I Hate To Say It, But…..You’re a Bigot.

26 Jan, 2012 in Blog by

We all know our country faces plenty of challenges. The economy. The role of the world’s watchdog. Health care. The environment. We will debate them all, and then some, plenty this year.
But yesterday I realized – none of them matter.
Let me explain.
Yesterday I visited the local gym for the first time. I forgot my iPod, but was content enough to thumb through my Blackberry’s screens.  About three treadmills to my right was a group of three women – two younger and one middle-aged, who apparently work out together regularly.
One of the younger one mentions visiting her boyfriend’s mother in a local nursing home. She had not been to the facility in several years, but was not happy about the changes, and the resulting level of care. What was different, the other women wondered out loud.
“Ghet-to!!” the exasperated girl said, with great emphasis.

As you probably know, or could guess, “ghetto” is a not-to-subtle way for white people to say there is an influx of black people.  I thought maybe the “conversation” would stall there. But they were just getting started.

• “The level of care there has so deteriorated,” said the first girl. “The workers – they seem to be there just for a paycheck – no bedside manner.”
• “I hate to even ask,” the middle-aged woman said, “but how many white people were working there?”
Okay, big tip her folks. If you start a sentence with “I hate to even ask” — it’s a pretty good sign that, in fact, you should not ask. Whatever is on your mind. Don’t say it. Don’t write it on a piece of paper. Move on.
• “Not a one,” the girl said. “It was all blacks. They just want their paychecks and to go home.”

Okay, here is where I thought two things.  1. Newt Gingrich would be so proud of our local “blacks” – they actually want a paycheck, not “entitlement” to foodstamps. 2. I wondered what this girl did for a living and if she approached it with such zeal that she forgot she even was owed a paycheck at the end of the week. I would guess not.
• “I hate to even say it….” the middle-aged woman said. “But the black people; they seem to know all about their ancestors, their relatives, and they almost operate out of anger. Like it’s time for payback.”
Again if you “hate to even say it” you shouldn’t.  And to take the customer service levels of workers at a nursing home to the level of “they’re paying us back for slavery” seems a bit racist to me. Okay, it seems overwhelmingly racist to me, but like going from Point A to Point T.  And, by the way, slavery is a pretty good reason to “operate out of anger,” though I don’t in the least bit agree with her.
• “She just had a stroke, and I figured someone should turn her over to make her more comfortable. I knew what she needed, so I took her outside for a cigarette. Can’t someone, anyone, take her out front to have a cigarette.”

I would like to think this was one random conversation in one gym. Or even that my town somehow was this pocket of ignorance. I let it go for a few hours.


Then on Tuesday night, I saw U.S. Rep. Gabrielle Giffords at the President’s State of the Union. I remembered the horrific events of over a year ago. And how there were calls for a toned-down rhetoric in our politics, in our lives. In how we treated each other.  It’s as if we listened to each other that week and intentionally carried ourselves in the opposite manner afterwards.
Forget politics. Back to my original point. None of the issues to be debated this year even matter.

As long as white people in Indiana describe a nursing home staffed by African-Americans as “ghetto.” As long as we dismiss “normal” Muslims as the exception, rather than the rule. As long as we believe in the same God, but dispatch other religions to hell for holding different beliefs. As long as we treat those who don’t believe in God differently. As long as we instantly judge an Indian by his pigmentation, a Frenchman for his accent, a southerner by his Confederate flag.
If we cannot even manage that, how can we possibly move forward on the issues that affect us all, have conversations about who in our society should be helped, ignored, or taxed more by our government.
You can have your Newt. Your Obama. Even your Paul. It won’t matter.

If “ghetto” comes from your lips to describe another person, we’ll never have the kind of discussion that  will move our country forward. We’ll all be in living in the ghetto – the ghetto of the mind – and there ain’t no government program that can help us then.

 

 

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Reading Glasses, Pillboxes and Nosehairs: Tom Turns 40

20 Dec, 2011 in Blog, Humor Blog by

I try to schedule my work day so I can fit in a nap.
Most days something hurts or doesn’t move the way it’s supposed to.
I’m lost without my reading glasses.
The word I speak the most in any given day is “Huh?”
I own a pillbox.
When I get a haircut, it includes ears, eyebrows, and nostrils.
In other words, I’m turning 40.
And, I’m sure I will receive a lot of “over the hill” reminders on my birthday (the 21st, or the shortest day of the year as many friends and family who don’t care about my blood pressure, call it. Every day, I remind them, is 24 hours). But it doesn’t feel like a big deal to me.

Then again, the only birthday I’ve struggled with until now was my 28th. I used the logic that I could no longer consider myself in my “mid-20s” but I was decidedly “late 20s.” Like most 28 year olds, I wanted to hold on to the fun-first, ask-questions –later nature of my early to mid 20s. At that time 30 seemed so….significant.

It was, of course, but not for the reasons I feared, but for the reasons I now embrace.
At 30, I believe, life begins. It begins, in large part, because it changes (not always for the better) and because you finally have a firm grip on your own life and identity to make correct, measured decisions based on who you are. Who you KNOW you are.
I don’t think you really know who you are before 30 because you’re not done growing. Your brain, your maturity, your focus, your experience – they are all works in progress. The last 10 years of my life have in many ways been the worst 10 my “traditional” measures – divorce, health issues, financial struggles, career fluctuation, and, of course, family drama.
But the truth is it has been truly the best decade.  Those experiences have allowed me to receive new friends, new opportunities, strengthen relationships that were not as strong as they could have been, and to respond to adversity in a productive, adult manner.
Sure it’s more fun to have fun in your 20s, but it’s more important that you move the world forward in your 30s. I hope I’ve been able to do that.
(Of course, if all this adversity has struck when I was in my teens, I would have “grown up” much faster, but I believe that in your 30s is when friends, career, and family all present very adult challenges.)
Know all of this is not to say I’m all grown up. Anyone who knows me knows I’m always searching for the laugh line, the clever answer, or the way to lighten the mood. Being mature does not mean you have to be serious. If you don’t laugh every day, you will never grow. Just trust me, don’t try to disprove me – you’ll be better off.
All of this is hindsight of course. This all didn’t become clear until I slowed down, became self-aware, and answered first to myself, not to expectations.  I don’t know what I will say about my 40s in late 2021, other than all the shit that hurt or reaching my toes became an issue. I do know I’m happier than I’ve ever been, I’ll be able to receive great blessings that come my way, or deal with adversity head-on.
At 40, I’m comfortable in my own skin, at my station in life, and ready for what’s next.
Well, what’s next is that I need to trim nose hairs. Or take an Advil for my sore back. Or pee again for the 10th time today. Physically, I may be banged up, but emotionally I’ve healed and grown  and have never felt better.
Bring on the 40s.

 

 

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R.E.M. Breaks Up Due to the Changes on Facebook.

21 Sep, 2011 in Blog, Humor Blog, Satire by

In news that shocked the worlds of music and social media, superband REM announced today that they have broken up. Because of the new Facebook changes.

“We’ve built a career on change, at least changing the status quo, questioning authority and challenging the mainstream. We simply felt our time has come,” the band wrote on its website. “And Facebook is now the Man. We couldn’t think of a better way to kick the Man in the teeth  than to back away on this very day, they day Zuckerberg changed our lives forever.”
Asked how giving up and walking away from a decades-long career was in any way a sign of rebellion or protest, a spokesperson for the band said “Go fucking ask Green Day. We’re old. And we’re tired.”
REM specifically cited the new streaming news feed/status update thing on the right side. Years of drugs, they said, made their eyes sensitive to anything that moved quickly. Plus, they added, they do not care if you made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and it made you feel all warm inside. The chat box below it made no sense either.
“Someone’s online; someone’s offline; there are more online friends. Someone’s got to stand up and say ‘Facebook, what the fuck?’ and that someone is REM,” a spokesperson said.
Asked if there were other factors involved in their decision to walk away from one another, the band said they couldn’t even write a positive song about a Democratic president.
“He’s black, he’s liberal, he’s actually getting a lot done, but yawn,” the spokesperson said. “If REM can’t get worked up over a black, liberal, progressive president, that’s pretty much a ballgame, isn’t it? Did I mention he’s black, for fuck’s sake?”

REM assured fans to never say never. Despite breaking up, they have hired a new manager to handle the affairs of dividing the band — Brett Favre. He has recommended that the band continually hint at a comback, and to wait until a worldwide tour could net them a billion dollars to perform again.

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Goldilocks and the Three Quizzes

15 Sep, 2011 in Blog, Humor Blog by

As you probably know, I do not have any kids. So all of my new experiences with Creature 1 and Creature 2 are brand new – at least to me. Because they are ages 13 and 10, I didn’t go through the diaper changing, the terrible twos, or the “constant question” phase.  Actually, it seems l played this perfectly.
But one of the things I didn’t get to do was help them to learn to read. One of my own great childhood memories was learning to read with my dad when I was a kid. We’d read after dinner outside at the picnic table. Hardy Boys mysteries. I’ll never forget it. So I’m sorry I didn’t get the same chance with the Creatures.
Creature 2 enjoys reading as if it were, well, broccoli. Her homework calls for 20 minutes of reading nightly. She hates it, especially when we send her to her room to read because we are hogging the living room watching mindless TV.
Last night, instead of sending her away (there were no football games of any kind on), I asked her to read to me instead. She wanted to read a book of selected folk tales which is ideally suited for a child much younger, but I agreed, knowing it would give me a good baseline for her reading. So, as is the case with Creature 2, she turned it into a game. She played the teacher, reading to me and about 15 imaginary students.
First up was Goldilocks and the Three Bears.  We all know the story – she tries the chairs, the porridge and the beds and one was just right. But, to me, hearing the story for the first time in about 35 years, I had some questions:

  • Why the hell was she in the woods? I mixed up my childhood stories and assumed she was visiting her grandmother.  I wondered why everyone’s grandmothers lived in forests in these stories. Mine lived in a Cape Cod style house about a mile from the beach. But whatever. My other grandmother died when I was four years old. These kids should be happy to even have a grandma, even if she lives in some forest somewhere.
  • What the hell business did she have to break into the Three Bears’ home? What was she looking for, a bathroom? After she breaks in, she eats the porridge? What the hell? It’s obviously still warm, so shouldn’t she be concerned she would get caught? She’s leaving her fingerprints all over the place too. Surely, her parents watch CSI so she should know to poke around while holding a handkerchief. Sheesh. 
  • After all this trespassing and making herself at home, knowing the porridge was hot and busting a chair, she goes up to take a nap? Is this girl a certified nut job? Or is she just asking for a life of crime? She must be a latch key kid, or the spawn of a crack whore. Clearly that’s why she is headed to grandma’s house – poor old grandma is her only competent caregiver. The deck is stacked against this kid, clearly. 
  • So the Bears come home and what happens? They catch the little juvenile delinquent sleeping in their beds, after they discover she’s been eating their food and destroying their furniture. Frankly, she’s lucky Pappa Bear didn’t blow her head off with a shotgun, but it’s a kid’s story so I won’t harp on that. So what’s her reaction? She jumps out of the window. On the upper floor. And, like in all the cartoons kids watch (remember the Road Runner?) she is not harmed. This is illogical. Kids need to learn logic. This, I would submit, is a terrible story for the purpose of logic. And we wonder why most adults turn out to be dolts.

After she jumped out the window and runs home, I asked Creature 2 what happened next. She said “That’s the end of the story.”   “Very funny,” I said. “What happens next?”
“Tom I’m serious, that’s the end.” After my 5 minute rant that no story can end with a trespassing child jumping out of a second story window, not even suffering as much as a twisted ankle and scampering home to safety without any repercussions for her illegal acts. (In the real world, she would have been left there to die, just the way Ron Paul would want it.) I then made the mistake of asking for clarification: Where did she run? Her grandma’s house?
Creature 2 furrowed her brow? What Grandma she asks? Uh oh. What Creature 2 now realizes was that I was not paying full attention to her story. (She went into the woods to pick berries and lived near the woods, never a mention of a grandmother anywhere in the story. Oops, my bad.) 

 
So, because she is playing teacher, she gives me a pop quiz.
And I decide to mock her little quiz. Thank God, it was not an oral exam. I was able to write down my answers. I took full mockery advantage.  For example:
Q: Why did Goldilocks go into the woods?
A: To take a dump. (I figured if the bears had a house in the woods, the people in the story would shit in the woods. In my world, that’s logical.)
 
Q: Which chair was just right?
A: The polka-dotted chair
 
Q: Which porridge was just right?
A: Actually, she poured a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios.
 
Now, if you know Creature 2, there are two things she hates: being mocked, and knowing you are not paying 1000 percent attention to her and everything in her world. But somehow I pulled it off. The whole thing turned out to be so silly that we laughed about it. And then we read two more stories, and I took another quiz.
 
The long and the short of it all? She forgot she was doing homework, and we have a “date” Monday night to read together again. I just hope she picks a story that’s a little more logical and makes more sense than that silly Goldilocks tale. And that there are no quizzes.  I can’t handle another failing grade in reading class.

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Ten Years Later: Who’s Winning?

9 Sep, 2011 in Blog by

Ten years ago Sunday was one of the worst days of my life; it was for sure the worst day of my professional life as well.

I remember that I was the only reporter in the newsroom at about 20 minutes before 9 a.m. on September 11, 2001. I had just finished welcoming my boss back from his vacation and I was slowly sipping an extra large Dunkin’ Donuts coffee. The hot beverage was my routine, but I specifically remember that cup because during the walk to my office I observed that is was such a beautiful day; warm but not hot. And the combination of a blue sky and brilliant sunshine that, on any other day, you would think you could only write about.

The first reports were of a small aircraft errantly slamming into one of the Trade Towers, about 50 miles from my hometown of Stamford, CT. Then there were scattered rumors/stories on the wire about possible other airline incidents and the possibility that all flights would be grounded, as a precaution. Those of us in the newsroom gathered around the television, keeping an eye on the news wires, and called loved ones and friends who worked in lower Manhattan. Then the second plane slammed into the other tower. And I’ll never forget my reaction.

I laughed.

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It was not a laugh of humor; my colleagues knew that. My laugh was well known in the newsroom.  My desk was out of sight from most corners of the large room; my laugh found every nook and cranny. 

It was a laugh of disbelief. A laugh to express incredulousness.  A laugh of uncertainty.

As we watched history unfold, we all knew we had a job to do. But we didn’t know how to do it. What questions do we ask? To whom do we ask them? For about 20 or 30 minutes, we just sat and watched.

An hour later I was dispatched to the Darien, CT offices of Cantor Fitzgerald, the company we knew occupied several upper floors of one of the towers. Keep in mind, we had no idea the extent of life lost that day – whether as of 10 a.m. we were even speculating on what that number could be – or whether we would be under attack all day.

I parked my car in the lot outside the office building in Darien. I took a deep breath, trying to articulate either in my head or my narrow reporter’s notebook just what questions to ask. I sat for a minute.

Then I cried.

Within view of that building was a residential neighborhood. Did any of those houses belong to the men and women of Cantor Fitzgerald who were surely lost just 120 minutes earlier? Who would tell their children that Mommy or Daddy wouldn’t be home tonight. Or ever again.

After a tearful 10 minutes, I walked as slowly as I could into the building. When I identified myself to the security guard, I prayed in my head that he would turn me away. I’m doing my job, I thought, now do yours.

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Doing my job that day wasn’t easy. The emotional and patriotic aspects aside, there were simply no answers that day. My job was to find local angles associated with a truly international event. In an ironic sense, news gathering was difficult on the biggest news day of my life.

We planned, we brainstormed, we thought about the angles. Mostly we wondered. Who? Why? 

I pretended to be busy at the end of the day. I stayed a little later than normal, but honestly there was nothing to do. Like so many others, I went home. I absent-mindedly made dinner. I ate it in front of the television. I didn’t move until I couldn’t keep my eyes open.

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It’s 10 years later. Life, as we knew it, has forever changed, and yet nothing has changed. We remain under attack. But our greatest attack comes from each other.

The events of that day sparked two wars. Two expensive wars. Our economy has suffered and so many people we know are unemployed or underemployed We are debating the very nature of government spending and priorities. They tell us we are in a crisis.

Wall Street, so fundamentally affected that day 10 years ago on a human level, tells us daily how we should feel. On a financial level. Which enables us to direct our anger, frustration or dissatisfaction to whichever party, institution or office that would make us feel better.

We call each other names and use nasty language. Liar. Socialist. Dangerous. Ponzi scheme. We don’t show footage of the planes crashing into the buildings on TV because the images are upsetting. Yet our talk, our tone, our attitudes toward each other and those who hold differing opinions are designed specifically to upset. To bait our enemies; to embolden our foot soldiers. To get a reaction, or a headline.

We might have killed bin Laden, but I can’t help but think “The terrorists are winning. Still. Ten years later.” When you fight from within, you give your true enemies power and you weaken your ranks.

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The security guard that day did turn me away. “Tom,” he said. “You can understand it’s a horrendous situation here and we don’t know much. I just can’t help you. Not today.”  He looked me in the eye with true respect and sincerity. I did something I’ve never done after being turned away. I shook his hand. I wished him luck. Told him I would say a prayer for him and everyone there.

“Thank you, Tom,” he said. “Let’s all pray for each other.” And he nodded.

I got in the car and cried again. As I drove back to work, I wondered if that security guard would have used my name on September 10. Or, instead, did we have a new found respect for one another?

I never want anything even close to the events of that day to transpire again during my lifetime. But I do want that respect back. A handshake, a nod, an unspoken gaze from a man I would meet just one time in my life. Prayers from a man who had no idea who I voted for, in which income bracket I belonged, or even whether I believed in God.

As people we are the same. It is our choice to separate ourselves from one another. Ten years later, can’t we honor those who died that day, and the thousands that followed, by questioning that choice? They deserve at least that from us.

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