Scouring Every Main

 Trump is of course fond of describing himself as a "man of peace." He claims that his eerie affinity for Putin is a product of his desire merely to "stop the killing" in Ukraine. He has repeatedly floated himself as a candidate for the Nobel Peace Prize (a bit of bragging that appears to have played a role in his deteriorating relationship with the Indian prime minister). 

And, of course, he crows constantly about having ended six or seven different wars in his first eight months in office. (I guess when so many wars start on your watch—it's easy to rack up a lot of hasty ceasefires in this manner. And if the same conflicts flare up multiple times in as many months—do you get to double- or triple-count them?)

But Trump also periodically lets the mask down and shows us a glimpse of the militaristic bully he is at heart. This week, he reportedly drew up plans to rename the DOD the Department of War—chiefly because the latter sounds more violent, and therefore—presumably—more badass. (Longfellow's plangent plea that in the future, once enlightenment triumphed, "the warrior's name would be a name abhorred" doesn't seem to be making much headway in this administration.) 

Trump is also experimenting with more genuinely dangerous and frightening overtures toward outright aggression. He has repeatedly suggested that he might consider a military invasion to illegally annex Greenland from Denmark (a NATO ally). At the very least—he has stated that he wouldn't rule it out. And just this week—Denmark publicly complained that U.S. agents appeared to be conducting secret influence operations in Greenland—presumably in an effort to build support for U.S. annexation. 

Then there's the administration's latest round of literal gunboat diplomacy in Latin America. Earlier this month, the New York Times reported that the Pentagon had issued a secret directive to engage in covert military activities against gangs in the region. Initially, this prompted fears the U.S. would conduct strikes in Mexico without the latter's consent—in effect, opening a theater of war with our southern neighbor. But instead, Trump's sabre-rattling so far seems more directed toward Venezuela. 

As we speak, a U.S. warship and military submarine are moving in the direction of Venezuela, where they will reportedly "join [...] three amphibious ships, three destroyers and another attack sub in the vicinity," according to the Wall Street Journal. This has given rise to speculation that the U.S. could be planning some sort of military action in Venezuela—perhaps in support of some U.S.-sponsored coup or uprising. Dark echoes here of the long history of U.S. filibustering in Latin America. 

Thinking of those U.S. warships and destroyers streaming toward Venezuela—I was reminded of the image Vachel Lindsay once used to sum up the experience of an American generation that had strayed from the country's republican ideals to increasingly embrace war, aggression, and imperialism—"the dreadnaughts scouring every main," was Lindsay's phrase. Trump is certainly bringing back the dreadnaughts, and doing his share of scouring. 

If only we had a Lindsay today—to sing out our objection on behalf of our country's ideals—a country that was founded to be a protest against Empire, not a seat of it. If only we had a Mark Twain or an Edgar Lee Masters or an Emerson or a Lowell—or anyone else who ever spoke out against U.S. militarism in the past—whether against the expansionist aggression of the Southern Slave Power during the Mexican War—or against the later McKinleyite U.S. imperialism of the end of the 19th century. 

Lindsay, Masters, Twain—thou shouldst be living at this hour; America hath need of thee! As Thomas Bailey Aldrich wrote of Wendell Phillips: "Ah, if in coming times / Some giant evil arise, / And Honor falter and pale, / His were a name to conjure with!" And so, we conjure with Lindsay's name today. As he wrote of Abraham Lincoln, imagining if he could speak from beyond the grave, and comment on the warmongering of the early twentieth century: 

It breaks his heart that kings must murder still,

That all his hours of travail here for men

Seem yet in vain. And who will bring white peace

That he may sleep upon his hill again?