Five-Second Rule

Halloween evening, my sister spilled M&Ms on the kitchen floor. A debate ensued, as we picked them up, on whether we could invoke the five-second rule. Food that falls on the floor but is then picked up within five seconds is still fair game for consumption.

Jen had just read an article about the “10 Myths Your Husband Will Tell You About Raising Children.” The five-second rule came in for heavy criticism. Allyson and I countered with an article we had read that scientifically proved that germs do, in fact, take a little time to adhere to dropped food. Five seconds was a good guideline for demarcating eligible from inedible food.

The next morning, I waited in the checkout line at Costco. In the line next to me, a baby threw his bagel to the ground. It bounced a few times before coming to rest. Dad scooped up the bagel and handed it back to the baby, who obliged by shoving it in his mouth.

I am sure this calculus drove dad’s behavior as he retrieved the bagel: “Screw it. I don’t care what my wife thinks – I think it is OK for Ralphie to eat this hairy dusty bagel.” To most dads, what we believe are not myths – they are articles of faith that guide our actions when our wives are not watching. Occasionally, these articles of faith are proven true by scientific research.

I grew up believing that it is OK to give kids a shot of whiskey or glass of sherry to calm them down Christmas Eve. That trips to the emergency room are only to be made when limbs have been amputated or vital organs pierced. That helping kids with their math homework is a form of torture for the kids. As much influence as my wife has on me, I still treat these as articles of faith. I await the scientific proof to validate my beliefs on these topics. Certainly, the current health care debate lends credence to the idea that inappropriate use of emergency rooms is driving costs out of control. Proof on the others is, I am sure, in the works at some research university. But I don’t know if I will ever pick up a bagel from Costco’s floor and shove it in my mouth.

Amazing Grace

My wife and I recently had an argument about Michael Vick. She was offended by his return to football - to my beloved Iggles, no less - and to the riches he would achieve after his heinous crimes. I took the opposing view. The man had done his time. He paid the price society had levied, and now he ought to be welcomed back into civil society. She felt his crime was too great to allow him to earn fame awaiting him in Philadelphia as a third-string quarterback. The argument got me to thinking, when is someone redeemed? When is a crime too great to forgive?

We have had lots of examples recently to debate. Teddy Kennedy arguably placed his own political career above the life of a young woman. Only he knows the depths of his crime, although we all judge. But did 41 years of service in the US Senate redeem him? His obituaries wrestled with the issue. The Wall Street Journal placed his crime in the first paragraph. The more sympathetic New York Times waited until paragraph two. They both had to mention it, though. We all weighed Teddy's 41 years of good acts against his action that one drunken evening in Chappaquiddick.

I am sure Mark Sanford and Eliot Spitzer's obituaries will both weigh the years of public service against their sexual antics. Michael Jackson's obituaries all acknowledged the shadows of unspeakable crimes against his artistic genius. They all beg the question of whether our ability to forgive is determined not by the seriousness of the crime, but our attitudes toward it?

For my wife, torturing and killing dogs is a crime that should sentence one to a life of poverty and reflection. Yet shouldn't the indiscretions of climbing drunk into a car, driving off a bridge, swimming away from a drowning woman, and never admitting your crime, weigh more heavily against the man who admits to his failings and promises to do better?

The problem is that the apologies are too formulaic, too easy, too transparently motivated by a desire to move on. Kanye West apologized for his attack on Taylor Swift not to Taylor Swift first, but to America on Jay Leno. He called Ms. Swift later to apologize personally, and then his "people" publicized the fact. Mark Sanford apologized but then insulted his wife by professing his desire to fall back in love with her after having hot Argentinian sex. Spitzer got the tone right, but his previous holier-than-thou stance against financial misconduct made him a greek tragic figure. Wall Street cheered his humiliation.

Teddy never apologized. Michael Vick did. He tearfully confessed his failings on "60 Minutes" - a more serious choice than Jay Leno - and seemed sincere. And, I remind you, he did his time. If society decides that three years in prison is punishment, do we have a right to punish him more? Why is his crime - yes, horrible and disgusting - any worse than Teddy Kennedy's? The answer can't be that he got caught. That is far too cynical.

I could not bear to be judged by my worst sins. Having them publicized, debated on talk shows, argued on talk radio, and weighed against my good acts - I would beg for redemption. More, for forgetfulness. Growing up Catholic but dating born-again Christian girls, I was confronted with the tension between the one true church's teachings that good works would get me into heaven and the opposing view that by faith alone would I reach the Kingdom of Heaven.

Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound,

That saved a wretch like me . . .

I once was lost but now am found,

Was blind, but now, I see.

If good works win, then do we forgive Teddy for his service and Michael Jackson for his art, but damn Michael Vick because he is just a football player? If it is amazing grace that redeems us, then can any of us judge? Isn't it, in the end, one's own relationship with God that determines whether we forgive ourselves? As humiliating as our sins publicized may make us, it is our inability to forgive ourselves that destroys our soul.

Each of us has to confront our own failings and reconcile those with our good works and our self-view to decide whether we die in peace. The debates about forgiveness, about whether to grant or withhold it, are really about whether we could forgive ourselves for committing the sins made public by these public figures. In judging them, we judge ourselves. If we are human, we pray that we never walk their path. If we do, then I guarantee that after the sin, while committing good works, we are praying for Amazing Grace to help us find peace.

Ani DiFranco. Vic Theater. 9/23/09.

If you're not

If you're not

If you're not

If you're not

If you're not getting happier as you get older

. . . .

You're fucking up

Do I Dare Eat a Peach?

I intended this to be a post about graduation. Graduation came and went. I got a cold, flew to Washington, and fought the ravages of chest and head congestion.

This is, one may say, my inaugural visit to our Washington, DC, apartment, a very nice set-up just a block from the White House. The location enables one, as I remarked to someone a few nights ago, to live as close to the White House as possible without getting elected. It is so close, in fact, that the attached picture was taken on one of my evening constitutionals wandering the neighborhood.

Allyson arranged an impressive week for me. Tuesday night we enjoyed an engagement celebration with Steve and Katrina at Bourbon Steak, a Michael Mina restaurant. It is a phenomenal steak place. Invoking T.S. Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock", however, I explained to our guests that I can't eat steak late at night anymore. It keeps me up at night. Allyson assured me the young couple would both order steak, because steak is expensive and good and beyond their means at this early time in their lives. Allyson and I, able to afford not only our own but their steaks, steaks for all, opted more prudently for halibut and tuna, so as not to suffer nighttime terrors. They had the steak, aged and cooked in butter, and loved it. I pined silently for the good old days as I ate my healthy tuna.

Wednesday I visited the Newseum, which I recommend. Thursday I met a school friend, Angela, at Cato for lunch, where we heard Judge Napolitano opine on Dred Scott's revenge. Then I toured the Natural and American History Museums before visiting Allyson at work. We toured the EEOB, and helped surprise her boss with a surprise Birthday Party in a very special room, before heading to the West Wing, as show in the picture.

Today we toured the East Wing and the main White House. I then headed up to Ben's Chili Bowl, recommended by Steve and Katrina and a DC institution. I sat at the counter and ordered a half smoke with chili and cheese fries with a coke. Very good. Worth a visit, even if the half-smoke isn't as good as the sausages Robbie gets from the old guy at 69th in Stony Island back home. But I wolfed it down before heading back to the apartment.

Just in time to be overcome with illness. The half-smoke did its damage. I recalled once again Eliot's "Prufrock," this time too late. I excerpt:

I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.

I would have liked to see what Eliot would do with rhymes for "half-smoke." I'm sure they do more damage than any innocent peach. But no peach has the fire and greasy goodness of a half-smoke smothered in spicy chili.

Fackeltanz

I remember my Nana as a sweet, kind grandmother. I was always one of her favorite grandchildren. I knew it; my sisters knew it. I was the grandchild who was invited down to live at the Jersey Shore for weeks at a time, a privilege rarely extended to my sisters.

She was so nice to me, I think it even bothered my father a little. He once commented, "She is all sweetness and light now, but when I was a boy, your grandmother was a tyrant. We lived in fear of her." He tells the story of when a teenager of coming home late one night, after curfew. Dad snuck into the house, tiptoed up the stairs, slowly creaked open his bedroom door, and, without turning on the light, closed it softly behind him, moving forward in the dark. And tripping over the furniture Nana had rearranged for just this eventuality. As he sprawled headlong over a newly placed chair, she turned on the light next to where she was sitting, launched herself up and at him, and beat him with fury, curses raining down upon his head.

I never saw this side of Nana. Until the spelling bee.

I had qualified for the spelling bee when I was 10 and in 4th grade. In fact, after winning the competition at Red Lion Elementary, I competed in the Montgomery County regionals on the evening of my 10th birthday. These memories came rushing back to me as I watched the National Spelling Bee competition on TV this past Thursday. Each contestant stepped up to the mike, was given a word, asked for its use in a sentence, language of origin, part of speech. Some of them clearly knew the words anyway, but the ritual helped calm them. Others, though, were just as clearly terrified by words they had never encountered in their studies.

Anamika Veeramani from North Royalton, Ohio, had that look of terror in her eyes when presented with the word, Fackeltanz, in the fifth round. "Fackeltands," she repeated. The judge corrected her, saying "Fackeltanz. Listen to the ending of the word. Fackeltanz." Anamika asked for the definition. "Fackeltanz is a type of court dance performed in Germany to celebrate royal marriages." Well, that was helpful. Who even knew Germany had royalty anymore?

The TV commentators said that if Anamika remembered her German spelling rules, this word would be a breeze. I looked an Anamika, and my heart melted. She was one of five people left in the competition out of 293 starters, and she knew her dream was ending. The agony was visible. "Fackeltanz," she repeated, "Fackeltanz. F-A-C-U-L-T-E-N-D-S." The dreaded bell rang, and Anamika's dreams were over. She walked back to her mother and father, who were, with all of the finalists' families, sitting on stage, and she collapsed into her father's arms in tears. After sobbing uncontrollably, she turned to her mother and collapsed into her arms.

I felt the painful flashback to my own spelling bee trainwreck almost forty years ago. I survived rounds one and two with chocolate and initiate. Then, in round three, I was presented the word "militia." I had never heard of the word. "Militia - would you please give me the definition?" "Militia is a part of the organized armed forces of a country liable to call only in emergency." I still had no clue. "Could you please use it in a sentence?" "George Washington's militia braved the cold of Trenton before attacking the British on Christmas night." Still, I had no idea what the word was. "Militia. M-A-" The bell rang. In this competition, they didn't waste time waiting for you to butcher the entire word. They stopped you after the wrong letter. My head swam. The room started spinning. I weaved off the stage, where a young, good looking young man put his arm around me. "What word did you miss?" he asked. "Militia." "Aww, that's a tough one. Good job, man, good job." To this day, his kindness to a chubby ten year old still moves me.

No such sympathetic hugs awaited me as I returned to my family in the audience. My parents faces were full of pride and sadness that my dream had ended, but one look at Nana told me that something had gone horribly wrong. I took my seat between Mom and Dad. Once I settled in, my head still spinning, Nana leaned over my father, her face screwed up in fury. "MILITIA," she hissed at me, the spit flying off her lips. "MILITIA," she whispered again, "M-I-L-I-T-I-A!" I looked at her, dumbfounded. "How could you miss that?" she wanted to know, her voice sounding like a snake's evil hiss. "M-I-L-I-T-I-A! Any idiot would know that." With that, she turned away, confident I had gotten the message.

The night got worse. After dropping Nana off at her house, we came home to find our house had been burgled. The thieves stole one of our televisions, and worse, ruined three door frames with the crow bar they had used to try to pry doors open. My family was in shock, scared that strangers had violated our home. My birthday cards, lined up on the mantel above the fireplace, had evidently escaped their attention, as they had left the money hanging over the backs of the cards. I went to bed, on my birthday night, feeling stupid and scared of burglars and miserable.

I hope Anamika's night was a little better than mine. I hope she didn't have her own Nana waiting for her, accusingly asking her how she could miss such an easy word. I hope her Nana didn't vest the hopes and pride of a family in this little 12 year old girl, and that Nana knew that life throws all of us our own militias and Fackeltanzes. What matters is how we bounce back from them. And while I have bounced back pretty well, I still know how to spell militia.

Old Friends

I am taking a class this quarter called "Massive Change." After a whirlwind tour of the past 5,000 years of economic history (provided by the professor), we have recently been treated to student presentations on topics. Last night, one of my colleagues presented on the aging world population. It was one of the most disturbing presentations I have seen.

Alan asked a number of hard questions on the nature of society's responsibility for its aging. The sheer numbers will overwhelm existing social service providers in the coming years. The financial aspects are daunting, as current social benefit programs cannot afford to support the coming waves of elders. The fastest growing demographic in the United States are people aged 85 and above. Many of these people are simply unable to care for themselves, and some of the oldest have children who are too old to care for them as well. He discussed the possible outcomes of increased support for euthanasia or ritual suicide. Most disturbing, the professor weighed in with the observation that there are no mechanisms to ensure that those without the ability to fight back or complain (e.g., the old and infirm) are not treated with cruelty by nursing home providers.

Alan offered no easy solutions. Beginning the dialogue is an important step, however, and I appreciated his taking this topic on. I had not thought about many of the issues he raised. Now that I am thinking about them, I am a little frightened and saddened. But wiser for knowing. I hope that with knowledge will come wisdom. Until, that is, I am too old to do anything about it.

Crawling Under the Table

In class today, the professor asked what we thought about one particular paper that I found particularly troubling. As my classmates offered perspectives on one aspect of the paper or another, I felt the anger I experienced on the initial reading of the paper once again building. Finally, I couldn't restrain myself. I exploded.

"This paper is crap. The author's approach is worthless, and he demonstrates academic dishonesty in his selective use of material from the papers he cites. The fact that this paper is so influential calls into question the integrity of the researchers who rely on it. Further, I googled this guy and was infuriated to see he is employed by the Hoover Institute. I can't believe he is getting paid to produce this stuff by such an esteemed institution."

The professor responded, "In the interest of full disclosure, I was the academic researcher on this paper. I can tell you that the errors you cite were unintentional." Uh-oh. "Further, the author is actually a very nice man." I had stepped in it big time. But I couldn't retreat. I said, "He may be, but I disagree with the methodology used for this paper." She replied that she could understand that.

I wanted to crawl under the table. I certainly don't think my professor was academically dishonest. And I would never want to publicly embarrass anyone. Yet, this school prides itself on academic rigor, the life of the mind, and vigorous debate. Had I crossed over the line, though?

I have agonized over this all day. I feel bad for the dramatics surrounding my diatribe - but I don't regret what I said. The paper still infuriates me. The fact that my professor helped write it doesn't make me view it in a different light. I don't agree with the methodology. I do think it is crap - although maybe that is the one word I would change. I do get angry when supposed experts are rewarded for shoddy research or misrepresentation in order to advocate for a position.

That does not mean the guy was dishonest. He may really believe his approach is valid. He may also have made honest mistakes in assembling the data. The fact remains that as a result of his paper, there have been very bad outcomes, from my point of view, in the education field. He probably is a really nice guy. Whose bad research led to bad outcomes.

I still disagree with his paper. Next time, though, I will temper my comments. From under the table.