My own mother—like so many Christians who firmly believed that the Bible was literal—could never quite break from Genesis's remarkably simple account of the creation. Miraculous and very much at odds with the scientific evidence to the contrary, the Biblical account presented a very short timetable for the creation of our world and universe. Six days of mind-boggling creation. And then He took a nap?
Really!
When the development of reliable, carbon-dating protocols suddenly allowed science to accurately determine the aging of the materials that comprise the world's geographical features, Mother dug in her heels, declaring that the science was bogus and that scientists would go as far as to fabricate their findings in order to discredit the creationist Christian core.
That would be my first exposure to the running battle of Bible literalists vs. science, and the notion that scientists might actually conspire to fleece the public with fabricated tales of the Earth's past.
We were living in New York City at the time, and I wondered why my mother—a person so afraid of ideas that challenged her religious beliefs—allowed our frequent visits to Manhattan's American Museum of Natural History. Its displays, fossils and dioramas of ancient life had to have created an uncomfortable dissonance for her—between the scientific explanations of creatures that had roamed the Earth millions of years ago and the timeline presented in scripture.
My mother was smart and well educated, but she simply couldn't accept that our world had been around for a very, very long time. Her attempts to invalidate science took some really aberrant turns—like even suggesting that the dinosaur skeletons were merely clever assemblies of bones from lots of different animals and that the composite creatures had never actually existed. (Besides, Noah never claimed to have provided passage to dinosaurs on his first world cruise.)
Inflexible as many other Christian literalists, Mother was unable to question any of it. The world, the animals and the first humans were sculpted by the hand of God and there was no other explanation. During the mid-1900s, growing fossil evidence forced my mother into more complex rationalizations. "Sure," she'd acknowledge, "God took materials from other, much older planets to create the Earth, so those fossils probably came from another planet." She assumed that her explanation would be adequate to fill in the gaps.
As for the growing understanding that the animal kingdom had evolved—first from simple life forms and then into complex and sophisticated creatures that were well adapted to the challenges of their particular environments—my mother was immovable. She had a firm belief that all life, in a perfect form, had been put on Earth during the creation. The word "evolution" made her angry and yet, there was plenty of evidence—not just that evolution had always been there, but that many species were still very much undergoing subtle changes and that "survival of the fittest" was refining virtually all forms of life.
Talking about the "fittest," there are some creatures in our world that are virtually indestructible. During a time when so many members of the animal kingdom are facing eventual extinction, plenty of others are demonstrating how perfectly adapted they are to life on earth. Just ask the guy with the giant bug atop his Truly Nolan work vehicle. He'll eradicate virtually any pests from your home, but it's not always a cake walk.
Disgusting as it may be, the American cockroach is an example of how adaptability can make a creature eternal. Try drowning one; try starving one for weeks; try figuring out where they go during the daylight hours. They lay eggs that survive the harshest conditions and have no need for sex or fertilization. It's called "parthenogenesis" and it's a major contributor to the success of the cockroach species. In a sense, cockroaches are the standard-bearers for "virgin birth." They can reproduce with no outside help.
Adaptability to the environment is the key to any species' survival, and the same principles seem to apply to American politics. Loosely following the example of Donald Trump, the Republican Party has become an example of how evolution works in creating creatures that are truly loathsome—and tough projects for the exterminators.
The latest development: Politico-entomologists are now marveling at what may be the first successful hybridization of cockroaches and elephants—the Roachublican. Rep. George Santos, R-New York, is one of them—just another protégé of Trump, king of liars, whose exoskeleton houses a slimy goo of lies and distortions.
Santos, an incoming freshman GOP Congressman representing Long Island, defied both moral and criminal boundaries in the fundraising that got him elected. His name may be Santos, but he's certainly no saint.
Santos presented himself, like Trump, as a man of higher education at prestigious universities, made claims to high level positions at some of America's best financial managers, positioned himself as a successful businessman who had accrued considerable assets and represented himself as a lover of animals who established and ran a charity to save them. It all sounds far too familiar. Santos never did have his own TV show, but that's about the only difference.
If we review Santos's litany of lies, we find the same blueprint Trump used in pulling the wool over the eyes of voters—lots of claims, all found to be either outright lies or a mix of just-a-dash-of-truth added to a pile of fabrications.
Santos isn't the only Roachublican; there are many, present under the cupboards and floor moldings of both national and local politics—all, attempting to scurry out of sight as soon as someone flips on the lights.
If the Republican Party is to command any future esteem, at all, it must attempt to find its long-lost respectability. There are many roaches but, for now, the GOP must work on killing one at a time. It's time to put down its foot and prevent Santos from taking his congressional seat.
Sadly Santos, the bad dude that he is, is not so exceptional among the riff-raff who have trashed the GOP ranks. (And, in order to show my objectivity, I'll admit that there are probably a few Roachacrats, as well.)
Driven by a sense of desperation, the GOP seems willing to accept all comers—any warm body that can fill a legislative seat. It is a very real form of evolution-in-progress, and it threatens the very future of our nation.
The roach-hybrids are everywhere. It's time to call Truly Nolan.
The author is a retired novelist, columnist and former Vietnam-era Army assistant public information officer. He resides in Riverton with his wife, Carol, and the beloved ashes of their mongrel dog.
