You won't forget that face in that crowded room

145 years ago today, President Abraham Lincoln was assassinated by John Wilkes Booth in the Ford Theater in Washington D.C. Belonging to the bizarre category of "horrific historical events that I learned so long ago in grade school and in such watered-down language that they somehow strike me as quaint," the Lincoln Assassination Story is a familiar tragedy, one reenacted in historical dramas and made the butt of jokes about failed actors and the dangers of play-going. I could probably still pass a test on the basic plot arc of the murder today: Booth's careful positioning in the back of the presidential box; Lincoln's gradual death at a house across the street; Booth's dramatic capture and downfall; "O Captain! My Captain!" [End scene]

Thanks to the informational wonder that is Wikipedia, today I learned another facet to the story. While I remember learning about Booth as a lone, rogue killer--so vehement a sympathizer to the dying Confederate South that he threw away a perfectly good acting career--as a matter of fact, the Lincoln assassination was carried out as a part of a medium-sized, German-flavored conspiracy to take out many of the highest profile Washington leaders, only Booth was the only one who succeeded in his task. The others were either lackeys, failed at their assignments, or patently wussied out.

George Atzerodt, for example, was a German co-conspirator assigned to assassinate Vice President Johnson. On the same day Booth famously shot the Emancipation Proclamation President, Atzerodt checked into the hotel where VP Johnson was staying. He promptly lost his spine, proceeded to get drunk at the hotel bar, and wandered the streets of D.C. for the remainder of the night.

Considering Booth's fate, it seems that booze and a lack of conviction were actually redemptive forces for Atzerodt. Or rather, they would have been, were it not for the fact that after a few days, it was discovered that Atzerodt was linked to the conspiracy. He was tried and then hanged (along with a few other co-conspirators) on July 7th, 1865. Presumably, the same thing would have happened to him had he actually gone through with the assassination.

The United States (beacon of freedom and due process) has, like every country, a history of doing some egregiously shady-ass finessing of human rights, so I'm not going to argue that punishing a man complicit in the murder of Abraham "Five Dollar and the Penny" Lincoln belongs on the list of Worst Distortions of American Law. He was a criminal, no doubt. But at the same time,
1) Atzerodt was not an active part of Lincoln's assassination. He knew of the crime, and as such was guilty of complacency (or if you want to be creative with law, treason), but otherwise his worst offense was failing to even try to kill Vice President Johnson.
2) In a New York Times article dated June 18, 1873 (eight years after the collective deaths of Lincoln, Booth, and Atzerodt), we find a columnist vehemently declaring what a shame it is that when someone has intent to kill but doesn't carry it out, it is considered "no crime at all" and is, at worst, punishable by temporary imprisonment. What a pity, he says, that such offenders-in-intent cannot be put to death for their crimes.
3) It has always been fairly rare to sentence capital punishment for crimes other than out-and-out homicide. Purportedly, the last time someone was sentenced to capital punishment for "conspiracy to commit murder" was in 1863. For treason? 1862.

Semantics, really. What I would expect to learn if I was really interested in Atzerodt's case is that Lincoln was such a beloved president and the nation so devastated by his loss that any and all people in any way associated with his death were convicted and harshly punished with little care for legal technicality. Black men would be hanged for much, much, much less for decades to come. Still, patriot that I am, I always find it a little surprising when I rediscover to what extent emotion guides law enforcement.

If I stumble, they're gonna eat me alive

I recently ran across yet another Gloom and Doom article detailing, in more or less positive/nihilistic/action-driven terms, all the reasons why pursuing a career in Humanities academia is the dumbest decision an otherwise intelligent person can make. I have a masochistic tendency to find this kind of apocalyptic journalism on my own, so combining this article with what I've already read and with the literature that questionably-intentioned adults have sent me, I've read enough Anti-English Academia material that I will not be at all surprised if, when I approach the mailbox on the day I drop off my grad school applications, a buzzing, neon sign drops down from the heavens, glaring, SERIOUSLY. ARE YOU SURE??

I'm getting a little indignant about the whole thing, to be honest. And not merely out of the gut-instinct poutiness over the Bullies of Logic and Statistical Trends beating up the weak, pale skeleton of My Ideal Profession... although there is the part of me who feels a little embittered that what I like to do happens to be the least practical and likely career on earth next to miming, while my quantitatively-minded roommate will be heartily recompensed straight out of college for her natural and oddly fervent love for accounting.

But what I find myself becoming more indignant over is the vast, empty gulf that exists between what Mr. Gloom-and-Doom tells me to do and what my professors and confidantes recommend. (The job market as a whole is shrinking, and it's even worse in the humanities. But Baby Boomers will be retiring right when you finish grad school! But more and more people are getting English PhD's. Job competition is incredibly fierce; only the best of the best get tenure-track positions. Don't worry; you'll be one of the prized few. No, seriously, it's actually really unlikely that you'll have a job. No, seriously, you'll be fine.) The opinions are so polarized and so seemingly authoritative--statistics vs. professors in the field who know me--that there doesn't even appear to be a way to make a logical choice. Mr. Spock himself would be at a loss.

I've managed to tightrope myself to a passable middle ground; if I get accepted into any of the high-profile PhD programs to which I apply, I'll spend the next 5-8 years getting paid to do something I love, and if I come out the other end finding that I can't find a job, well, at least then I'll have a PhD. The world can always use a few more overqualified private school teachers.

Potentially more enlightening is the realization that the spirit of caution-to-the-wind exploration is completely lost on me. Not being able to make an analytical judgment, even after consulting outside data and opinions on which I would normally rely to incline me to one direction or the other, I find myself frustrated and petulant, eager to defer my energy to blaming society for its skewed priorities or my parents for allowing me to idealistically pursue my linguaphilian dreams in such a cold, utilitarian world. Un-displaced, I'm really just frustrated that Life hasn't provided me with a roadmap. While pursuing an English PhD sounds fun, flinging myself into an uncertain future does not.

Stick-in-the-mud, party of one.

"The irresistible proliferation of graphomania shows me that everyone without exception bears a potential writer within him, so that the entire human species has good reason to go down into the streets and shout: we are all writers! for everyone is pained by the thought of disappearing, unheard and unseen, into an indifferent universe, and because of that everyone wants, while there is still time, to turn himself into a universe of words. one morning (and it will be soon), when everyone wakes up as a writer, the age of universal deafness and incomprehension will have arrived."
- Milan Kundera