Mccarthy Era Quotes

There are significant analogues between the American fear of Communism during the McCarthy era and the American fear of Islam at the beginning of the twenty-first century.

Not only to myself or before the mirror or at the hour of my death, which I hope will be long in coming, but in the presence of my children and my wife and in the face of the peaceful life I’m building, I must acknowledge: (1) That under Stalin I wouldn’t have wasted my youth in the gulag or ended up with a bullet in the back of my head. (2) That in the McCarthy era I wouldn’t have lost my job or had to pump gas at a gas station. (3) That under Hitler, however, I would have been one of those who chose the path of exile, and that under Franco I wouldn’t have composed sonnets to the caudillo or the Holy Virgin like so many lifelong democrats. One thing is as true as the other. My bravery has its limits, certainly, but so does what I’m willing to swallow. Everything that begins as comedy ends as tragicomedy.

He said that like every man who comes to the end of something there was nothing to be done but to begin again. No puedo recordar el mundo de luz, he said. Hace muchos años. Ese mundo es un mundo fragil. Ultimamente lo que vine a ver era mas durable. Mas verdadero.

los sueños correctos para un hombre en peligro eran sueños de peligro y que lo demás era sólo la llamada de la languidez y de la muerte.

Es un país estupendo, ¿verdad? Sí que lo es. Duérmete. ¿Compañero? Dime. Así es como era entre los habitantes primitivos, ¿verdad? Sí. ¿Cuánto tiempo crees que te gustaría quedarte aquí? Unos cien años. Duérmete.

somehow Acheson had been scarred during the McCarthy era; it was not so much that he had done anything wrong as the fact that he had been forced to defend himself. By that very defense, by all the publicity, he had become controversial. He had been in print too often, it was somehow indiscreet of Dean to be attacked by McCarthy.

In 1956, John McCarthy, called the “father” of artificial intelligence (he coined the term) claimed the whole problem of AGI could be solved in six months.

The first period of excitement, which began with the Dartmouth meeting, was later described by John McCarthy (the event’s main organizer) as the “Look, Ma, no hands!” era.

Una vez hubo truchas en los arroyos de la montaña. Podías verlas en la corriente ambarina allí donde los bordes blancos de sus aletas se agitaban suavemente en el agua. Olían a musgo en las manos. Se retorcían, bruñidas y musculosas. Es sus lomos había dibujos vermiformes que eran mapas del mundo en su devenir. Mapas y laberintos. De una cosa que no tenía vuelta atrás. Ni posibilidad de arreglo. En las profundas cañadas donde vivían todo era más viejo que el hombre y murmuraba misterio.

Some of the things written during those years, justifying, for example, the execution of the Rosenbergs, or the crucifixion of Alger Hiss (and the beatification of Whittaker Chambers) taught me something about the irresponsibility and cowardice of the liberal community which I will never forget. Their performance, then, yet more than the combination of ignorance and arrogance with which this community has always protected itself against the deepest implications of black suffering, persuaded me that brilliance without passion is nothing more than sterility. It must be remembered, after all, that I did not begin meeting these people at the point that they began to meet me: I had been delivering their packages and emptying their garbage and taking their tips for years. (And they don’t tip well.) And what I watched them do to each other during the McCarthy era was, in some ways, worse than anything they had ever done to me, for I, at least, had never been mad enough to depend on their devotion. It seemed very clear to me that they were lying about their motives and were being blackmailed by their guilt; were, in fact, at bottom, nothing more than the respectable issue of various immigrants, struggling to hold on to what they had acquired.

Like the victims of the historical Inquisition and its other modern equivalents, the men and women who were targeted during the McCarthy era were not guilty of any wrongful acts; rather, they were accused only of thought-crimes.

But that’s what happens. Once the human tragedy has been completed, it gets turned over to the journalists to banalize into entertainment. Perhaps it’s because the whole irrational frenzy burst right through our door and no newspaper’s half-baked insinuating detail passed me by that I think of the McCarthy era as inaugurating the postwar triumph of gossip as the unifying credo of the world’s oldest democratic republic. In Gossip We Trust. Gossip as gospel, the national faith. McCarthyism as the beginning not just of serious politics but of serious everything as entertainment to amuse the mass audience. McCarthyism as the first postwar flowering of the American unthinking that is now everywhere.

Lejos, en la llanura, en la noche sin orilla, podían ver como en un reflejo de su propio fuego en un lago oscuro el fuego de los vaqueros a unos ocho kilómetros. Por la noche llovió y la lluvia silbó en el fuego y los caballos se acercaron desde la oscuridad con sus ojos rojos parpadeando inquietos y por la mañana hacía frío y todo era gris y el sol tardó mucho en salir.

Hofstadter shows how the political psychology of paranoid politics works: (1) posit, as Senator Joseph McCarthy did, “a great conspiracy on a scale so immense as to dwarf any previous such venture in the history of man”; (2) declare its infiltration of the government to be massive and pernicious; and (3) insist that time is running out, and without immediate action their takeover will be complete. Paranoid politics is thus a psychological disposition—projecting one’s problem onto the fiendish machinations of others, so as both to uphold one’s own purity and goodness and simultaneously to identify the source of the problem. As with many projects that rely on psychological displacement, the groups often produce the very thing they most fear; they become the enemy they are seeking to destroy:

Un segundo disparo había marcado una fecha en el calendario de la pared que era dentro de tres días. Imposible no fijarse en ello.

I love stepping back in time

Ernst was still in the Eastern Zone, about ninety kilometres from Berlin, when the truck emerged so inexplicably out of nowhere that it seemed to have been created by the rain itself.

The Central Intelligence Agency, America’s best-known spy shop. In that fearful post-Joe McCarthy era, when assassinated JFK had publicly loved James Bond and secretly been entangled in covert intrigues like assassination plots against Cuba’s Fidel Castro outsourced to the Mafia by our spies, the CIA was a myth-shrouded invisible army. In those pre-Internet days before electronic books, Web sites with varied credibility, and search

Keller, who devoted much of her later life to raising funds for the American Foundation for the Blind, never wavered in her belief that our society needed radical change. Having herself fought so hard to speak, she helped found the American Civil Liberties Union to fight for the free speech of others. She sent $100 to the NAACP with a letter of support that appeared in its magazine The Crisis—a radical act for a white person from Alabama in the 1920s. She supported Eugene V. Debs, the Socialist candidate, in each of his campaigns for the presidency. She composed essays on the women’s movement, on politics, on economics. Near the end of her life, she wrote to Elizabeth Gurley Flynn, leader of the American Communist Party, who was then languishing in jail, a victim of the McCarthy era: “Loving birthday greetings, dear Elizabeth Flynn! May the sense of serving mankind bring strength and peace into your brave heart!

John Grady, de pie ante la ventana del café vacío, observando las actividades de la plaza, dijo que era bueno que Dios ocultase las verdades de la vida a los jóvenes cuando empezaban pues de otro modo no tendrían ánimos para empezar.

People need foundation myths, some imprint of year zero, a bolt that secures the scaffolding that in turn holds fast the entire architecture of reality, of time: memory-chambers and oblivion-cellars, walls between eras, hallways that sweep us on towards the end-days and the coming whatever-it-is. We see things shroudedly, as through a veil, an over-pixellated screen. When the shapeless plasma takes on form and resolution, like a fish approaching us through murky waters or an image looming into view from noxious liquid in a darkroom, when it begins to coalesce into a figure that's discernible, if ciphered, we can say: This is it, stirring, looming even if it isn't really, if it's all just ink-blots.

NBC had cleaned out its last two liberal commentators, John Vandercook and Bob St. John, the year before. CBS recently had edged Quincy Howe out of his 6 P.M. daily spot as soon as a sponsor had bought it and had given it to Eric Sevareid, the new head of the Washington bureau. The era of McCarthy lay just ahead, but already there were signs foreshadowing it. I had not taken the change of climate as seriously perhaps as I should. I had been through it all before—in my years in Nazi Germany.

In the 1950s, America had picked up the globe by the heels and shaken the change from its pockets. Europe had become a poor cousin -- all crests and no table settings. And the indistinguishable countries of Africa, Asia, and South America had just begun skittering across our schoolroom walls like salamanders in the sun. True, the Communists were out there, somewhere, but with Joe McCarthy in the grave and no one on the Moon, for the time being the Russians just skulked across the pages of spy novels.

Cuando ella se volvió y le miró, él comprendió que le había visto desde la ventanilla del vagón. Mientras caminaba hacia él, su belleza se le antojó algo totalmente improbable. Una presencia inimaginable en este lugar o en cualquier otro. Se le acercó sonriendo tristemente, le rozó con los dedos la cicatriz de la mejilla, se estiró y la besó y él le dio un beso y le cogió la maleta. Estás tan delgado, dijo ella. Él miró aquellos ojos azules como un hombre que busca la visión del futuro aún no creado del universo. Apenas tenía aliento para hablar y le dijo que era muy hermosa y ella sonrió y en sus ojos había la tristeza que él vio por primera vez la noche que fue a su habitación y supo que, aunque estaba contenido en aquella tristeza, no constituía su totalidad.

El chico se miró los zapatos. Levantó la vista. No es que pareciera cualquiera. Quiero decir que no tenía nada de especial. Pero no era alguien con quien te gustaría tener tratos. Cuando decía algo tú escuchabas y punto. Le asomaba el hueso del brazo y el tipo ni se enteraba.

Se detuvo a medio camino para mirar atrás. De pie y temblando en el agua y no de frío porque no hacía ninguno. No le hables. No la llames. Cuando se acercó, él le tendió la mano y ella la tomó. Era tan pálida en el lago que parecía estar ardiendo. Como una luz fosforescente en un bosque tenebroso. Que ardía sin llama. Como la luna que ardía sin llama. Sus cabellos negros flotaban en el agua alrededor, caían y flotaban en el agua. Ella le rodeó el cuello con su otro brazo y miró hacia la luna en el oeste no le hables no la llames y entonces volvió su rostro hacia él. Más dulce por el hurto de tiempo y carne, más dulce por la traición. Grullas que anidaban y se sostenían sobre una pata entre las cañas de la orilla sur habían sacado sus esbeltos picos de debajo de las alas para vigilar. ¿Me quieres?, preguntó ella. Sí, dijo él. Pronunció su nombre. Dios mío, sí, dijo.

Imaginó el dolor del mundo como un parásito informe buscando el calor de las almas humanas donde incubar y creyó saber qué le hacía a uno vulnerable a sus visitas. Lo que no sabía era que no tenía mente y por tanto no podía conocer los límites de aquellas almas y temió que no existieran límites.

El malpaís. Era un laberinto. Subías a toda prisa un pequeño promontorio y de repente te veías rodeado de grietas tan profundas que no te atrevías a saltarlas. Los bordes de cristal negro y puntiagudo y abajo puntiagudas rocas de sílex (...) Donde que nosotros sepamos está localizado el infierno

Oyó al caballo moverse en sus maniotas y la hierba partirse suavemente en la boca del caballo y la respiración de este o las sacudidas de su cola y muy al sur, más allá de los Hatchet, vio el resplandor de unos relámpagos sobre México y supo que no iban a enterrarlo en ese valle sino en algún remoto lugar entre desconocidos y miró hacia donde la hierba se inclinaba al viento bajo la fría luz de las estrellas como si fuera el planeta mismo corriendo a toda velocidad y antes de dormirse de nuevo dijo en voz baja que lo único que sabía de todas las cosas que supuestamente se conocen era que de ninguna de ellas podía afirmarse que fuera cierta. Y no solo de la proximidad de la guerra. De cualquier cosa.

Ella bailaba con un chico alto del rancho de San Pablo y llevaba un vestido azul y su boca era roja. Él, Rawlins y Roberto se quedaron con otros muchachos junto a la pared, contemplando a los bailarines y, más allá de ellos, a las chicas de la pared opuesta. Empezó a caminar por delante de los grupos. El aire olía a paja y sudor y una densa fragancia de colonias. Bajo la concha acústica el acordeonista luchaba con su instrumento y marcaba el ritmo con la bota contra los tablones del suelo y luego retrocedió y el trompetista se adelantó. Los ojos de ella le miraban por encima del hombro de su pareja. Llevaba los cabellos negros recogidos con una cinta azul y su nuca era pálida como la porcelana. Cuando dio otra vuelta, le sonrió.

La notte calò lenta e fredda sulla foresta intorno a lui, e scese una quiete spettrale. Come se qualcosa stesse per accadere, grilli e uccelli notturni tacquero spaventati. Lui accelerò il passo. Nel buio ormai completato si ritrovò smarrito in una foresta paludosa, si dibatté nei pantani risucchianti e si mise quasi a correre [...]. Quando piombò fragorosamente nella radura in mezzo al pioppeto, cadde lungo disteso e rimase per terra con la guancia appoggiata al suolo. E mentre giaceva così un lampo remoto percorse il cielo con la sua luce azzurra, e, in una primordiale visione del mondo dall'occhio fessurato di un embrione d'uccello, scorrendo atroce e istantaneo da buio a buio, gli regalò infine lo spettacolo della cavità e dell'informe plasma bianco che si dibatteva sul muschio rigoglioso e iniziatico, come una magra lepre di palude. Lo avrebbe preso per un fratello senz'ossa della paura stessa che si sentiva in cuore, se il bambino non avesse gridato. Il bambino urlava la sua maledizione al mondo tenebroso e maleodorante in cui era nato, piangendo e piangendo, mentre l'uomo giaceva a terra farfugliando con le mascelle paralizzate, e con le mani respingeva la notte come un folle paracleto assediato dalle suppliche dell'intero limbo.

Negli animali la malattia mentale sembra non esistere. Secondo lei perché? Non lo so. Ma immagino che lei abbia qualche teoria in proposito. Perché immagina una cosa simile? Perché ha sollevato la questione. Lei è come un avvocato. Della serie non fare domande a cui non sai rispondere. Si. Comunque, che mi dice dei cani rabbiosi? La rabbia non è una malattia mentale. È un disturbo el cervello. Distinzione interessante. Okay, perché? Non sono ab- bastanza intelligenti? Non credo proprio. I cetacei sono piuttosto intelligenti eppure sembrano al riparo dall'infermità mentale. Penso che perché ci sia pazzia ci dev'essere linguaggio. Per poter sentire le voci immagino. Il perché non mi è chiaro. Ma bisogna capire cos'è stato avvento cervello Lagtaggio del linguaggio. Per un bel po' di milioni di anni se l'era cavata piuttosto bene senza. L'arrivo del è stato come l'invasione di un sistema parassi aree del cervello che erano meno urio. Ha cooptato quelle a attive. Maggiormente suscettibili di essere assoggettate Un'invasione parassitaria.

Ricordò Alejandra e la prima volta che aveva visto le sue spalle curve per la tristezza, una tristezza che aveva creduto di capire ma di cui non aveva capito nulla, e si sentì solo come non gli era più capitato da quando era bambino, totalmente estraneo al mondo che pure continuava ad amare. Pensò che la bellezza del mondo nascondeva un segreto, che il cuore del mondo batteva ad un prezzo terribile, che la sofferenza e la bellezza del mondo crescevano di pari passo, ma in direzioni opposte, e che forse quella forbice vertiginosa esigeva il sangue di molta gente per la grazia di un semplice fiore.

Humphrey Point era pieno di personaggi bislacchi. Ricordo il vecchio Mortimer, per esempio, che viveva su al faro. Era un vecchio taciturno e dall'aspetto trasandato. Ricordo Melissa, mia cugina di qualche tipo di grado, che di qualcuno era figlia, ma certamente non di un McCarthy, visti i capelli neri come la pece e la carnagione caffè-latte. Ricordo la vecchia Ester, la più anziana del villaggio, che mi accolse quando nacqui, in un simbolico passaggio di consegne. Ricordo le persone. Tutte. Ma la cosa che più ricordo di Humphrey Point è la natura. Il verde della terra. Il blu del cielo. I colori di un mondo che non esiste più.

One of Castro’s first acts as Cuba’s Prime Minister was to go on a diplomatic tour that started on April 15, 1959. His first stop was the United States, where he met with Vice President Nixon, after having been snubbed by President Eisenhower, who thought it more important to go golfing than to encourage friendly relations with a neighboring country. It seemed that the U.S. Administration did not take the new Cuban Prime Minister seriously after he showed up dressed in revolutionary garb. Delegating his Vice President to meet the new Cuban leader was an obvious rebuff. However, what was worse was that an instant dislike developed between the two men, when Fidel Castro met Vice President Richard Milhous Nixon. This dislike was amplified when Nixon openly badgered Castro with anti-communistic rhetoric. Once again, Castro explained that he was not a Communist and that he was with the West in the Cold War. However, during this period following the McCarthy era, Nixon was not listening. During Castro’s tour to the United States, Canada and Latin America, everyone in Cuba listened intently to what he had to say. Fidel’s speeches, that were shown on Cuban television, were troubling to Raúl and he feared that his brother was deviating from Cuba’s path towards communism. Becoming concerned by Fidel’s candid remarks, Raúl conferred with his close friend “Che” Guevara, and finally called Fidel about how he was being perceived in Cuba. Following this conversation, Raúl flew to Texas where he met with his brother Fidel in Houston. Raúl informed him that the Cuban press saw his diplomacy as a concession to the United States. The two brothers argued openly at the airport and again later at the posh Houston Shamrock Hotel, where they stayed. With the pressure on Fidel to embrace Communism he reluctantly agreed…. In time he whole heartily accepted Communism as the philosophy for the Cuban Government.

So che secondo te siamo molto diversi, tu e io. Mio padre era un esercente di provincia e il tuo un inventore di costosi ingegni che fanno un gran rumore e vaporizzano le persone. Ma la nostra storia comune trascende molte cose. Ti conosco. Conosco certi tuoi giorni d’infanzia. La solitudine quasi da piangere. La scoperta di un certo libro in biblioteca. Stringerlo al petto. Portarselo a casa. Un posto perfetto per leggerlo. Magari sotto un albero. Accanto a un ruscello. Gioventù bacata certo. Preferire un mondo di carta. Reietti. Ma noi conosciamo un’altra verità, dico bene messere? E ovviamente è vero che una gran quantità di quei libri fu scritta al posto di incenerire il mondo – che era il vero desiderio dell’autore. Ma in realtà la domanda è: siamo gli ultimi del nostro lignaggio? Albergherà, nei bambini futuri, una nostalgia di qualcosa che non sapranno nemmeno nominare? L’eredità del mondo è una cosa fragile pur nella sua potenza, ma so bene come la pensi, ’sere. So bene che ci sono parole pronunciate da uomini scomparsi da secoli che ti porterai per sempre nel cuore.

If Trump had followed the example of his predecessors and conceded power graciously and peacefully, he would have been remembered as a disruptive but consequential populist leader who, before the coronavirus pandemic, presided over an economic boom, reoriented America’s opinion of China, removed terrorist leaders from the battlefield, revamped the space program, secured an originalist majority on the US Supreme Court, and authorized Operation Warp Speed to produce a COVID-19 vaccine in record time. Instead, when historians write about the Trump era, they will do so through the lens of January 6. They will focus on Trump’s tortured relationship with the alt-right, on his atrocious handling of the deadly Charlottesville protest in 2017, on the rise in political violence during his tenure in office, and on his encouragement of malevolent conspiracy theories. Trump joined the ranks of American villains from John C. Calhoun to Andrew Johnson, from Joseph McCarthy to George Wallace.

The violation of political rights is evident in the McCarthy era, FBI COINTEL programs, media manipulation, mass surveillance regimes, suppression of political movements, torture regimes, warrantless detention, and assassination programs

And what was this man Diablo like as a person, anyhow? As a public figure, anybody in communications of any kind had a preconceived image of him, a brilliant, savage, wholly destructive propagandist whose canned programs were seized with cries of delight in Africa and Asia. But that was essentially irrelevant. Back in the pioneering days of the media, almost immediately after the crude and primitive radio era dominated by Dr. Goebbels, that instinctive genius of the borderline period Joe McCarthy had allegedly greeted a former acquaintance at a party, having secured his dismissal from his job, the loss of most of his friends and the acquisition of several million new enemies, with the cry, “Haven’t seen much of you lately—you been avoiding me?

But what if McDaniel had not begged Trump to remain a Republican? What if McCarthy had not made his trek to Mar-a-Lago? For these Republican leaders, the principled path was the path not taken. Perhaps they would have been replaced by other people who would have done Trump’s bidding, adding their names to the long list of Republicans who have had their political careers ruined by the party’s conqueror. Perhaps the GOP would have splintered in two, with Trump following through on his threat to found the “Patriot Party.”[15] Or perhaps they—and the party—would have been able to turn the page on the Trump era by letting the former president flounder in Palm Beach. We’ll never know for sure. But we do know this: In the years since those decisions were made, the Republican Party has paid a steep price for placating a wounded, vindictive, and angry former president.

the phrase “under God” was not added until 1954, at the height of the McCarthy era. The addition was intended to draw a distinction between pious America and atheistic communism.

Obviously, the violence suppression of social movements is hardly new. One need only think of the Red Scare, the reaction to radical labor movements like the IWW, let alone the campaigns of outright assassination directed against the American Indian Movement or black radicals in the 1960s and early 1970s. But in almost every case, the victims were either working-class or nonwhite. On the few occasions where even much milder systematic repression is directed at any significant number of middle-class white people--as during the McCarthy era, or against student protesters during the Vietnam War--it quickly becomes a national scandal. And, while it would be wrong to call Occupy Wall Street a middle-class white people’s movement--it was much more divers than that--there is no doubt that very large numbers of middle-class white people were involved in it. Yet the government did not hesitate to attack it, often using highly militarized tactics, often deploying what can only be called terroristic violence--that is, if "terrorism" is defined as attacks on civilians consciously calculated to create terror for political ends. (I know this statement might seem controversial. But when Los Angeles police, for example, open fire with rubber bullets on a group of chalk-wielding protesters engaged in a perfectly legal, permitted "art walk," in an obvious attempt to teach citizens that participating in any Occupy-related activity could lead to physical injury, it’s hard to see how that word should not apply.) (p. 141-142)

Rouhani, was elected in 2013. Obama had set his sights on working out a deal with the mad mullahs as early as 2008. You mean he came into office to do the deal? Now you got the rest of the story. He was handpicked to do the deal. Where did this unknown ghost come from? This man, this administration, was handpicked by foreign powers that manipulated him into the presidency. Because of the liars in the media, he has been able to get away with virtual murder. The murder of the truth, the murder of our national security. I know many lives were, let us say, seriously challenged during the HUAC hearings of the McCarthy era, but I want to ask you something. Have you read the Venona papers? The Soviet-era secret correspondence that came out a little over two decades ago, which confirmed that almost everything that Joseph McCarthy had been saying about the news media and Hollywood was true? That there were communists who were openly subverting America? Can anyone tell me the name of someone whose life was actually ruined by HUAC who was not really working to subvert America, who was not really a communist or fellow traveler? I’d like to know whose life was ruined. I think it’s a myth that lives of innocent people were ruined. I know there were movies made, I remember The Front with Zero Mostel, in which he played an innocent actor who jumped out of a window because the House Un-American Activities Committee was after him. Hollywood has made many, many movies about the blacklist. We hear about the blacklist. But how many innocent people’s lives were actually ruined? The operative word here is innocent. I’d like to know their names.

McCarthy’s headline hunting also benefitted from the culture of journalism at midcentury: that the job of a journalist was to report the content of a statement, not to assess its validity. “My own impression was that Joe was a demagogue,” one journalist of the era observed. “But what could I do? I had to report—quote—McCarthy. How do you say in the middle of your story, ‘This is a lie’? The press is supposedly neutral. You write what the man says.” Walter Lippmann defended the press in similar terms. “McCarthy’s charges…are news which cannot be suppressed or ignored,” Lippmann wrote. “They come from a United States senator and a politician…in good standing at the headquarters of the Republican Party. When he makes such attacks against the State Department…it is news which has to be published.

I took the train to New York, where Bill Sweets put me up overnight. In Philadelphia I roomed with Frank Gentile, Universalist minister from St. Johnsbury. Progressive Party convention, July, 1948 Frank and I read copies of the proposed platform: plank after plank condemned United States foreign policy. Not that we wholly disagreed, in most instances, but the implication was that our policy was all wrong while the Soviet policy was all right. This rubbed Frank and me the wrong way. In the first place we didn’t believe this was true. In the second place, the press had been predicting that Wallace would allow his Communist allies to dominate the thinking of the convention; this kind of platform would support the charge. A mischievous thought occurred to Frank, and I guess to me at the same moment: a resolution putting the convention on record as not giving blanket approval to the foreign policy of any nation would a) satisfy those of us who were disinclined to blame Washington for ALL the world’s ills, b) demonstrate that our Communist friends were not dictating to the convention, and thus c) give us a defense, however slight, against some of the Red-baiting we knew we were all going to be subjected to in campaigning for Wallace and the “Progressive Party,” as we soon voted to call ourselves.

The 4-H Lassies met Saturday afternoon with Miss Caroline White at the home of Mrs. Max Granich. Miss Shirley Cole demonstrated sewing on bias binding. Miss Marie Moore gave a demonstration of buffet decoration. Refreshments were served by Mrs. Granich.” The above item from the North Adams Transcript of Feb. 15, 1952, suggests a bucolic scene from mid-20th century America, with girls and women gathering at a routine meeting of a youth group that extolled fundamental agrarian values. In a most unlikely scenario, however, the hostess of this event, Mrs. Grace Granich, had the month before been denounced by the House Un-American Activities Committee “as a menace to the security of the United States.” The Boston Daily Record described her appearance as she “took the fifth”: “A graying and grandmotherly appearing figure, Mrs. Granich refused to answer all questions about her activities since 1930 on grounds that to answer might tend to incriminate her. Despite threats of contempt citations, the Granichs claimed their constitutional privilege against being required to give self-incriminating testimony.

the pledge was written in 1892, and the phrase “under God” was not added until 1954, at the height of the McCarthy era.

Plumley’s record of anti-labor votes was one of the issues that led a forty-year-old professor of political science, Andrew E. Nuquist, to challenge Plumley for the Republican nomination in 1946. Nuquist, from a small town in rural Nebraska, had relocated to Vermont in 1938 after completing his doctorate at the University of Wisconsin. As his daughter Elizabeth Raby remembered, “When my father arrived in Vermont, his field of interest was international relations. Very soon, however, he became fascinated by his adopted state. Although he always retained his internationalist outlook, he became a specialist in the local and state governments of Vermont.” During his tenure as associate professor of political science at the University of Vermont, Nuquist served on many civic and war-related bodies: he was chair of the Vermont State Chamber of Commerce Committee on Local Finances and Affairs from 1941 to 1943, a public panel member of the Regional War Labor Board from 1943 to 1946, and director of the Town Officers’ Educational Conference in 1946.

Nuquist’s son, Andrew S. Nuquist, notes that it was no accident that his father’s campaign slogan was “Sober consideration of all legislation.” “This may not be a very revealing slogan to some,” said the Newport Express, “but to many it will mean even more than the words indicate.

CLAIRE MINTON’S LETTER to the Times was published during the worst of the era of Senator McCarthy, and her husband was fired twelve hours after the letter was printed. “What was so awful about the letter?” I asked. “The highest possible form of treason,” said Minton, “is to say that Americans aren’t loved wherever they go, whatever they do. Claire tried to make the point that American foreign policy should recognize hate rather than imagine love.” “I guess Americans are hated a lot of places.” “People are hated a lot of places. Claire pointed out in her letter that Americans, in being hated, were simply paying the normal penalty for being people, and that they were foolish to think they should somehow be exempted from that penalty. But the loyalty board didn’t pay any attention to that. All they knew was that Claire and I both felt that Americans were unloved.