Mighty Mutti

A pastel colored pantsuit. Preachy hands. The scientist’s concentrated, patient stare.

Her way of governing? A reporter said it well the other day: She puts on an apron and picks up a broom after the party is over. “Go! Go to bed! I’ll take care of this!”
Her constituents might not adore her, but they trust her to clean up the mess.

I have taken a break from knitting Bears for Africa. The last box of seventeen is on its way to Minneapolis. Mandisa and Sipho are part of it. I wanted to send twenty, but I need pain-free arms and hands to carry my suitcase to the airport on Saturday. And my traveling companion, Tyana J LittleString, needs a new outfit for our New England cruise. Elections in Germany came to an end an hour ago and I am watching the results on TV as they are shaping up.


Mandisa and Sipho, Bears 280 and 281



As I see it “Mighty Mutti” incorporates all that is typically German, all that I like in myself, and all that I despise in myself too. She also has developed an extra portion of secrecy and a bit of accommodating pliability. According to a news report in the Daily Mail she displays “a cultivated cloak of blandness.”

Of course she won. For the third time Angela Merkel is Chancellor of Germany. Helmut Kohl called her “my girl” and she destroyed him. Peer Steinbrueck, the losing SPD candidate, congratulates her and she smirks. I look at her and have to admit, she seems to have served my homeland well in the last eight years. She is frugal, hard-working, clever. Nothing wrong with that. I suppose it is too much to ask a bit of vision of a politician, or to ask her to look at other countries with a humanitarian eye. Germany loves Greece as a vacation paradise, enjoying the slower pace, the warm-hearted Southern European hospitality. The art of living graciously. But what about the Greek? How does Germany feel about the Greek as individuals? What does the Iron Frau say about them in the privacy of her own home?
I imagine her sitting on the edge of her bed, giving her hair 100 brush strokes - or whatever the legal prescription demands - and casually enlightening her husband: “If they want to make it in this time of economic crisis, they have to learn to work hard. Like we do!!”

In 2010 she said that the attempt at multiculturalism in Germany had utterly failed. Her reasoning: "we feel attached to the Christian concept of mankind; that is what defines us. Anyone who doesn't accept that is in the wrong place here.” Well, so much for Christianity. She should move to Bavaria. Bavarians are the proud owners of the Octoberfest and Christmas. No chance at Ramadan celebrations in Munich. I wonder if beer and bratwurst and head scarf debates make a “multikulti” future unattainable for four million people of Turkish decent? I hope not. My mother would be appalled; she read Wilhelm Busch to the little Turkish boy upstairs and taught him to say “das schmeckt gut!” When it began to snow she knitted a dazzling sweater for the shivering young Turkish helper in the butcher shop down the street. Then she taught her to knit.

Angela Merkel speaks Russian. Her father was a Lutheran pastor, a man I imagine to be a lot like my step-father, cold and stern, always driving her to do better. Her mother was a teacher of English and Latin. And though the DDR, the former East Germany, was an atheist country, because of her father’s sympathetic relationship with the communist regime the family was allowed to watch Western TV, read Western newspapers, and travel between East and West. There must be a lesson in this, about quick wit, endurance, secrecy, and survival.
What does Number One in Europe say about my statement?

The pragmatic public servant smiles a forced smile, swaying back and forth in the loudly singing crowd of the winner’s circle. I know what she feels right now is discomfort. I can’t sing and I don’t dance; it is difficult for me too to show outward enthusiasm in a room filled with such rhythmic exuberance. Maybe that is why I have taken up drumming so late in life. "Everybody can drum," they say.

“You are spoiled,” she says, “you grew up in the West.” Her lips do not move. Is she her own puppet master?

She brings her hands together in the now famous rhombus, which, she said, is her way of solving the problem of what to do with her hands in a pleasing and posture improving way while speaking. As The Economist notes, "her explanation for this gesture is pure Merkel—unpretentious, pragmatic, artfully plain." And Ralph Bollmann, the biographer says, "Mrs Merkel fits the cliché that we Germans have of ourselves: frugal, sombre, awkward and a bit unpolished in a likable way."

“Look! she says. Her smile lines are distinctly defined by gravity , her lips are thin, barely opening. “Look! Pass auf! (Pay attention) Don’t judge everybody by your own development. If my life had been different in the beginning, maybe I would be different now. But I am who I am, and I am good for Germany. Whether they call me Macht Mensch Merkel or you call me Mighty Mutti, it doesn’t matter. I don’t knit cute teddy bears for poor children in Africa nor do I post ecological warnings on Facebook or retweet benevolent slogans. I saved Germany from disaster. What do you know about Germany? And what do you really know about me? You don’t even live here. You haven’t lived here in almost 50 years.”




I guess I had that coming. Quietly I watch her shake hands with Herrn Steinbrueck. She will have to convince him in the coming days and weeks to form a coalition with her. It won’t be easy. His SPD is the second largest party; a black and red coalition could hurt its chances for 2017. I am so glad I am not a politician. Back to knitting.