Friday, October 30, 2009

Feelin’ Cranky, But Trying to Remain Civil

“Good manners are the grease that makes the wheels of life turn smoothly.” That was a mother-mantra that I endlessly used as my son, Joseph, was in his formative years. Although expressed as a hybridization of the worlds of the prissy and the mechanical engineer, I believed it, and I repeated it: way too many times, he might tell you. I still believe it though. That’s why I am puzzled at the lack of civility which I knee-jerk to exhibit as I age. Even without the excuse of feelin’ poorly, I find myself just getting crankier and crankier. If only I could get that big-eyebrow thing going, I could be Andy Rooney Junior.

More often than not, I find myself just wanting to hop up on my little box and hiss.  “What is the matter with you? Why are you saying that?” I have become the self-deputized, pinched-mouthed, bun-wearing, ruler-wielding speech police. Now, correcting people is not “good manners.” I know this, but like Popeye, “That’s all I can stands, I can’t stands no more!” The breaking point may be just around the corner.

When people say, “PIN number” and “VIN number,” it’s like fingernails on a chalkboard. My pedantic internal voice shouts, “Don’t you know that these things are acronyms for Personal Identification Number and Vehicle Identification Number? When you say, ‘PIN number,’ you are saying personal identification number number!” Internally, good manners fly out the window and probably externally, my face contorts and a little groan seeps through my lips. Hearing this idiocy on radio or television rather than in person has one positive advantage. I don’t have to internalize. I am alone. No one sees or hears me.  As a relief valve, I can just shout at the delivery mechanism of the offending medium.

Another near-stroke-inducing opportunity is the word nuclear. That’s right! Nuclear! Not “nu-queue-lar.” For crying out loud! Look at how it is spelled. As your mother used to tell you, “Look at the word and sound it out.” That “l” is nearer the beginning than the end!

Then, there is the not so common, but very personal “misspoke:” my birthplace. It’s that city just across the Ohio River at the bottom of central Indiana: Louisville. Settled around the time of the American Revolution, it was named after the French king: Louie, to his friends. Thus, it is Louie-ville, not Lou-ah-ville. There was no King Louah! Get with the program, people! Words matter—nomenclature counts: i.e. “bailout” vs. “rescue package.” Even Congress, not the brightest bulb on the tree, worked through this challenge.

OK!  I have lots more, and I’ll bet that you have a bunch too, but I’ll get a grip and just tell you one final, general-use one. So general, in fact, that it was discussed in the “On Language” article in the Sunday New York Times Magazine, and what is supposed to be the bastion of correctness, NPR, was cited as an offender. Nobody says, “You’re welcome,” anymore as a response to, “Thank you.” Rejoinders include, “You bet,” “No problem,” and even “No sweat.” Poor old, “You’re welcome,” the long-standing companion of “Thank you,” seems to have been dumped like the trash. Listen to the broadcasts and note this.

Finding cranky-making illustrations is not difficult. There is a boatload of examples out there: more than enough to make a saint cranky. The trick is finding the ability to fix it without resorting to bad manners. And, yes, violence is bad manners.
Thus far, my only solution for treating the problem is to follow the pledge-drive model and try to fix this “one at a time.” Personal example and maybe the occasional mild reproof such as, “free speech is not sloppy speech,” seem uncranky and civil enough, don’t you think?  Your polite suggestions of other solutions are welcome.

Broadcast by Jeanette Saddler Taylor on October 30, 2009 • WVPE's Audio Archive
Customs & Rituals • Education • Permalink • Printer Friendly

Friday, October 16, 2009

Driving On

I was lost in thought driving home one September evening, considering how fortunate I was to have just paid only $88 for over $1000 worth of medication.  I was about a block or so from my house, when I noticed a crowd gathered around two teen girls fighting in the street.

This was not a simple exchange of punches: one girl was beating the crap out of the other.  Both girls were on the ground; Girl A had two fistfuls of hair in each of her hands and was pulling with all her might as she kicked Girl B as hard she could in the shoulders and ribs.  Girl B was struggling to break free. The two were surrounded by 8-10 teenagers who were doing nothing to stop the fight.  About three houses away, two men in their twenties were standing by a car in the street, not making any move to intervene.

Instead of turning the corner toward my house, I drove forward, past the snickering men, into the crowd of laughing teens, and up alongside the two girls.  The situation was a bit harrowing for me as a woman alone in her car in the evening, the circle of teenagers separating just enough to let me into the circle, but not ceasing their jeers and taunts.

Calmly, but firmly, I said to the girls, “Stop.  Stop.  C’mon, get off of her. Get off of her.  Now step apart.” When Girl A stood up, she was no more than about six inches from my head.  I was terrified that she was going to turn around and slug me.  I can only imagine the look on my face that one of the teens was gleefully capturing on her cell phone.  Girl A took a couple of steps away, still facing Girl B, her eyes filled with rage, taunting her to fight again.  “Walk away.  Walk away,” I continued to urge in a clam, steady voice, trying my best to cover my fear with an infusion of patience and kindness.

Though the girls had stepped apart, my presence in my car with its “Peace is Possible” bumper sticker was not having the diffusing affect I had hoped for.  The taunts were rising, the crowd was not dispersing, the cell phone continued recording, and my pleas to walk away were going unheeded.

It is excruciating for me to admit, dear listener, that at this point I drove away, watching the scene in my rearview mirror.  I drove about thirty yards when the girls started lunging for one another again.  I pulled over, called 911, and reported the scene.  The dispatcher asked me if I saw a weapon.  “No,” I replied, “but this is a particularly brutal fight.” He told me to call again if I saw a weapon.  “I don’t live on this block and I have to get home to my family,” I told him.  “Alright,” he sighed, “I’ll send someone out.”

I returned home, deeply shaken, handed over the chemotherapy medication to my husband, and related the story to him and our two teenage daughters. 
So many questions about this incident keep swirling around in my head:  did Girl B suffer permanent damage to her neck or shoulders?  Was her hair pulled out by its roots?  It was a warm evening and the houses all had open windows and doors and this fight went on for some time, and yet no adult came out to break it up.  And why would the 911 dispatcher not take seriously the gravity of the situation?  No one was willing to protect Girl B.

Mostly, though, I have been consumed with the coulda-shoulda-woulda’s.  I could have driven back and, again, urged the girls to stop fighting.  I should have driven up to the men and demanded that they intervene.  I would have gotten out of the car when Girl A started her taunts, but when I saw the rage in her eyes, all I could think of was my thirteen year-old tearfully insisting in the face of her father’s rapidly advancing cancer that I must stay alive.  So I drove on.

These days I drive down the block where the fight occurred every opportunity I get.  I know that I will not be able to redeem the choice I made to drive away from the scene.  I just want to continue to be a steady, friendly presence in the neighborhood, waving hello to everyone I see, hoping, hoping that peace will be more than just a possibility.

Broadcast by Elizabeth Van Jacob on October 16, 2009 • WVPE's Audio Archive
Community • Family & Friends • Peace & War • Permalink • Printer Friendly

Friday, October 09, 2009

Driving to Minnesota

I’m on the long drive up to Minnesota, going to Mom’s house in Rochester.  I’ve been on I-90 so often lately I know all the potholes through Chicago, the trooper zones in Wisconsin, the best coffee stops and the worst restrooms.  What’s different this time is my passenger on the seat next to me.  Not a person, but a sleek folder stuffed with glossy brochures, each touting the enjoyable services of a different South Bend nursing home.

Mom had called last summer.  “I’ve got some not so good news,” she said.  “My doctor says I have Parkinson’s disease.” Parkinson’s disease.  Wow.  So this is how its going to go.  My mom, 82 years old, is a retired nurse who’d served a generation of patients at the Mayo Clinic and St. Mary’s Hospital.  Back in the day when hospitals were quiet as libraries, hospital staff actually spoke in hushed tones and every patient received a back rub at bedtime.  Mom starched her nurse’s caps on the dryer top and only spoke of her patients when I’d ask.  “Oh,” she’d just say.  “It was a difficult shift.” No drama, no gossip, no complaint. 

So you’d think, after 20 years as a hospital chaplain myself, I’d have some advantage discussing health care decisions with my mom.  But earlier attempts had not gone so well.  “So, Mom,” I said, while drying the dishes last Thanksgiving, “I hear you saying the house is getting too much to handle.” “Oh, yes,” she said.  “Well, what would you like to do,” I said, “if…anything would happen.” “I’d like to stay in the house, of course!” she said, snapping the topic shut like the lid on a medical sharps container. 

So now I’m driving back up to the north country, to sell the family home of 45 years.  And all the stuff in it.  How can this be done? I think, as I stand in the garage with my hand on the darkened wood of my dad’s massive folding ladder, speckled with generations of house paint colors.  All these possessions, rendered holy by use and time.  I’d always imagined this process as a nice family affair: a ritual of moving, with stories, laughter, sorting and saying things like, “Oh, look, Mom.  Remember this?” It hadn’t occurred to me that she might not want to remember all this.  Or that there’d be no time anyways, between the flurry of meetings I’d scheduled with the bank, the realtor, older adult services.  Sitting at her dining room table, Mom and I hold it together as a young man from a moving company explains the colored stickers we are to apply to each of her personal possessions.  Red means it stays, green means it goes to Goodwill.  Or the landfill. 

The day before closing, I drive over to our empty house one last time and set on the countertop three sets of keys, the garage door opener, and a welcome card for the single woman who bought the house.  With one hand on the doorknob ready to leave, I stand for a long moment in the sacred emptiness of the living room, where one Christmas Eve, Santa Claus himself had left this very door wide open in a burst of snow, jingling bells, and gifts strewn all around the carpet. 

Now in the fall, I look outside the bare picture window, and a small movement catches my eye, high up in the half-bare branches of our old sugar maple.  A single flaming leaf has detached and is twirling down in graceful flashes of crimson sunfire, spiraling through black branches to the ground.  There, it comes to rest, surrounded by the whole cheering assembly of other leaves that have returned from a long and full life and landed in the vast embrace of their own great mother, the Earth.

Broadcast by Jeff Nixa on October 09, 2009 • WVPE's Audio Archive
Customs & Rituals • Family & Friends • Health • Travel • Work • Permalink • Printer Friendly
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April Lidinsky -- More essays by April

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