The Stop-You-Dead Remark

Ms. 7:  Mommy, no matter what I do, you find no excuse for it.

Problem Solving

Them:  Decide in haste, repent at leisure.

Me:  But we don't have the luxury of time!

This conversation, distilled to its essence, was repeated in two entirely separate parts of my life in the last week.  In each case, I saw a looming crisis and the other party saw a major decision requiring lengthy analysis.  This is the kind of difference of opinion of which sound decisions are eventually made, of course, but it does give me personal pause.

Am I really a Chicken Little?  Always dashing about in a panic, staring wide-eyed at the sky, rallying equally skittish fellows to my ill-considered cause? 

I will say that the appropriate analogy for my standard approach to problem-solving is to ignore the instruction book and just start pushing buttons.  Rapidly.

What's yours?

Dear Dr. [Friend of Mine]:

Having taken your criticism regarding the inappropriateness of commenting upon someone’s viewpoint without actually reading their viewpoint, I’ve now scanned Dr. Churchill’s essay in its entirety (or so I assume, if this on-line version is accurate).

I absolutely agree that presuming to render an opinion based on others’ opinions of an original source is academically questionable, at best.  On the basis of my personal perusal of the source I would like to modify my own statement.  No longer will I say that Dr. Churchill’s comparison of the residents of the fallen two towers to ‘little Eichmanns’ was incendiary.  I will instead say that in my opinion his entire bloody essay was incendiary.  I don’t dispute his facts, but I object to those facts he choose to leave out (e.g. damning by association all the towers’ victims under the description of those “busy braying, incessantly and self-importantly, into their cell phones, arranging power lunches and stock transactions, each of which translated, conveniently out of sight, mind and smelling distance, into the starved and rotting flesh of infants”).  I find his use of hyperbole to make his points distasteful.

My objections to his approach do not mean that I believe he should be ousted, censured, or otherwise suffer in any way for his remarks.  Nor do they mean that I would object to having my children attend a college where he taught, or indeed to take his classes.  In fact, I would hope my girls will meet such inflammatory and opinionated speakers – and I devoutly hope they will meet them on both sides of any issue at stake.  For it’s often by comparison of the extremes that the reasonable person can come to a well-judged conclusion.

I believe the hardened incendiary is of inestimable value to society.  In fact, I’m coming to be of the opinion that die-hard visionaries and extremists make the best leaders.  Look at Hitler, just to take Dr. Churchill’s point.  I mean, Hitler was pretty effective (judging by desired results obtained) until the entire Western world ganged up on him and finally put an end to that particular brand of ‘incendiary.’

However, stepping away for a moment from the value of sheer “goddamnit, I’m right, follow me” charisma, I wonder, in this modern world, about the ultimate value of extremism, and extreme polemics.  Dr. Churchill’s valid points are almost entirely lost in the fury and broad-brush hyperbole with which he chooses to present them. 

Dr. Churchill is correct that Americans have ignored their own historic and modern genocidal approach, and their ‘sanitized’ warfare, in condemning the barbarity of other nations and cultures.  Dr. Churchill is correct that many of the white collar professional residents of the twin towers were in some way entwined in the American modus.  To claim them 'nazis,' however, is beyond acceptable (we will temporarily skip lightly over the fact that the many secretaries, waiters, janitors and other victims of lesser power were not only less entwined but in some cases arguably as much the victims of their masters as any other victim of 'collateral damage'). 

The most oft-quoted portions of Dr. Churchill’s “an eye for an eye” comparative approach not only completely misses the true answer to the modern scourge of global violence, but misses the fact that he himself promulgates it.  Dr. Churchill’s underlying point is that America has been little-touched in comparison to the hurts it has, wittingly and unwittingly dealt; thus, unless it changes its course, it can expect more terrorism.  But couched as it is in shades of unrepentant vituperation, it’s hard even for those who might agree with the general point not to recoil from the context.  This reaction is not assisted by his closing lines: 

"’You've got to learn,’ [Churchill quotes from ‘The Cotton Club’], ’that when you push people around, some people push back.’ As they should. As they must. And as they undoubtedly will. There is justice in such symmetry. “

Is 9/11, as an event, sacrosanct from critical analysis, and should it rest forever solely as a topic of American grief and hero-worship?  No.  But are the lives of those individuals lost in that tragedy a constructive tool in the great tally of “one of mine for one of yours”?  What is the value of casting blame on victims?  No more value than performing the same calculus about the life of a single American soldier caught in a firefight in Baghdad, a Palestinian child seared by an Israeli tank, a renegade member of the IRA placing explosives in the memory of family members lost, or a Sudanese woman suffocated by the successive rape of maurauding janjaweed .  Any individual anecdote or  descriptive generalization can make a bitter and lasting point.  But only when we begin to look toward the future (what use the Palestinian/Israeli peace talks, if they focused on the tally rather than tomorrow?) will we actually find resolution. 

To understand why the terrorists did what they did cannot be in any way to condone it.  Have a care, Dr. Churchill, what you call 'justice,' and whom you label 'nazi.'  Labels are sticky things.

Exposition and Expotition

In a recent interview, Lynne Cheney, on tour promoting her new children's book "When Washington Crossed the Delaware:  A Wintertime Story for Young Patriots" (which I haven't yet read and which may well be quite good) responded to a question about her opinion that American History as taught in public schools is too negative.  "Sure, it's great that children are now learning about Harriet Tubman and Frederick Douglas, and certainly our history has dark moments -- slavery definitely should not be glossed over.  But other events are too complicated for the children.  McCarthyism, for example."

I get so hot under the collar about the modern belief that children can't understand, and since they can't understand shouldn't be exposed to, life's complexities and irregularities.  Once upon a time, complex adults wrote kid's books that resonate just as much with the adult as the child, because they're so multi-layered.  The Wind in the Willows, A Wrinkle in Time, the Narnia Chronicles, Alice in Wonderland, The Hobbit, A Wizard of Earthsea, The House at Pooh Corner -- all these writers were less concerned with kiddifying real life as with putting real children in the midst of real life and letting the reader extract what s/he could, at each advancing age when s/he once again took the beloved book in hand.

My kids, sensitive to the fact that I can barely stand the Disney-pabulum Pooh books, politely asked for "the REAL Pooh" for bedtime reading last night.  So we delved into Milne's complex and multi-faceted little tale of Christopher Robin and Pooh, Rabbit, Eeyore, Piglet, Kanga and Roo and all Rabbit's friends-and-relations, setting off to find the North Pole.  There were no stylized characterizations leaping about one-dimensionally and emitting asinine noises.  There was a highly complex grouping of friends, jockeying for position with the favored man, getting things wrong and not being corrected, making up wonderful creative songs that were ignored by their comrades, and speaking at cross purposes.  Things went unexplained.  Things got confusing.  People made sacrifices and didn't get rewarded.  But somehow everyone loved each other and felt good at the end.

It was all just like real loving-family life, and wonderful with it.

This weekend, my kids and I are going on an Expotition to the North Pole with all their stuffed critters and the critters' friends-and-relations, and I expect we may discuss McCarthyism along the way.

Quotes from Ms. 4

It's Sunday morning.  The kids and spouse are sitting at breakfast.  I'm standing with my hands wrapped around a hot mug, indescribably thankful for a day with no lunches to pack, clothes to force onto reluctant small bodies, or late deadlines to rush to make up.  Ms. 4 suddenly pipes up, somewhat critically:  "Mommy, you don't look very busy."

<< ~ >>

Later in the day, she explains loudly and cheerily from the next room:  "Mommy?  I sneezed?  And some of my nose goop fell on my flip-flop?  And got between my toes?  So I'm trying to wipe it off right now."

<< ~ >>

At bedtime I smooth her flushed face and asked worriedly:  "Honey, do you have a headache?"  She leans against me soothingly.  "No, Mommy.  My head just hurts, that's all."

Vent-Writ

To:  Local Hotel

Dear Sir/Madam Manager:

The fact that I have been moved to register a complaint with you surprises me, given that I have in the past been consistently pleased with the [Hotel]'s service, both when I’ve encouraged out-of-town family and friends to stay with you, and when I’ve used your services for conferences and lodgings in my professional capacity. 

However, this weekend I was very disappointed.  I had heard from friends that you offered monthly swim passes to local families, and thought I would take the opportunity for my two daughters (7 and 4).  I called ahead and was given the basic information by your front desk (rather curtly, I should say, but at least the hastily delivered spiel seemed clear).  After I completed the call, one of my eldest’s friends called to arrange a playdate.  Because my eldest had herself previously been the guest of a family using their swim pass at your hotel, I thought nothing of inviting the other child to come with us.

When I arrived with the three children, the front desk employee was engaged with some paperwork and initially didn’t acknowledge me either by eye contact or words of welcome.  I was a little taken aback.  When I explained I had come for a swim pass, the employee turned her back to get the form and emitted what can only be described as an audible sigh of irritation.  I was, frankly, astounded, and was almost moved to suggest that much though the employee might find it onerous, an additional $50/month for the infrequent use of a pool which the hotel has to maintain in any case seemed to me rather good return for the few moments it would take to complete the transaction. 

In giving the names for the form, I stated that I had two children and a guest child.  I was firmly told that because I had no legal authority over the guest child, I could not take that child into the pool.  I said there was a precedent in that my own child had once been a guest swimmer.  Your employee stated that had that fact been known at the time, my child would have been denied swimming privileges.  I asked whether a phone call to my guest’s parents would help.  I was told it would not.  I then said I did not wish to finalize my application at that point, and turned away.  Your employee proceeded to engage the other clients, and I was pleased to note that at least those individuals were treated cordially.

The conclusions from this experience are obvious, but I’m going to take your time by stating them anyway.  First and foremost, if your hotel is going to provide swim passes, then swim pass guests should be treated with the same basic courtesy as any client.  Secondly, your front desk staff should be reminded that a harassed jeans-clad mother with three children in tow should, despite her appearance and the added irritant of the unpredictable kids, be treated as if she might have the power to influence your bottom line in other ways (as a community member, a magnet for out-of-town guests, or possibly a business client during the working week). 

Third and most relevant to this situation:  because children are often accompanied by non-blood-relative friends, it seems to me, in practice, very difficult to exclude them from your pool, regardless of whatever actual past experience or fears of liability might have underwritten your current policy.  Some guest children will come in completely innocently, as my daughter did with her friends.  Some will come because the pass holder will just simply lie about the relationship.  And of course it is quite conceivable that your actual traveler guests will be accompanied by an unrelated child – presumably it would be exceedingly awkward to exclude those children from your pool.  So your policy does not appear to me to be grounded in reality.  Far more realistic, it seems to me, is a modification requiring written permission from a guest child’s parents, or a signed statement from the pass holder dissolving the hotel of responsibility should any mishap occur to a member of the pass holder’s party, and/or an additional fee (perhaps substantive, to discourage use) for non-family guests.

However, if you feel you simply must maintain your current policy, please do at least add to your standard opening spiel, particularly when it’s given over the phone, the information that a family pass only covers actual family members.

As a businesswoman and a manager of employees myself, I know that perfection is impossible to achieve, that policies need frequent revision in the face of practical facts, and that even the best employees have bad days.  I am writing this more because of my astonishment at a lapse in what has previously been impeccable service rather than a threat that the lapse will completely change my impression of your establishment. 

Sincerely & etc.

The Power of Love

It's easy to fall into a pattern that's unrecognizable except from a distance. 

I read a how-to-parent book once that excoriated the tendency of parents to categorize their kids:  'my artistic son,' 'my little ballet dancer,' 'my budding professor.'  The point was that even if one child happens to excel in one particular area at one early point in his/her life, that doesn't mean the eager 3-year-old artist won't become a great engineer some day -- unless, the book warned, the 'artist' label is firmly affixed on her and applied to her daily, while her enterprising sibling with different temporary interests becomes the 'engineer' instead.

So I do recognize, at least (first step toward solving the problem?) that this blog is full of vignettes like my last that personify Ms. 4 as the kind, accommodating one and Ms. 7 as the haughty prima donna.  I have worried a bit about that.  Ms. 4 can be as temperamental as the next little miss, and Ms. 7 as gracious as they come -- it's just that most of the time, just now, they currently fit the other billing -- and it's so easy to write a good story about strongly delineated characters, isn't it?

Last night the overworked, underpaid staff at my kids' struggling private school put aside an hour and a half of their 'free' time to talk to me about Ms. 7.  They didn't do this because she (or I!) are a Big Problem, but because I'd expressed concern about some aggression issues and they wanted to try to help me out.  Two of the five have been her teachers, and all of the five know her.  They were kind and considerate.  They were good listeners.  They suggested all sorts of constructive things.  We laughed and we cried.  I felt I was warmly supported by a large crowd of surrogate mothers.  At the end, one of them said, "We all do love her, you know," to which I muttered:  "Sometimes I wonder why," and they all exclaimed and giggled and explained why my little "haughty prima donna" is such a smart, teachable, vibrant spirit.

In overcoming the severest of stereotypes, there's a lot to be said for the power of love.

Spring Chickens

Spring's around the corner, or so I keep telling myself, these see-your-breath mornings.  Pretty soon we'll be getting live mail.  Ordering bees is exciting (and always wins grim comments from the postpeople), but getting a box of chicks is just downright too-cute.  If the source farm did its job right, there's little if any attrition, and it's magical to open the box and see all the fluffy peepers.

Last year after a successful chick shipment my youngest (then 3) initiated a game.  "Mommy," she'd demand, "Pretend I'm your baby chick and you're my mommy, but I can't walk OR talk yet.  Pretend you just got me in the mail.  Say this:  'Oooooh, what's in this box?' Then when I peep, say 'I'm SOOO glad to see you, baby chick.  Every time the phone rang I thought it would be the post office calling me to tell me my chick arrived, and this time, it WAS!'" 

I'd obliging go through the lines, and generally get them wrong and have to repeat them, often several times.  Her very real delight at my feigned astonishment was inexhaustable.

My eldest (then 6) generally (somewhat surprisingly) went along with this little byplay without even trying to insert herself.  But one day she was grumpy, and as the youngest waited with smiling anticipation while I breathlessly opened the imaginary box, the eldest strode up, took a hard look in the box, and stated flatly:

"Ooops.  Chick's dead.  Too bad."

Definitely a don't-dare-laugh-or-cry moment.

Fire and Ice

Solid red-gold sparks stream up from the fire's heart into inky blackness, break into scintillating bits, spray outwards, and fall, fiery dots, into nothingness.  Foaming snow at the fire-edge curls seamlessly into waves of white-gray ash boiling from glaring heat.  All around, snowfields pierced by clumps of dried grass reflect the lopsided moon, soaring now above contrails and Orion's faded belt in her own cold mystery. 

last night my husband burned brushpiles in the winter fields, and the kids and I, dwarfed by the spectacle, turned like manikins, warming one side in the blistering heat and chilling the other in the wind off the hilltop.

The Subtext

I was an onlooker to a conversation recently between an accountant and an engineer that consisted almost entirely of numbers.  It went something like this:

At this point, the engineer looked at me and I rolled my eyes, because I knew it was supposed to be a joke.  Fortunately this was all the interaction required of me, because even though I'm familiar with the numbers they were bandying about and should have followed the exchange easily, in truth the whole thing was entirely lost on me.  Because I wasn't focussing on the words, I was enjoying an invisible, silent (and for all I know completely fallacious) subtext to the conversation having nothing to do with the topic at hand.

I'm like that.  I work in an environment rife with numbers and specifications.  I think I provide what's necessary, but I certainly don't add much to the dialogue.  My role is generally facilitative:  the organization of people and numbers into boxes and timeframes, and the analysis of how to better that organization.  This affords me the opportununity to be a voyeur in an unusual setting:  the studier of subtext in a context where subtext is often entirely denied. 

People don't, of course, actually fall neatly into the stereotypical categories society creates for them, but it's axiomatic that if you focus your creative energy on numbers and specifications you might ignore the greyer areas of personality and human foible.  You might even prefer to claim they don't exist -- or at the least, are less important than more subjective data.

On the other hand, studiers of subtext need be wary as well.  Having a conversation with me can be a bit of a minefield.  You say:

"Well -- looks like the weather's improved since morning!"

and I hear:

"I'm distraught about my partner and may commit some desperate act this afternoon."

It makes for a great story, but it renders actual communication a little tenuous.