secret hold and other antimajoritarian prerogatives that were never envisioned by the Founding Fathers and that had found their staunchest advocate in Senator Byrd. It was fitting that with unemployment sky-high, especially in West Virginia, Byrd's death scuttled an extension of unemployment benefits, which now has "only" 59 votes(ed hardy bags).
Byrd's doorstop of a memoir seems to chronicle every one of his visits to West Virginia farm groups and Kiwanis clubs and universities that gave him awards after enjoying his largesse. He proudly recounts all the "rousing" and "enthusiastic" responses to his speeches. ("I lifted the mood of the crowd to soaring heights.") Of course they were rousing. They liked his handouts! Byrd was never corrupt in the bribe-taking sense, but there was something unsettling about the pleasure he took in being West Virginia's sugar daddy. He never really seemed to believe that any other children of the coalfields could succeed without his help. He believed he was the indispensable man.
The danger of the modern Senate is that its members really have become indispensable. After the worst financial meltdown since the Depression, Congress can't pass financial reforms unless they're acceptable to Scott Brown. With unemployment raging, Congress can't pass a jobs bill until Ben Nelson is O.K. with it. When a single Senator objects to a nominee for the National Labor Relations Board, the President can't fill vacancies throughout the executive branch. It's hard to get anything done — except send pork back home. The Senate is still functioning smoothly in that respect.
And as dysfunctional as the modern Senate may be, it's still an excellent place to work if you like to feel important. There happen to be quite a few Senators like that. Today, they'll say a lot of nice things about Byrd(ed hardy shoes).
He was diligent, intelligent and resilient, a self-taught child of the dirt-poor hollows of West Virginia who became the longest-serving Congressman in U.S. history. He was the undisputed master of Senate procedure, a legislative workhorse in a body increasingly dominated by party-line show horses. He was big enough to admit some of his mistakes, like his stint as an exalted Cyclops in the Ku Klux Klan, and he was never too old to change some of his ways, finally supporting efforts to address climate change and allow gays in the military during his last year of life. He was a strident critic of the Iraq War when that was still a courageous thing to be. He cast his vote for health care reform by saying, "Mr. President, this is for my friend Ted Kennedy(ed hardy clothing)!" — a lovely gesture no matter what you think of the bill.
He also seemed extremely devoted to his wife Erma.
O.K. Now can we speak ill of the dead?
It was no accident that a traditionalist with such an instinctive aversion to change became such a passionate defender of the U.S. Senate, the most powerful and consistent obstacle to change in America. Byrd actually wrote a four-volume history of the institution that gives 2 million West Virginians the same power as 38 million Californians. (He also wrote a history of the Roman Senate; it was always easy to imagine him in a toga, practicing his windy speeches in front of a mirror.) He saw the Senate as an elite club of gentleman solons, putting the brakes on the populist whims of the House, just as the Founding Fathers envisioned it. But today, the Senate puts the brakes on just about everything, thanks largely to the filibuster, the secret hold and other antimajoritarian prerogatives that were never envisioned by the Founding Fathers and that had found their staunchest advocate in Senator Byrd. It was fitting that with unemployment sky-high, especially in West Virginia, Byrd's death scuttled an extension of unemployment benefits, which now has "only" 59 votes(ed hardy bags).
Byrd's doorstop of a memoir seems to chronicle every one of his visits to West Virginia farm groups and Kiwanis clubs and universities that gave him awards after enjoying his largesse. He proudly recounts all the "rousing" and "enthusiastic" responses to his speeches. ("I lifted the mood of the crowd to soaring heights.") Of course they were rousing. They liked his handouts! Byrd was never corrupt in the bribe-taking sense, but there was something unsettling about the pleasure he took in being West Virginia's sugar daddy. He never really seemed to believe that any other children of the coalfields could succeed without his help. He believed he was the indispensable man.
The danger of the modern Senate is that its members really have become indispensable. After the worst financial meltdown since the Depression, Congress can't pass financial reforms unless they're acceptable to Scott Brown. With unemployment raging, Congress can't pass a jobs bill until Ben Nelson is O.K. with it. When a single Senator objects to a nominee for the National Labor Relations Board, the President can't fill vacancies throughout the executive branch. It's hard to get anything done — except send pork back home. The Senate is still functioning smoothly in that respect.
And as dysfunctional as the modern Senate may be, it's still an excellent place to work if you like to feel important. There happen to be quite a few Senators like that. Today, they'll say a lot of nice things about Byrd(ed hardy shoes).