Bush's Smirk

by Bruce Schimmel

George W. Bush has a peculiar grin, one I've always associated with the mocking smile of Alice in Wonderland's Cheshire Cat. We all know it. Long before Bush became president, pundits called it "the Smirk."

The Smirk can still be glimpsed, briefly, in the knowing smiles of bank and auto execs — as they wheel away barrels of cash. And in the self-satisfied grin of Bernie Madoff, the po-mo robber baron, who himself was recently dubbed "Bernie the Smirk."

But, for me, the master of this grimace, who had the Ur-smirk that set off a frenzy of thievery, is still George W. Almost 10 years ago, before he learned to disguise his smile, I got a good, close look at Bush's infamous bully-boy grin — and felt some of its power.

At the time, I was reporting for public radio on the Republican presidential primary. Bush had arrived in the heart of (what was then) Delaware farming country. Meeting the candidate were a couple hundred cheering farmers, dressed in their Sunday best.

Most of these farmers wanted to swap their plowshares for corporate shares. Land-rich, they wanted to cash in on various schemes that would eventually turn farmland into housing developments, inflating the real estate bubble that has since burst.

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In George W. Bush, the good ol' boys saw a partner-in-sprawl. And in Bush's self-satisfied smirk, they felt assured he'd put the fix in for them.

Curiously, though, what also brought cheers from this fundamentalist crowd was Bush's mini-enactment of a core biblical value. The candidate said he would make it so that "the least shall be the first."

Though, as we later came to understand, Bush gave compassion a whole new meaning.

To demonstrate his care for the less fortunate, at least in this crowd, Bush declared he would shake the hand of the man who was seated farthest away. And so Bush leapt from the stage and bounded toward that one lucky fellow in the corner.

We reporters were standing along the back wall, where Bush would pass, and we all wore bright orange press passes. There was plenty of room for Bush to get by, which he did.

But reaching me, Bush suddenly stopped. He glanced at my bright orange badge, and staring into my eyes, he drawled, "Get out of my way."

With my back already against the wall, that would be difficult.

In real life, Bush's eyes are set close and his nose looks like a beak. Up close, the effect is like an angry chicken — except that his cologne smelled like Chanel.

With nowhere to go, I stood still as he stared me down. It lasted maybe five seconds. Bush had a look of rage that was frankly scary — and to which I said nothing.

Satisfied, apparently, with my silence, Bush's face suddenly bloomed into a full-blown Smirk, as he enjoyed this little victory over me.

In time, Bush learned to disguise the Smirk, hiding his brat-face behind the mask of the patriot. But if you looked at him carefully, you could always sense the sneer. You felt his contempt for the little people, for the powerless and for the least among us.

And despite our having elected Barack Obama — with his sunny and honest smile — Bush's Smirk still haunts us.

The Smirk infects not just our swindlers, it taints everyone. It survives in the unspoken myth that through some kind of divine law, we Americans have the right to be richer and more powerful than all others — even as we lay waste to the Earth.

Yes, for sure, it is time to put away childish things and banish our arrogance. To face ourselves honestly in the mirror — without grimace, giggle or a bully's grin — and to truly lighten our spirits by uplifting the very least among us.

(bruce@schimmel.com)