Phil Miller

Please bear with my personal fascination with Garfield. Six generations ago, in 1803, when the part of Northeast Ohio known as the Western Reserve had only a few hundred white settlers, my ancestor moved there with his family and established a village called Deerfield. His son, a Baptist, married a Methodist. Neither spouse was willing to join the other’s church. However, when they heard a traveling evangelist share the teachings of Alexander Campbell, they asked the man to help them form a “Campbellite” church of the Disciples of Christ.

A few years later, in Lexington, Kentucky, the Disciples of Christ and followers of Barton Stone, who simply called themselves Christians, united with a formal handshake. This partnership was motivated by a shared commitment to the ideal of Christian unity, which became a defining feature of the movement.

Ever since that January 1, 1832 Saturday meeting (when James A. Garfield was 40 days old), the church now known as the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ) has been nicknamed “the people of the parenthesis.” Whatever one hears about our church, a contrary description may also apply. For example, “liberal (conservative).” It is the nature of this movement toward wholeness to include disparate factions, always seeking conciliation. I am grateful to author C.W. Goodyear for consulting with my friend Peter Morgan and members of the National City Christian Church (Disciples of Christ) in researching Garfield’s life and work. “The parenthesis” provides a lens for understanding the complex life of the man.

James A. Garfield grew up a few miles north of my Ohio ancestors. His parents belonged to the Disciples of Christ. Garfield was baptized in 1849 and formally committed himself to this movement. I appreciate C.W. Goodyear’s detailed explanation of why Garfield felt so enthusiastic about his church. “It is impossible to ignore how well such a faith—inclusive, open-minded, and empowering—complemented the character of its newest convert.” (p. 38)

Garfield studied first at his mother’s knee, and eventually at the Western Reserve Eclectic Institute, which became Hiram College, a Disciples of Christ school. Later, he taught there and served as its president. Alexander Campbell founded Bethany College in what became West Virginia. Garfield considered attending Bethany, but when he learned that Campbell had not taken a firm stand against slavery, he chose to study at Hiram instead. This decision is an example of “the parenthesis”—being a devoted member of the Disciples of Christ but actively repudiating the position of the movement’s most prominent founder.

While Alexander Campbell’s writings express an essentially pacifist conviction, Garfield’s moral values compelled him to volunteer to fight against the enslavers of the South. The Army required him to recruit the soldiers of his regiment. “A single sermon at a Hiram church netted sixty enlistees,” reports Goodyear, and within days a company filled out with Hiram students and alumni. Garfield’s enthusiastic military leadership in the war against those Southerners whom Campbell chose not to denounce is another example of “the parenthesis.”

In his younger years, Garfield often preached for Disciples churches in Northeastern Ohio. Throughout his political career, he attended worship at the Vermont Avenue Christian Church (Disciples of Christ). After he became President, office-seekers crowded into the pews there hoping to catch his eye and his favor. The Vermont Avenue church was near Logan Circle, and later became the National City Christian Church, which is on Thomas Circle.

Goodyear describes Garfield’s “parenthesis” style as “Janus-like,” a knack for staying on good terms with those who held views opposite of his own. Even from his deathbed, Garfield made a conciliatory overture to his fiercest nemesis, Senator Roscoe Conkling.

Determined to excel as a student, teacher, Army officer, Congressman, and candidate, Garfield nevertheless endeavored to disguise his ambition as reluctance or indifference, perhaps guided by the hymn in Philippians, that Christians should have the mind of Christ, who “humbled himself.” The parenthesis: ambitious (humble).

Passionately indignant as Garfield felt on behalf of enslaved people in the South, when choosing the lot for building his Washington, D.C. townhome, he preferred a neighborhood “not so ‘infested with Negroes’ as other neighborhoods.” (p. 206) Call it hypocrisy, but I call it another example of “the parenthesis.”

Goodyear’s book, subtitled From Radical to Unifier, reflects Garfield’s shift from idealist to pragmatist. Even as president of Hiram College, Garfield was caught between opposing factions regarding slavery: some accused him of being too indifferent, others said he was too zealous. This is what it meant to stand in “the parenthesis.”

Goodyear’s comprehensive book on James A. Garfield spans nearly 500 pages, plus 85 pages of notes and an index. It thoroughly examines Garfield’s life—from his family background and intellectual growth to his military and political careers, presidential nomination, and death—and serves as a definitive scholarly resource on this significant member of “the people of the parenthesis.”

Even so, I approached the book obliquely, not expecting to find crossing p

Even so, I approached the book obliquely, not expecting to find crossing points with my personal experience. I started reading, first, with settler colonialism in mind. Eventually, I came to a story about that. After a dinner with Quanah Parker, long after that Comanche chief had settled on the reservation in Oklahoma, a certain Mr. Miller asked how white people had pushed the Indian off the land.

Quanah sat down close to him [on a cottonwood log] and said, “Move over.” Miller moved. Parker moved with him, and again sat down close to him. “Move over,” he repeated. This continued until Miller had fallen off the log. “Like that,” said Quanah. (p. 303f.)

I discerned more fully, in the second place, the diversity among America’s Indigenous people. Having grown up in Albuquerque, New Mexico, my first impressions of Native Americans were shaped by Pueblo Indians, who live along the Rio Grande Valley. They are known as artisans—potters, jewelers, and weavers. They have dwelt on the land continuously for hundreds of years as farmers, not nomads. Eventually, I learned about other tribes, such as the Navajo and Apache, many of whom I saw at high school track meets. The more I traveled and read, the more I learned about the great diversity among American Indians from Iroquois to the Sioux, Cherokees and Choctaws to Salish and Yakima. There are 574 federally recognized Native American tribes representing hundreds of languages, customs, costumes, ceremonies, and livelihoods. Almost any generalization about Native Americans is inaccurate.

Palestinians live on a smaller area of land and may appear similar, but they have more diversity than often assumed. For instance, my experience is mainly with Christians, whose numbers are declining due to emigration under Israeli occupation. Among Palestinians, there are pacifists and those who believe force is the key to survival.

Thirdly, I approached this book with questions about immigration, noting that white Texans were newcomers to land inhabited by nomadic Comanche and other tribes. These tribes lacked centralized government, operating in bands without a single leader for negotiations. They violently resisted outsiders, hoping to push out white Texans as they had done with Spanish, Mexican, and French intruders before.

Fourthly, I wondered about assimilation, applying the question to white settlers captured by the Comanche raiders. The spotlight was on Cynthia Ann Parker, taken at age nine during the raid on her extended family’s compound in Central Texas. Younger children were sometimes killed. Adults were sometimes enslaved. But children were often adopted, protected, nurtured, and fully integrated into the tribe. By the time searchers found Cynthia Ann, she had forgotten the English language and stubbornly refused to return to her family. Her complete assimilation became a subject of conversation among white Texans.

Cynthia Ann only began to speak English after enduring the loss of her husband, Peta Nocona, who was killed; her sons escaping from view; and her own capture by Sul Ross, who would later become a governor. Though fluent in Spanish and Comanche, she reluctantly added English to her repertoire. During ten unhappy years living with Parker relatives, she suffered the death of her young daughter and soon died—probably due to self-starvation.

On the other hand, her son Quanah, after being confined at Fort Sill following the end of Native control on the South Plains, became notable for adapting to white society. The rapid extermination of buffalo by hunters devastated the livelihoods and identity of Indigenous people, whose situation worsened due to the introduction of cheap whiskey, leading to further decline in reservation communities like Fort Sill.

Observing how white men profited from cattle ranching, Quanah established his own ranch and generously used his herd to support fellow Native Americans. He wore Western clothing during official business but kept his long hair. Quanah also initiated a peyote faith that grew into the Native American Church. After resisting white settlers until surrender became inevitable, he earned respect from both communities as the Comanche chief and a successful rancher.

Reading this book was unexpectedly engaging because its geography mirrored my own experiences. My sister lived in Amarillo from 1965 to 1970, and I often stopped there between Albuquerque and Fort Worth during college. Holidays involved trips through Quanah, and memorable moments included hiking in Palo Duro Canyon and proposing to my wife in Amarillo before marrying her in Lubbock. After stints in Dallas and Abilene—where our first daughter was born—I spent another decade in Fort Worth, regularly traveling to Wichita Falls and San Antonio for Reserve Air Force duties. Over 22 years, I grew familiar with the Texas High Plains and South Plains, though I only later learned about the region's Indian wars.

Finally, some of the people in this book stood not very far from my ancestry. While reading about the Texas Rangers—often called “a rough bunch”—I remembered something from my wife’s family history. Her great-great-great grandfather, Henry Stout (1799-1892), and his son Selen (1818-1897), both served as Captains in the Texas Rangers and were also involved in Indian fighting when they weren’t hunting bears or trading with friendly Native groups. Interestingly, Henry sold his squatter’s rights along the Red River to James Clark, after whom Clarksville, the county seat of Red River County, was named. Both Henry and Selen Stout lived significantly longer than most of the young men under their command, whose average lifespan after signing on as Rangers was just two years. They probably weren’t like later, well-dressed Rangers—the clean-cut men in sharp uniforms with big stars and stylish Stetson hats. Nor were they permanent state employees, since much their service preceded Texas statehood. The author says:

They wore whatever pleased them. Sometimes that meant colorful Mexican serapes and wide-brimmed sombreros. Sometimes fur hats, bobtail coats, or dirty pajamas. Often it meant head-to-toe buckskins or bits and pieces of buffalo robes. (p. 138)

Another figure who piqued my interest was Burk Burnett, a rancher known for supporting Quanah Parker. I remembered spending time at Texas Christian University's Mary Couts Burnett Library, which was funded largely through a bequest from Burk Burnett's widow. Additionally, his funeral was officiated by Reverend L.D. Anderson of First Christian Church of Fort Worth, who was not only a friend but also a colleague of my grandfather, Floyd Allan Bash.

Well, then. “Finalist for the Pulitzer Prize” should be recommendation enough, but I’ll add mine. Irrespective of my personal “crossing points” with the narrative, I admire the thorough research and documentation evidenced in 22 pages of fine-print endnotes, the 13 pages of bibliographic notes, and the useful 15-page index. This work merits scholarly recognition but also reads like an adventure tale. You’ll surely enjoy it.

Nearly 25 years ago, I enjoyed Jean Edward Smith's engaging biography of Grant, which led me to read this e-book. While the style feels like a term paper, I value the review of Grant’s achievements and legacy.

The stories I enjoyed focused on human relationships, ethics, and compassion. For example, “Paradise,” by Hannah Lillith Assadi, is a story about a Syrian refugee girl faced with the challenges of the health bureaucracy in Arizona. “Reclamation,” by David A. Robertson, shows the impact of intergenerational trauma with the spotlight on a Dakota Indian boy. “The Masculine and the Dead,” by Frank Bill, features a widowed Marine veteran dealing with an abused neighbor boy and in the process, finding reconciliation with his young adult son.

The stories using fantasy and technology to imagine how health and wellness might be managed in the distant future were less interesting to me. Although “Star Trek” and “Star Wars” have enormous popular appeal, I never acquired a taste for science fiction. Nonetheless, hats off to those futurists who accepted the Robert Wood Johnson Foundation’s challenge to explore how healthcare issues might evolve decades from now.

The strength of Take Us to a Better Place is the high-level commentary in the foreword, introduction, and afterword, where the stories are analyzed within the framework of the overall project. In addition to the stories, the book has illustrations by artists commissioned for the project. I like the idea of addressing public issues such as health and wellness with art and stories. Essays on such subjects will come alive as I mentally recall these stories.

After I finished the book, my thoughts returned to the words in Romans 8:24-25. “Now hope that is seen is not hope. For who hopes for what is seen? But if we hope for what we do not see, we wait for it with patience.” As we seek to move to a better place with greater equity and quality of health and wellness, we do so without a clear blueprint. Yet waiting for it with patience does not mean passive inaction. We should stay alert to possibilities, not merely in technology, but in compassion.