Out of Courtesy

Have you seen the news coverage of the brawls at malls all across the country? We have come to expect a melee at Walmart on Black Friday, but out and out mob violence at the local shopping center on the day after Christmas seems to be yet another new low for the US. It wasn’t just a mall or two; 12 malls in different parts of the country had to shut down to stop the clashes.

This level of discord is a concrete sign of the disconnect we have in our politics, our lifestyles, our wealth, really any area in which we can differ. With all the talk we have had about hope and tolerance and acceptance and coexistence, all we have really seemed to unite about is being against one another.

At the core of our dissonance is what I consider to be one of the key issues: a lack of civility. We are no longer a civilized society. We used to at least pretend to be polite to one another. We might have occasionally let someone in front of us in traffic. We would try to find patience in line at the grocery store. Hell, we used to wait in line. Now, we have devolved from a community with a sense of belonging to isolated beings with no regard for our fellow humans.

About a month ago, my daughter, E, stood at the crosswalk by her high school. There is a school crossing sign on the side of the road but no crossing guard to help older students safely walk from one side to the other. When E stepped into the road and walked, one car didn’t stop until it was mere inches from hitting her. She crossed the street in a clearly marked space during school hours when drivers should slow down and certainly stop for pedestrians, but that’s also a thing we don’t do anymore. So she was almost hit by the car.

The driver, who had to slam on her brakes, was also a high school student, a sophomore with a learning permit. Her mother was in the passenger seat next to her, ostensibly to offer guidance. The student put down her window and yelled at E.

 

This is what she said, with her mother next to her: What the fuck are you doing?

My daughter stood in the road, still shaking from her near miss. E didn’t respond verbally, but she did give the girl the finger. I have talked to E about flipping people off. It is one of those gestures that just makes people flip their shit. There is no turning back from the finger. She didn’t defiantly raise her hand in the air. She kept it discreetly by her side, where you would have to look closely to see it was an obscene gesture and not a nervous tic. The mother saw my daughter’s middle finger for what it was.

 

She leaned across the car and yelled this: Don’t you ever do that to my daughter again or I will fucking rape you in the ass.

My daughter told me this story when she got home from school that afternoon. E was still upset, not so much that she was almost hit by a car because that is an almost daily occurrence. She could not believe a mother, seated next to her own daughter, would yell such a vile thing to another female child. It was so shocking to both of us. I didn’t even know what to tell her, other than to stop flipping off people. Short of taking out her phone to record the incident or to snap a photo of the license plate, she really didn’t have any options.

We spent a week or so saying it to each other, to take some of the power out of the words. Do the laundry or I’ll fucking rape you in the ass. Pack your lunch or I’ll fucking rape you in the ass. Make your bed or I’ll…you get the idea. Humor, however inappropriate, took away a bit of the sting.

Here’s my point. If we are a society where women are comfortable threatening children with anal rape for crossing the street at a crosswalk in a school zone, then we are most definitely a society that will fight over a half-price hoodie at the mall. We will say whatever we want to strangers on the Internet. We will get ours before they get theirs. We believe we are entitled, more so than the other people may think that they are the entitled ones. It turns our that we are all wrong.

We may not like the outcome of the presidential election. We may not think life is fair. We may not worship the same, or any, god. We may believe respect is earned and not demanded. Can’t we at least agree to the golden rule? Can we not treat others as we would like to be treated? Can we not make an effort to find the common ground or at least follow some semblance of orderly politeness?

I, for one, make an effort in little ways. I observe yield signs and red lights.  I wait my turn for service at restaurants and in stores. I teach my children to be kind, not judgmental. It sure would be swell if some more of us could try a little kindness and a little less complaining. A touch of civility could be the secret to making our society better. It certainly couldn’t hurt, and it won’t cost any of us a thing.

Kids Say the Darndest Things

When kids are young, they love to share things they’ve learned with their parents. I remember those days well. My daughters, E and S, always seemed eager to tell me about school. Maybe it was something that happened on the playground, or a lesson about their favorite animal, or maybe learning about the moon or the planets. Everything was new to them, and they were pure and innocent and curious.

Now, my two girls are teenagers, and while they probably tell me way more than their friends tell their parents, it is just not the same. Maybe it’s because, at 16 and 14, they are already a bit jaded and burned out from too much homework and being able to tell when assignments are a waste of time. Maybe it’s because they are not learning anything new that’s worth mentioning. Truth be told, there is less excitement over, say, logarithms then there would be over manatees. Even the stories of their classmates are more shocking than amusing. Let me illustrate that point for a second.

S (about two weeks ago): Hey Mama, you know that boy who is always looking at my butt? Well, he got suspended for a week for making Lean in the bathroom. I won’t have to deal with him breathing on my neck in math! Praise the Lord!

Lean, for those of you who are neither the parents of teenagers nor in the hip-hop community, is a recreational beverage involving codeine cough syrup, Sprite or Mountain Dew, and a Jolly Rancher candy. Also, this boy likes to make my daughter uncomfortable regularly. It’s not just her and not just that boy; it’s kind of how a lot of middle schoolers interact with each other. Perhaps you remember?

Here’s another one.

E: Hey Mom, guess what happened at school today. This girl got into a big argument with this asshole boy that no one likes and today someone spray painted a large blue dick on the side of her car and it was probably him cause he’s done that kind of thing before. And her car’s white! Ha! That shit isn’t coming off without a fight.

These are the teenage equivalent of what happened at school today. It’s enough to make you not want to ask anymore. The stories tend to involve girl fights, drug arrests, or naked snapchats from the 8^th grade mattress back that the whole school sees. We have moved past the conversations about showing kindness and compassion or not joining in on the gossip because what if it were them. According to both of them, all the stories are true, all the time. And sometimes they are documented, so even if they do sound fucking ridiculous, they can still be true.  They reassure me they don’t talk like this at school, but save it up for me when they get home.

I don’t really feel reassured.

For the record, my kids go to pretty good public schools. Mostly affluent area of town, lots of overachievers and competition for good colleges and honors and AP classes. Also lots of entitled brat narcissists with Jeep Wranglers and a pocketful of Mom and Dad’s prescriptions. Seriously, what is the definition of a good school today?

Every once in a while, however, they will come home with something new they learned, and it’s almost magical, that despite the fact that they, nay, all teenagers, know everything, they can still learn something new.

E, who is almost finished with her sophomore year, came home all excited a few weeks ago. Normally she comes home and scowls, eats anything she can find in the pantry, and then lumbers upstairs to sleep it off. Sometimes, she comes home and cries. Excited is not usually what the coming home looks like.

E: Hey Mom, do you know how sloths mate?

Me: Um, no. Should I?
E: Yes, you should. I’m going to tell you all about it. It’s really cool. The female sloth gets all worked up, but she is too lazy to leave her tree, right?
Me: Right.
E: So to let the male sloths know she is ripe and ready, she starts to scream, like this.

E emits this high-pitched screech. It was quite unpleasant, like a girl who sees a bug in her bathroom or when two girls run into each other at Target. Here is an actual sloth making the same sound:

Me:  I get it, you can stop now. So then what happens?

E: Well, she just hangs from the tree, screaming like that. And then a male sloth might hear her and think, oh snap, it’s time to smash…
Me: Where did you learn this, exactly?
E: Just wait, so he gets out of his tree and follows the scream sound until he finds her.
Me: And then what happens?
E: They smash.
Me: When did smash become a thing?
E: You’re old. It was always a thing.
Me: So what do they do?
E: They mate. I told you.
Me: Well, what’s so special about sloths mating? I thought that was the point of the story.
E: It was mostly the scream.
Me: Ah. Thanks for sharing that. Great story.
E: Why don’t we have anything good to eat?

If you have little kids, talk to them every day. Act interested in all the stories. Comment and really participate. Because one day in the not -too-distant future, those stories will either stop altogether or morph into something you aren’t sure you want to hear.

 

Coexist Much?

Well, the kids have been back in school for less than a week, and already, religious intolerance is rearing its ugly head. Normally it takes a few weeks of getting to know each other before the teenagers let their true colors show, but when your true colors are patterned like a confederate flag, well, I guess you feel entitled to show them to everyone.

My family lives in the South, and like many southern communities, the majority of the residents in my town are church affiliated. Christianity here is bigger than college football, which is almost a religion of its own. And when I say Christianity, I really mean evangelicals, those lovely fundamentalists who feel the need to convert or condemn anyone who does not share their beliefs. They do an excellent job of indoctrinating their children with the righteousness and entitlement they feel that comes from their personal relationship with their lord and savior.

I’m not judging them. Everyone is free to believe and practice what feels right, as long as it doesn’t infringe on the next person’s set of beliefs. That’s where it gets a little hazy for some folks.

My younger daughter is in 8^th grade. She has been no stranger to the horrible comments lots of Jewish kids hear. Nothing makes the momma bear in me come out faster than having another kid tell mine that she is going to burn in hell because she is Jewish, but no matter how big the stink I make, another kid will step up to take a turn.  Since 8^th grade is her last year of middle school, most of the kids who know her already know she is a Jew and have shared their prophesy with her, leaving them free to aim it at someone else who isn’t white or Christian.

One of her good friends happens to be Muslim, and she began wearing a hijab this year. It was a very personal decision for her friend, who up til now had not covered her head even when her twin sister chose to a few years ago. These girls, who were born in the US and are therefore as American as the rednecks who harass them, have had to deal with terrorist jokes for their entire middle school experience. They have always risen above the comments and display a level of maturity and confidence that shows more about their religious beliefs then the so-called Christian students. One kid asked S’s friend why she started covering her head. She didn’t answer hi since it was none of his business, so he followed it up with asking if she was a Muslim. When she told him yes, he wanted to know if that meant she was from Islam. She looked at him with what I hope was as much judgment as he showed her and said, I was born right here in this city.

If it were me, I would have said yes. Yes, I am from Islam, you oblivious piece of crap. I happen to know for a fact that the seventh grade social studies classes were required to learn all the countries and maps of the world. I wonder where this future McDonald’s employee thinks Islam is located.

Meanwhile, over at the high school, my older daughter, E, was having her own religious experience. She has a much different approach to her Jewish identity than her sister. She doesn’t really give a shit what anyone thinks, and she is much less likely to be polite about it. Because she is less sensitive, she gets a lot more ribbing than her sister does, which she thinks is funny. Some of it comes from her friends but she gives it back as good as she gets it, so it’s all okay for the whole lot of them.

This week it wasn’t her one of her friends that was teasing her. Some dumb freshman, according to my sophomore child, was following her and another of her friends down the hall. They were having a conversation about the Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur holidays next month, and the freshman behind her asked her if she ate Ramadan because she was Jewish. Let that sink in for a minute.

E gave him a look that should have made him throw himself off a rooftop, but instead, he continued to follow her down the hall shrieking “Ramadan” at her. Finally, she turned around and yelled, “Jesus Christ, would you cut it out?” The boy immediately stopped and was truly outraged. “You know,” he said, “that’s taking it too far. I was just messing with you, but you really shouldn’t say that. It’s offensive.”

She stared at him and then screamed,” Just shut the fuck up!” The hall erupted in great boisterous laughter because someone yelled the F word. He stopped following her, and that was the end of that.

Both my daughters still tell me stuff, and they each shared these stories with me. While they aren’t really the same at all, at the core they share the same level of ignorance. These aren’t little kids. These are kids who have had at least a small amount of book learning on world geography and different religions and what happens when we don’t accept and respect one another.  Do they pay absolutely no attention to what is presented to them in class? Do they watch no news at all, either on television or the internet? Is there no discussion of different cultures in their homes?

The answer to all of those is most likely no. Intolerance is easy when you surround yourself with your own kind. You go to school and church with white Christians. You wear your bracelet or your Forever 21 shirt with crosses all over it. You might have one black friend or know one smart Asian kid, but you don’t have them over to your house. If all you see is white and Christian, you expect the whole world to be just like you.  Well guess what, even in nineteen of the United States you are becoming a minority, never mind the rest of the world, so it might be time to rethink your position.

When I hear about people feeling their religious freedoms are being suppressed, it just infuriates me. There is no war on Christmas, but there is district testing on the high holy days. Nobody asks you if you are from Bethlehem because you are Christian, but my kids get asked all the time if they can say something in Jewish and if they come from Israel. There is no official religion in our country, yet our biggest holidays celebrate the birth and death of a guy who wasn’t even Christian!

Do me a favor and stop telling my daughters they are going to burn in hell, because guess what, we don’t believe in hell, so there.

Run for Your Life

Last summer, my older daughter E began training for the high school cross country team.  It didn’t really involve me much, so I didn’t mind. I didn’t have to drive her often, and since the season had not officially commenced, I didn’t have to sit through races or relays or meets or whatever it's called when cross country teams compete against each other.  She carpooled most mornings with a generous mom in the neighborhood who liked to get her morning run in while the team ran their designated course or did their conditioning, which mostly involved lots of crunches and planks on old beach towels in the parking lot. The park did feature a sexual deviant who hung out in his car and watched until some vigilant parents alerted the authorities, but he never really interacted with any of the kids. All in all, it was a good season, and E enjoyed it enough to go for another year.

This summer, E hasn’t really gotten into the team spirit. We spent much of the summer traveling, which put a real damper on the training and conditioning. She packed her running shoes for our trip to London and Paris, but she really didn’t have time to use them. Running in another country isn’t the kind of thing you do as a novice runner or a novice traveler, and she was both. Her running shoes sat unused for the whole trip.

We went to the beach soon after, and again, she wasn’t much in the mood for training. The beach has all that humidity, even in the wee hours of dawn, and you have to be a pretty devoted runner to get up before sunrise to get moving before the temperature surpasses the humidity level.  Add to that her fifteen years, her general ennui, her love of sleeping in, and yeah, ain’t nobody got time for that. We did have plenty of time for croissants and pastries overseas and hush puppies and ice cream at the beach. E is a trooper though, and she came home and cold turkeyed most of that at the same time she started running at least three mornings a week.

Seriously, the struggle is real.

Her cross country season doesn’t start until the school year begins, but the coach encourages the team to condition all summer long. Since we’ve been back in town, E has been getting up and out of the house before seven to meet her fellow team members at the park across from the high school. The good news is the park is as sketchy as ever.

How sketchy? Well, let’s see. Last summer, as I mentioned, there was the constant presence of the pedophile in the parking lot. During the school year, the team would meet there and run after school, where they were joined in the park by the pot heads who would get high and harass them. The coach would encourage the burnouts to leave, but he never called the police. Honestly, what was he going to do, call it in every afternoon? At some point, he needed to do the business of coaching. It’s the kind of park where you expect to see broken glass and cigarette butts in the sand box and used condoms on the asphalt. It’s a real community park, open to everyone.

This summer has upped the ante. Last weekend, a gunshot victim was found in the park. I can’t say for sure if he was murdered there or just dumped, but regardless, a lifeless body was found with some exit wounds and no breathing. This is not the kind of thing a mom wants to hear.

I waited for some communique from the coach, an email or text or something to address this little piece of  bad news, something to reassure us parents that our children would be safe, that he took their welfare seriously, that their well-being mattered to him as much as their pace.

I am still waiting for that, by the way. I didn’t contact him myself because, let’s get real, I have a fifteen year old daughter who can barely function from all the mortifying humiliation I cause her. She begged me not to say anything, pointing out that the dead body had already been collected by the coroner and, therefore, the park had returned to the status quo. So I did nothing, waiting instead for E to let me know all was well.

I played twenty questions with her that first morning practice after the alleged murder. No, there was no yellow caution tape in the park. Yes, there was a clean-up crew pressure-washing the area of discovery.  No, there was no white chalk outline. Yes, there were still some mystery stains. No, the coach wasn’t there. Yes, the team captains were instructed to warn the kids about running alone. 

E also let me know there was a new sexual predator hanging around the parking lot, although she wasn’t sure if he was interested in the cross country high school team or the little league baseball team. She also reported that someone dug a hole in the back of the park and filled it up with dirty diapers, the stench of which almost made her puke.

For all you parents who have kids on other teams, take a moment to appreciate what you have. The kids who show up in the heat to play football on the practice field. The girls hitting the volleyball court hard. The basketball games in countless gyms. Those kids all do their sportsing in a designated sporting area, the school gym, the fields near it, the swimming pool. Not so the cross country runners, who like the big mammals of the ocean, need space and miles to do what they do best. These are as close to free range children as there are anymore, and for good reason.

I have to tell you, we live in a nice area of town. I shouldn’t have to worry about homicide, sexual assault, or illegal diaper dumping when I send her off to practice her team sport. I don’t want to discourage my child from participating, so I try to disguise my fears with some advice. You don’t have to be the fastest runner on your team, I tell her, just faster than the kid next to you.

All That Glitters is Gold

Sometimes, I have a story I want to share, but I don’t think I have enough details to make it blog worthy.

Actually, this happens all the time, not just sometimes. I might have a thought, or see something on television or in public, or my kids, well, they still say the darndest things. It could be any of those, but those short anecdotes tend to lack the rising action and the denouement. Not that I am complaining about only having the climax, but seriously, we all need something to work for, don’t you think?

I might sit on one of those ideas, hoping to gather more information or find a way to stretch it out or embellish it for the sheer joy of writing and retelling and hopefully, for you, reading. More often than not, I just forget it, which is a damn shame, especially when I find an hour to myself to sit at my laptop and think, hmmm, what to say? Then what to say turns into yet another email or Facebook check, and the next thing you know, I’ve wasted that hour, and have nothing to show for it but a status update that only I find clever.

Can you relate to that? Sure, you can. I bet you waste all kinds of time. This is not a skill unique to me.

This is one of those stories. It’s not fully developed. It made me laugh and want to tell it to other people so that they too could laugh. Doesn’t everyone want to laugh?

Maybe not. My husband told me recently that everything I write is offensive, which might have something to do with the fact I have been doing less of it lately. This underdeveloped story might offend you. If you are offended by this or whatever else I write, do us both a favor and stop reading it. This ain’t no chicken soup for your fucking soul.

Here we go. An unfinished story.

My older daughter, E, is a freshman in high school. She is currently taking her only required year of physical education, unlike the semester required each year in middle school. She is in the middle of the sexual education unit of her class. In high school, this unit lasts for three weeks, which means they teach more than just abstinence. They also teach anatomy, so that you know what parts shouldn’t touch until G-d sanctifies that ring on your finger and you are free to procreate, according to the curriculum the conservative legislators agreed was appropriate and not necessarily based on science.

The boys are divided from the girls, so that they don’t get any funny ideas, like having sex with each other in the back stairwell. E literally stumbled across this one day while leaving class early. She actually tripped over a couple in flagrante delicto on the dirty stairs at noon in a high school. Oh, to be young again.

I asked E all the usual questions the first week of the unit (and is anyone else keeping track of how many times I say unit). My usual questions are things like “Do you have to dress out or just undress?” and “Do they divide you into partners or do you get to choose your own?” and “are they any group projects?” and of course, “Will there be an oral exam at the end?” I have asked these questions whenever the sex ed unit rolls around since the sixth grade, and like jokes about Uranus, they never get old.

This week, E came home and said to me, “I have a good story for you.” I love a good story. I settled back in my chair and waited. My thirteen year old daughter, S, sat across from me, pretending to do her homework.

“This boy in PE today asked the best question. You know it’s sex ed, right? Well, he asked the teacher if the clitoris is the same thing as the vagina!” E was delighted with herself. And does my child know me or what?

I honestly didn’t know that my fifteen year old knew what a clitoris was. This is the same kid who thought she put her tampon in the wrong hole the first time she used one a couple of years ago. I had to ask her if she had a tampon in her butthole because that is the only other hole down there that can accommodate one. She is still mad about that.

I was not surprised, however, that the thirteen year old doesn’t know what a clitoris is. She has yet to venture into the world of tampons, having a huge wrong hole fear. I keep telling her to grab a hand mirror and take a gander, but the idea of looking at her crotch is even worse than trying to plug it up by feel alone. Since we are stuck at this hole road block, we haven’t quite gotten around to discussing the happy bits. Obviously it isn’t a conversation my husband will have with her, but hell, I don’t want to talk about it with her either. Can’t she discover it on her own in the shower or near a pool jet like the rest of us?

After E told us what the boy said, S had a follow-up question, based on what she thought she heard.

“What is a glitter? Glitter? Did you say glitter? What does glitter have to do with a vagina?” she wanted to know.

“Is that a bunny in the back yard?” I quickly diverted her attention before I had to have that conversation that neither of us was ready for, certainly not over her Holocaust homework at the kitchen table.  E snorted and refused to answer her. Lucky for both of us, S didn’t remember she asked a question, as she was busy looking for the rabbit.

Later, I asked E if they actually taught about the clitoris, since they certainly didn’t bring that up in the sixth through eighth grades. She said the teachers didn’t say what it was for, just that it’s there, which means she is getting her sex education like everyone else, from the internet and her friends. She did say the class had to watch a rather awkward video about doing breast self-exams while the boys had to watch one about testicular self-exams. I have no doubt the majority of the class will demonstrate not on themselves but on each other over the weekend.

Except my daughter, whom I expect will remain abstinent until I no longer ask what happened in school that day, like when she is away at college or something.

Let’s pause here for an even shorter unfinished story. I know a woman whose husband is a lady parts doctor. He told me once about a patient who came into the ER with some sort of vaginal emergency. Again, this is a story lacking in details, except for one significant one. She had some sort of glittery hair gel with which she had styled her pubic locks. Glitter puss. I wonder if that was in the medical records.

Sometimes, maybe there is glitter near the vagina. And just perhaps the clitoris is such a fabulous little organ that we should start calling it a glitteris.  

Are you offended yet? I hope so, because I would hate for my husband to be wrong.