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States) to Elgar’s “Pomp and Circumstance March No. 1.” A hymn to England (“mother of the free”), it is sung in gusto by an audience in patriotic dress at the last night of the annual Sir Henry Wood Promenade Concerts at the Royal Albert Hall. It is also used as England’s national anthem at the Commonwealth Games.

E PLURIBUS COMPOSITE
    Syndicated column, May 5, 2012
    HAVE YOU DATED a composite woman? They’re America’s hottest new demographic. As with all the really cool stuff, Barack Obama was doing it years before the rest of us. In Dreams from My Father , the world’s all-time most unread bestseller, he spills the inside dope on his composite white girlfriend, after an off-Broadway play prompts an agonizing post-show exchange about race:
              When we got back to the car she started crying. She couldn’t be black, she said. She would if she could, but she couldn’t. She could only be herself, and wasn’t that enough. . . .
    Not for Barack’s literary imagination, it wasn’t: His humdrum real white girlfriend never saw the play, and no such conversation ever took place. But, even if she could be herself, that’s never going to be enough in the new composite America. Last week, in an election campaign ad, Barack revealed his latest composite girlfriend—“Julia.” 1 She’s even more useless than the old New York girlfriend. Not only can’t she be herself, she can’t be anything without massive assistance from King Barack’s beneficent government every step of the way, from his “Head Start” program at the age of three through to his Social Security benefits at the age of sixty-seven. Everything good in her lifeshe owes to him. When she writes her memoir, it will be thanks to a subvention from the Federal Publishing Assistance Program for Chronically Dependent Women but you’ll love it: Sweet Dreams from My Sugar Daddy . She’s what the lawyers would call “non composite mentis.” She’s not competent to do a single thing for herself—and, from Barack’s point of view, that’s exactly what he’s looking for in a woman, if only for a one-night stand on a Tuesday in early November.
    Then there’s “Elizabeth,” a sixty-two-year-old Democratic Senate candidate from Massachusetts. Like Barack’s white girlfriend, she couldn’t be black. She would if she could, but she couldn’t. But she could be a composite—a white woman and an Indian woman, all mixed up in one! Not Indian in the sense of Ashton Kutcher putting on brownface make-up and a fake-Indian accent in his amusing new commercial for the hip lo-fat snack Popchips. But Indian in the sense of checking the “Are you Native American?” box on the Association of American Law Schools form, which Elizabeth Warren did for much of her adult life. According to her, she’s part Cherokee and part Delaware. Not in the Joe Biden sense, I hasten to add, but Delaware in the sense of the Indian tribe named in honor of the home state of Big F**kin’ Chief Dances with Plugs.
    How does she know she’s a Cherokee maiden? Well, she cites her grandfather’s “high cheekbones,” and says the Indian stuff is part of her family “lore.” Which was evidently good enough for Harvard Lore School when they were looking to rack up a few affirmative-action credits. The former Obama special adviser to the Consumer Financial Protection Bureau and chairperson of the Congressional Oversight Panel now says that “I listed myself in the directory in the hopes that it might mean that I would be invited to a luncheon, a group, something that might happen with people who are like I am,” and certainly not for personal career advancement or anything like that. Like everyone else, she was shocked, shocked to discover that, as The Boston Herald reported, “Harvard Law School officials listed Warren as Native American in the ’90s, when the school was under fierce fire for their faculty’s lack of diversity.”
    And so the same institution