Fear and Loathing at the Return Counter…

Here is another in my continuing series…”Why People Don’t Get It.” Okay…maybe it’s not a continuing series, but it should be.

I am constantly amazed at the simple, little things that facilitate successful daily living that so many people just don’t seem to grasp, no matter their level of education or breadth of experience. When you tell profligate spenders that they should save their money for the things that they might really need in the future, they look at you as if you were speaking to them in Serbo-Croatian. When you suggest to someone that they might want to call a taxi instead of driving “in their current condition” they are insulted. With the holiday shopping season getting underway, our topic for today is…dealing with customer service representatives.

It’s tough being a customer service representative, especially around the holidays. On more than one occasion I have stood in line and listened to the people in front of me verbally assault the poor man or poor woman behind the counter, including colorful language (and here in south Florida that means several languages) and running commentary on the legitimacy of the customer service representative’s parentage. It is not the fault of the customer service representative that you bought something, destroyed the packaging, threw away the price tag, lost the receipt, misused the item and ruined it, and now think you should get your money back. The customer service representative did not cause this, nor did he or she manufacture the product with which you are so dissatisfied. The customer service representative cannot turn back time, nor can he or she repair whatever it is that you have found so problematic. What is the only thing that that customer service representative can do? That’s right…help you. Help you by…refunding your money…exchanging the item…upgrading you to a better item…and so on. Why would you want to abuse and berate someone who has only one choice to make as far as you’re concerned? Why give them a reason to decide against you when it’s time to make a decision?

I don’t understand why so many people can’t figure this out. You’re looking across a counter at a person making maybe eight dollars an hour to stand there for eight hours each day and talk with unhappy people. It’s a hard way to make a living. So I try to be nice, and the more sour the attitude of the customer service representative (yes…customer service representatives can be just as nasty as the customers, and I don’t wonder why), the nicer I try to be. Sure…sometimes it’s an act on my part, but the more it works, the less of an act it becomes. The most amazing aspect of this is not that I always get my way…which I do. The amazing part is how quickly a little joke, a smile, or a simple pleasantry will brighten them up. It could very well be the first and only time so far in the day that someone has treated them like a valuable human being, instead of like something you would scrape from the bottom of a shoe. As I always tell others when discussing this and similar issues…the trick to getting what you want from a stranger is to be the best part of their day. It works.

This even works on the telephone. You’d be amazed how easy it is to make a complete stranger laugh over the phone. And once you have them laughing, the rest is easy. I guess a lot of folks think that since they’re not face to face with the customer service representative, they’re not in imminent danger of being spat upon or worse, so they can be as nasty as they want to be. But why? The best attitude, on the phone or in person is this: How can the two of us work together to solve my problem? Sometimes just saying this straight out works like a charm. Study after study on altruism indicates that, given the opportunity, people want to help others when they can. In his first inaugural address, Abraham Lincoln mentions “the better angels of our nature.” Don’t give others reason to act against those better angels and against your best interests.

Now for the reveal. When I was in graduate school, I worked part-time for the late, lamented department store chain…Jordan Marsh. And I don’t think I need to tell you here…I was that customer service representative. When someone was nice to me and made me smile, I bent over backwards to see to it that they got what they wanted, even if it was “against store policy.” When someone was unpleasant, obnoxious, demanding, rude or otherwise difficult to deal with, I went out of my way to thwart them, even making up “rules” that meant I “couldn’t” accommodate their needs (“I’m so sorry sir, but we cannot accept returns of blue shirts on odd numbered Tuesdays”).

So, fellow customer, when you read this, if you think it applies to you, then it probably does. Be nice. If you are a customer service representative and you are reading this, please remember…I am an older man, strikingly handsome and virile, tall and bald, with brown eyes and a love of humor. And the secret password is “Swordfish.” If I show up at your workplace after the holidays, trying to return some godawful crap that someone unloaded on me as a “gift”, I’ll use that secret password. When you hear the word “Swordfish”, remember that I’m on your side, that I was one of you lo these many years ago, and that I am most deserving of all the help, kindness, understanding and consideration that you can muster. And I swear that when I received this item, it had no packaging, no receipt, no price tag, and it was already broken.

“Slouch”

I saw my old friend Allan last week for the first time in nearly forty years. We had gone to the same university in the sixties…he was two years my junior. I was an officer in one of the national fraternities, and he was a pledge. Everyone loved him. He was funny, kind, and humble. In those days it seemed that nearly everyone got a nickname. I gave him his, and I knew that it was going to stick…not because people used it when referring to him, but because he started using it instead of his real name when he introduced himself to others. It got to the point where some of the newer members that followed him into the fraternity never even knew his real, given name, or that he even had a real, given name for that matter. To us, he was always “Slouch.”

Since I attended a large private university, the members came from far and wide, and following graduation, returned, for the most part, to their original hometowns. Slouch returned to New York. When the call came about a reunion, I asked the organizer of the reunion, Jim, one of Slouch’s classmates and another fraternity brother, whether Slouch was going to attend. Jim said that he had spoken to him, but Slouch was unsure. I got his phone number from Jim, and called right away. Slouch was shocked to hear my voice after all these years (as I was shocked to hear Jim’s). We chatted for a while, and I insisted that he attend the reunion. He said that he’d try, and according to Jim, my call seemed to tip the balance. I was so happy to see him.

When we arrived at the home of one of the members, less than five minutes from my house, I was amazed how little time it took for the years to melt away. All of us old guys were twenty again…and fun…and funny…and lively…and crackling with the same energy and enthusiasm that many of us…myself included…thought had been all but lost these many years ago. There were old pictures of us passed around and conversations with wives, and girlfriends, and still more pictures…current pictures of children, and grandchildren. Some of the grandchildren were university students themselves. How could that possibly be? There were discussions of some of those not in attendance because of distance or illness, and phone calls to and from some of them.

We mourned some of our brothers who had died…our sadness mingling with the cold comfort of being those who mourned rather than those being mourned. Jerry and Dale and Bob and so many others unable to share in the day or in days to come. Jerry had made a nice living playing poker in the dorms. Dale was a bodybuilder long before it was fashionable. I never met anyone who loved their rescued dog more than Bob loved his.

The career paths we had taken were diverse to say the least. Some followed typical professional tracks, some not. Some had gone to Vietnam, and not all had returned. Two had served serious time in federal prison. And then there was Slouch. We always knew what he was going to do, and so did he. No one at the reunion really bothered to ask what he was doing…all of us knew then…all of us know now. He took over a small, well established family business, and runs it to this day.

My father was a businessman. He started out as a buyer of ladies wear for a major New York department store, and went on to manufacture clothing. He had a second life as an importer of building materials. Both careers were successful. He met my mother at work…she was also a buyer, but for another department store. In addition to being a buyer, she taught “textile science” part time at a vocational school. She always loved being a teacher, and spoke about it often, seeming to prefer it to her primary occupation.

I had always planned to take over the family import business, and as an only child, that was what was expected of me. My father really enjoyed that business, with all of the travel and the excitement. When he died unexpectedly during my senior year of high school, I was devastated. I loved him very much. My mother ran his business for about six months until she could find a buyer, and that was that. Although I missed my father more than words can say, his death gave me something I never foresaw…options. I considered all kinds of career paths…some sensible and mundane (Law, Accounting), some outrageous (don’t ask), some in between. My mother suggested a career in education, since as a young woman she had enjoyed her teaching responsibilities so much. It sounded good to me.

With some minor variations I had pretty much the same job at the same college for thirty years, and every day of it I silently thanked my mother for her guidance. Of the limitless choices available to me, I can’t imagine having chosen anything more satisfying. I loved being a teacher, and for decades I looked forward to getting to work every morning. What more can someone ask of a professional life? I met my wife through my work, as well as making many friends whose paths would have otherwise never crossed mine.

Life turns on a dime. When I looked at Slouch, and when we talked about his family business, I saw an alternate reality of my own life. My future, like his, had been preordained, and only random, tragic circumstance had caused the roads that we traveled to diverge so very much. I’ll never really know what my life would have been like if I, as a young man…a college student, had the rock-solid certainty of that family business. And Slouch will never know a youth filled with possibilities.

Leave It Under The Bushel Where It Belongs…

I was shopping for groceries one day when, in the salad dressing aisle, I ran into a former co-worker. A beautiful Nordic blond, I had known her since she came to work at my college at the age of nineteen. She and another co-worker, some years her senior, had fallen in love, and so she transferred to a distant area in this huge organization to avoid any hint of conflict of interest. Although she and I had been friends, we saw very little of each other after the transfer. At the time that I ran into her while shopping, I hadn’t seen her for quite some time, although I kept asking about her from one of her other friends who I saw often…a friend much closer to her than I ever was. At the time of our fateful meeting in the grocery store, she and her boyfriend, my colleague, had been together for several years.

She asked me how I had been, and we reminisced about old friends and acquaintances. She was surprised to find out that I was now married. I had been a confirmed bachelor (does ANYONE use that term anymore ???) until I met my wife at the age of forty-one. I spent a few minutes waxing enthusiastic about my wife and our marriage, and then made my mistake. She asked me why I had gotten married after so many years and so many relationships. “When you meet the nicest person that you’ve ever met…you HAVE to marry them” is what I told her. It sounded good at the time, but I suppose one man’s good news is another man’s (or in this case, woman’s) wake-up call.

We said our goodbyes, and we promised to keep in touch, which, of course, we never did.

Her boyfriend was another faculty member whom I knew fairly well. When I first met him (we were hired at the exact same time) he was young and blond and handsome. He was a military veteran…very smart, athletic, and one of the most decent men with whom I ever worked. Everyone liked him, although he always stood, by his own choice, just a tiny bit outside of the small circle of friends that formed the social core of our academic area. So unlike the others in our little group, we always found out about the goings-on in his life later rather than sooner, and through third parties. He and the young woman in question had moved in together. We were happy for both of them…at the beginning. We knew that the young woman wanted a family, but apparently he did not…he had been married once and already had a child. He didn’t seem to want to be married again. We thought that he would change his mind as time passed, but he didn’t. Sometimes having a strong position and supporting that position with an even stronger force of will can be a good thing. Other times…not so much.

I hadn’t seen him for a long time, until one day I saw him outside of my doctor’s office. We exchanged greetings and I inquired about his relationship. He said…”she left me because of you.” I had no idea what he meant. Any guy who has been single for a long time has either been “the other man,” or has seen himself replaced by “the other man.” Neither was the case here. The young woman and I had never shared so much as a candy bar, let alone anything else. As it turns out, the very day I had spoken with her in the grocery store, she had gone home, told him exactly what I had said about marriage, packed her things, and moved out. He told me he didn’t blame me (thereby indicating that he, in fact, did) and we then changed the subject…not a moment too soon. After a few uncomfortable minutes he told me that he had to go…he was picking up a friend at the airport. I wanted to ask if it was a female friend, but I figured that I had done enough damage, so we said goodbye, and I went back to my life.

Sometime later I heard from another mutual friend that the young lady in question had gotten married to someone else and was now a mother, living happily in a beautiful place and enjoying her life. Did the story about my marriage help her, hurt her, help him, hurt him? I like to think that everything ultimately worked out for the best for both of them, but I don’t really know. On balance, I’m kind of sorry that I opened my big mouth.

So what bit of learning can I take away from this little tale. The bible, in Matthew 5:15 (the fact that I’m a non-believer doesn’t mean that I’m unfamiliar with scripture) tells us “Neither do men light a candle, and put it under a bushel, but on a candlestick; and it giveth light unto all that are in the house.” The problem is that once in a while that light just might illuminate something better left in darkness, so perhaps that candlestick is not always the way to go. Sometimes…leave the damn candle under the bushel. And keep your mouth shut.

Another Reason Why the World Hates Us…

According to Central Intelligence Agency estimates, 60% of the world’s population lives on less than $2.00 per day per person. Meanwhile, here in the good old U. S. of A., we seem to be having a bit of an economic crisis of our very own…but that does not seem to have hurt the market for prosthetic pet testicles. Yes…you read that correctly…PROSTHETIC PET TESTICLES. And do these prosthetic testicles improve the health of your beloved pet? No. That is not their purpose. They are strictly for looks, just in case Fido or Mittens wants to appear like he used to before he was…you know…”altered.”

Welcome to the wonderful world of cosmetic surgery for animals. The name of the product is “Neuticles” and this product is available in a variety of sizes and materials (brass is not yet, so far as I can tell, an available option), for anything from cats and small dogs all the way through large dogs, and up to cattle and horses. The prices range from $114.00 per pair for “Original Neuticles” for a small cat to $1,299.00 per pair for “Ultraplus Neuticles” for a large dog (I have no real idea what constitutes “Ultraplus” but if they’re THAT GOOD I may want to order some for Christmas gifts). And remember, this does NOT include another expensive part of the process…the implantation procedure by your friendly neighborhood veterinarian. We’re talking BIG MONEY here folks.

And why would someone want to provide their pet with so many dollars worth of fake testicles? According to the company: “Neuticles allows your pet to retain his natural look, self esteem and aids in the trauma associated with neutering.” Now I’m no expert (actually I am, having been a psychology professor for thirty years) but I have yet to stumble upon the research demonstrating loss of self esteem as a problem for domestic and/or companion animals. How much self esteem can you actually have when you spend a good part of each day sniffing butts and licking yourself? And as for retaining “his natural look,” if your pet is cogent enough to realize that he looks different to you (or to his four-legged friends down at the dog park) after being neutered then you’ve got one really special doggie. If they ever do a version of Jeopardy for pets, you’ve got the winner right there at the end of your leash! I wonder if owners wanting to make their neutered dogs or cats look (or, heaven help us, feel) more powerful ask the vet to implant (install ???) Neuticles that are much larger than the recently removed “original equipment.”

Who would purchase such a product? The website has testimonials from satisfied customers, and the company claims that over a quarter of a million units have been sold. And that’s not all that they sell…they have a full line of Neuticles T-shirts, sweatshirts, and even…wait for it…ball caps. They also have, for $109.00, actual (size extra-small) Neuticles made into earrings. How about a pair of those as the perfect accessory for your next job interview? “Why Miss Jenkins…what LOVELY earrings. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like them before, although they do resemble…wait a minute…are those Neuticles ???” The jokes write themselves.

Meanwhile, the Gates foundation has donated money to help prevent a catastophic eye disease common children in underdeveloped nations. For just pennies per child, blindness can be prevented. Muhammad Yunus and his Grameen Bank received the 2006 Nobel Peace Prize for their pioneering work on microfinance, changing lives in the third world by providing business start-up loans as small as $20.00. For $28.00 per month you can sponsor a child through Save the Children. Or you can do something REALLY important…like getting fake balls for your pet.

No one loves animals more than I do. I carry a picture of my pet in my wallet. But we have to draw the line somewhere. The late televangelists Jim and Tammy Baker were universally excoriated over the wildly expensive air conditioned doghouse that they built for their pets. But compared to Neuticles, that air conditioned doghouse almost makes sense. Cosmetic surgery can restore the “natural look” to dogs and cats that have been neutered. What’s next…Botox for Shar Peis?

I can only think of one thing dumber than fake balls for pets…and that would be fake balls for trucks…oh wait…they have those too. Just Google TruckNutz and prepare yourself to be amazed (and don’t even get me started on BikerBallz for your motorcycle or bicycle). Only in America.

George W. Bush said “They hate us for our Freedom.” That may or may not be the case. But in a world where billions of people just barely survive (and in all too many cases do NOT survive), it’s no wonder that the economics of prosthetic pet testicles raises eyebrows. If I were a poor and struggling peasant in some faraway land, I too might take up arms against a culture where it is accepted (if not widely practiced) behavior to spend the equivalent amount to what it costs to support my entire family for several years…on a pair of fake dog balls. This is just another reason why the world hates us. They don’t hate us for our freedom; they hate us for our Neuticles.

ADDENDUM: Ultraplus Neuticles for a large dog…$1,299.00 plus medical costs. TruckNutz…$15.00 with no medical costs. Is it just me, or is there a really obvious solution here ???

Awesome !!!

Words have power. They can strengthen, they can weaken, they can heal, they can wound. Words allow us to communicate ideas across both time and distance both verbally and in writing with varying degrees of efficiency, clarity and accuracy. Some of the value and power of a word lies in the frequency or infrequency of its use, and hence this problem…when a word is used too much, its power is reduced. I have taken to calling this phenomenon “Word Inflation.”

I am so very tired of the word AWESOME. I am old enough to remember when AWESOME was used rarely and when used, it packed some real power. When something was described as AWESOME, it really was, at least in the consciousness of the describer. At one time it was usually reserved for describing a deity by those who believe in such things. Then its value began to decline. Once in a while its real impact would be reduced a bit and it would be used to describe a new social contact (“let me tell you…she was really awesome…smart and funny and beautiful and…”). I even remember hearing it used to describe cars (“that ‘Vette has a 427…awesome !!!”). And then, a bit later, it began to be used to replace “terrific.” And now it seems to have degenerated to the point where it is used as a common replacement for “good.”

I hear the most inappropriate things described as AWESOME. “Man, that was one AWESOME sandwich !!!” In a world where a sandwich, any sandwich, can be described as awesome, then, logically, anything as good or better than that sandwich is at least as AWESOME. The real power of that word is gone, never to return. That power has been replaced, at least for me, by an annoyance factor. I remember when AWESOME meant AWESOME, and so when I hear it used over and over and over again to describe the just-pleasantly-mundane, it makes my skin crawl. And if AWESOME has replaced “good” (as the lowest and most commonplace level of positive evaluation) , then terms like “good,” “pretty good,” and “okay” now take on a slightly negative connotation. The expression “damning with faint praise” comes to mind. How would you like to be the proverbial fly-on-the-wall when your date from last night describes you to someone else as “pretty good.” Not exactly a ringing endorsement anymore, is it ?

So what have we done to deal with situation? For one thing, we have created new words. It used to be that a billion dollars was an unimaginably huge number, but that is no longer the case, so what do we use to describe the newer unimaginably huge? We create new and non-existent numbers to fill the void. Someone with great wealth is no longer referred to in the common parlance as a billionaire…there are plenty of those…so we refer to them as Gazillionaires. I’m certain that soon, if linguistic trends continue, we’ll have to develop even more such descriptive terms…perhaps “Megagazillionillionillionaires.” It’s only a matter of time.

Another trend involves the use of ironic contradiction to describe levels of quality. It took me a while to get used to the fact that, in some contexts, bad began to mean good. Even that little oddity has lost its power from overuse, so now, something worse than bad has been found to replace this ironic utilization. Now, all too frequently, something good which is too good to be any longer described as “bad” (are you still with me here ???) is described as “sick.” Yes…it’s true…”sick” now means good, and “sick” (good) is a step better than “bad” (good). I’m afraid to even consider what the next step in this progression might be. In a few months, when “sick” has lost its power to sufficiently describe “good” because of overuse, perhaps we’ll describe something very good as “malignant” or “putrid” or “maggot-ridden.” I really wish that I was exaggerating…

Language is a living and growing thing, and, like other living and growing things, it evolves. In this case though, it seems to me that we’re evolving in the wrong direction. Survival of the linguistic fittest (the best, most time tested, most precise word to communicate clear meaning) seems to have been replaced by survival of the most linguistically banal (trend-driven word choices that, through their misapplication and overuse, serve to obscure meaning rather than reveal it). I would love to get things back on the right track, where meaning didn’t change from day to day, where “word inflation” was no longer an issue, and where speakers and writers once again loved language so much that they choose not to denigrate it with casual and careless treatment. THAT would be AWESOME !!!

How to be a “Spiritual Warrior”…

James Arthur Ray is a self-described “internationally-renowned Personal Success Strategist, Visionary and New York Times Best-Selling Author.” He offers (for sale, naturally) all manner of seminars and materials geared to producing what he calls “Harmonic Wealth.” I don’t want to give what I consider overblown nonsense any more credence than it deserves, and I wouldn’t be writing about it at all, except for a recent tragic event. Three participants in one of Ray’s five-day “Spiritual Warrior” workshops died after a “Sweat Lodge Ceremony” on October 8th in Sedona, Arizona. Ray has not been charged with any crime. The workshop, apparently one of many throughout the year, attracted about fifty participants, each one paying between $9,000 and $10,000 (you do the math) for the privilege, and three paid with their lives.

One must feel some sadness for otherwise bright people who have felt the need to turn to those who, in my humble opinion, are exploitative charlatans, for help in finding meaning and/or happiness in their lives. This is by no means a new phenomenon, and the three deaths in Sedona are not the first cases of lives being lost, and I fear that they will not be the last. Who hasn’t chuckled over the self-help gurus who, over the years, have offered everything from fire-walking to primal screaming to re-birthing to heaven-knows-what-else as the one true pathway to enlightenment, and, in the case of James Arthur Ray, the pathway to financial and personal success? It seems to me that the only ones who ever really find any substantial level of success and satisfaction are the gurus themselves. But it’s like the old saying goes: “It’s all fun and games until somebody gets hurt.”

If you want to be a “Spiritual Warrior” go to school and study, get a job and work hard, find a loving mate and devote your life to the relationship, help those less fortunate than you, save your money, take long walks, learn all that you can about as much as you can, be loyal, avoid things that make you weak, go visit interesting places, eat well, pay your taxes, keep your word, value friendships, speak out against injustice whenever and wherever you see it, and laugh, laugh, laugh.

How’s that for “Harmonic Wealth?” Now you don’t have to go to Arizona and risk your life in a sweat lodge. I have also saved you $10,000. You may thank me later.

How Salem Gets it Wrong…

My wife and I had a bit of time to spare last week during a trip to New England to marvel at the annual wonder of the autumn leaves (she had never seen them in person, being a Florida girl), so we thought that we’d visit Salem, Massachusetts (it turns out nearly half the states have a Salem). I knew well the sad story of what happened in Salem and the other area towns over three hundred years ago, and I wanted to see for myself what the town had become, and what I could learn from a visit.

Salem today is a thoroughly modern town with great pride in its long and noble history. Much of its income over the centuries has been derived from maritime interests, and today it is a national historic site largely because of that aspect. The site is operated by the National Park Service, so my first stop was the Visitor’s Center. Almost all of what I found there related to the subjects of shipping and trade. Very little had to do with the reason for my visit…the brief and awful series of events in 1692-1693 that have become known collectively as the “Witchcraft Trials.”

I have always been interested in the role that belief plays in human behavior. Nothing defines a people or an age quite like the actions that result from what folks believe or are led to believe. The Inquisition, the Crusades, the Holocaust, the McCarthy Hearings and other similar horrors both large and small persist in the social memory, with wounds that have yet to scab over, let alone heal. And so it is, for me at least, with the Salem Witchcraft Trials.

To make a long story short, for about fifteen months, from February of 1692 until May of 1693, about one hundred and fifty people in several towns in eastern Massachusetts were accused of witchcraft, largely based on a “perfect storm” of superstition regarding some strange manifestations of illness in several young girls (who, it seems, began to accuse others of causing their illnesses through witchcraft), and petty jealousies, suspicions, and long simmering animosities…combined with a legal system which failed miserably to protect the innocent. Of the accused, most were not convicted, but of the convicted, nineteen were executed by hanging, one was killed, crushed to death, in an attempt to force a confession (an unimaginably brave eighty-year-old man named Giles Corey, who refused to confess), and seven died in prison. One of the judges, John Hathorne, was the great-great-grandfather of author Nathanial Hawthorne, who, it is alleged, added the “w” to his name to disassociate himself from his ancestor.

Now here I am, in Salem, well over three hundred years later, walking the streets, taking pictures of the seventeenth century homes with my digital camera while taking calls on my cellular phone. And what else do I see? Shops selling all kinds of spirit-related items, from crystal balls to tarot cards. Storefronts for fortune tellers, offering all manner of readings, from tea leaves to palms to heaven-knows-what. And souvenir shops selling t-shirts with pictures of witches on broomsticks, black cats, and all those familiar representations of what twenty-first century Americans associate with seventeenth century supposed “witchcraft.” The fact that it was only a few weeks before Halloween served only to amplify this emphasis. Apparently we’ve learned very little in three hundred plus years.

Twice each day, at eleven in the morning and one in the afternoon, a group of theater students in period costumes act out the arrest of one of the “witches” for the entertainment of tourists. The arrested “witch” is apparently led away (past souvenir shop after souvenir shop) to a theater where, for a fee, tourists can participate in the trial. I did not wish to participate in or even witness this travesty. Could you imagine such a thing on the grounds of Auschwitz?

I am neither interested in nor fascinated by the supernatural, except insofar as belief in the supernatural affects the earthly affairs of others, both the believers and those who do not believe. And I discover the same thing over and over again. Beliefs are not harmless personal options. They matter. They can be tools, or they can be weapons. Nineteen were hanged, one crushed to death, and seven died in prison. The final resting place of those who were executed is not known.

The beautiful and deeply moving memorial to those who were executed is tucked away on a side street. It adjoins the tiny and ancient cemetery where Judge Hathorne is buried, the interred bearing mute witness to the wrongful death that they helped cause…some by their actions, most by their apathy. The memorial is about the size of a three car garage, and very understated, with its severe, rough-hewn gray stone and six locust trees, for whose leafless boughs it was already winter. Even though it was a lovely autumn day, save for the two of us, the memorial to the twenty who died was deserted. The souvenir shops were crowded though. After all…it’s nearly Halloween.

The Trial Parents…

When I was a sophomore in high school (and dinosaurs roamed the earth) one of my classmates began to wear a button to class each day.  It was a simple “equal sign”, white on a black background.  Although the button was small and unobtrusive, a nosy teenager like me needed to ask what it was all about.  He said that it was all about the equality of the races, and that if I believed as he did (and if I had a dollar to donate to the cause) he could get me one too.  So I started wearing it, and found that not everyone agreed with my views as I had agreed with his.  Some of those disagreements were highly emotional, even violent.  Times have changed, but, I fear, not all that much.  It is perhaps less acceptable to openly scorn another because of some group membership trait, but such scorn has not disappeared altogether from the landscape, or from the hearts of so very many people.  In recent years I have started to see the “equal sign” symbol again be used to signify opposition to discrimination, but now it is yellow on a blue background and those being focused upon are gay, bisexual, and transgendered.

For some years my wife and I worked at the same educational institution and, in addition to our other responsibilities, we advised a student organization.  Our members were of all races, varied in age from teenagers to senior citizens, hailed from so many countries that it was hard to keep track…well…you get the idea.  And as is the case with any sizable group, some members were straight, and some were gay.  Of the younger gay students, some were open about their orientation, some were not.  Some were “out” (if you don’t know what that means, please stop reading here, go get a snack, and watch some T.V.) at school but not at home, some were “out” at school and at home, but not at work, and on and on…every permutation that you can think of.  Periodically, students would make an appointment with one or both of us, and tell us that they were gay.  Sometimes we’d have already known, and sometimes not, but most importantly at the time (both to us and to them), we didn’t really care if they were gay or not.

My wife came up with a title for us…we were the “Trial Parents.”  These students were coming out to us in some cases to see what our reaction would be.  Usually, that reaction was “so what…”, except for the two students we came across over the years who did drag shows, in whose cases the reaction was “do you really think anyone who knows you DOESN’T know you’re gay?  We always thought that once these students found out everything was the same as it had been before with us, they would go home, come out to their parents and to everyone else, and everything would be fine.  And I must say…we felt flattered that our reactions (or the lack of them) meant so much to these folks.  It felt good to be so trusted as the “Trial Parents”, but only because we didn’t fully grasp the tragedy in which we were playing this small role.

Being “out” around your friends, your family, your teachers, your co-workers, may be fine, but it can lull you into a false sense of security…the kind of security James Chaney, Andrew Goodman and Michael Schwerner must have felt during that “Freedom Summer” in 1964, riding buses and singing songs, before they were murdered.  The kind of security the Jews felt in Europe in the early 1930s.  The kind of security that the patrons of the Stonewall Inn felt, happily socializing that late New York night in 1969, just before the police started busting heads.  And if you think that such things don’t continue to this very day…well…they do.  You would have found that out if you had been a patron at the Atlanta Eagle bar on September tenth of this year.

Our president continues to be bedeviled by the charges that he’s not really an American, or that he’s a “closet” (the ironic gay reference here is intentional) Muslim, as if that should matter.  Nooses still appear at schools and workplaces to intimidate.  Holocaust deniers still have audiences.  And homosexuals, bisexuals, and transgendered people are still scorned, ridiculed, and brutalized.  I wish I knew what to do about this, but I don’t.  I have, however, learned what NOT to do.  I will no longer delude myself or others into thinking that everything will be okay, because at least until the whole world changes a whole lot, it may NOT be okay…not for people of color, not for religious minorities, and not for gay people.  What a shame.

I still try to be as optimistic as possible, but I temper that optimism with realism.  As Sergeant Esterhaus used to say at the beginning of each episode of Hill Street Blues, “Let’s be careful out there.”

Old Hat…

One of the more interesting photos I saw during the most recent presidential campaign was a closeup of Barack Obama’s two open hands, holding a curious array of seemingly disparate objects.  A stone with a cross inscribed on it, various Catholic medals, a small Hindu deity, someone’s “lucky” subway token.  The accompanying caption stated that many such items were pressed into his hands by his supporters every day, and recently seeing the photo again caused me to begin thinking about superstition, spiritualism, and the role such things play in lives like mine.

I come from a non-spiritual background.  Although my parents identified culturally with “our group,” they did not practice religious rituals, read religious books, or proclaim faith.  If they, deep in their hearts, harbored any serious belief frameworks, they never let on about it.  We had no religious art in our house, and no family bible.  I asked the same questions about the origins of the universe that other kids asked, and the answers that I received at home were, at best, noncommittal.  When I was very young, but old enough to inquire, I noticed a very strange object on my father’s key chain.  It was a small piece of dark brown fabric…very thick felt…into which a neat hole had been punched.  Being a kid, I had to ask, so I did…”Dad…what’s this?”  “That’s a piece of the hat I was wearing the day I met your mother” was the reply.  “I carry it for luck.”

Things in which I do not believe would fill many more blog entries than I have time to produce, and so I will not attempt to detail those things here.  I like to think of myself as a rationalist, someone who gathers proof and behaves accordingly.  I know the harm that belief unencumbered by reason can cause, and so do you.  9-11, the crusades, the inquisition, the Salem witch trials, and the list goes on and on.  And I think of the small cases and the nonfiction books about individual believers, like Crazy for God (in which the protagonist survives) and Jay’s Journal (in which he does not).  The recent release from prison (after 34 years) of Lynette “Squeaky” Fromme has once again reminded me of the “Manson Family,” the members of which are the poster children for the damage unfettered belief can cause, both to the believer and to the society at large.  And how many innocent children have lost their lives because their families chose prayer over penicillin?  As William James wrote more than one hundred years ago, “It is far better to believe much too little than a little too much.”

That having been said, I look at my own life and the ways belief and superstition have worked their way into it.  Yesterday, while I was out shopping, a woman standing near me sneezed.  Of course, I said “bless you.”  Did I say it for her, for me, for both of us, or just out of habit?  And how many times in my life have I “knocked on wood?”  Do I walk around the ladder, or under it?  My lottery ticket purchases always include numbers chosen based on family birthdays.  I don’t know of anyone, not even President Obama, not even my late father, who is superstition free.  I’d like to be, but I’m not, and that realization, and the personal inconsistency that it reveals, troubles me. The cognitive dissonance is positively deafening.  I’m like Garrison Keillor’s apocryphal Powdermilk Biscuits…”Pure, mostly.”

I think that the reason some people are superstitious (even those who ought to know better) is that such beliefs are comforting.  They give us permission to think that we have more control, more “input” into the way the world works, than we actually do.  Such beliefs are silly…I know that.  When I see others acting on their superstitions my reactions range from mild amusement to scorn.

But to this very day, I wouldn’t dream of getting on an airplane without carrying in my pocket a certain small piece of dark brown fabric…very thick felt…into which a neat hole had been punched.

Cousin Issac…

My cousin Issac was a con artist, but he came by it honestly…he took over his father’s business.  He and his wife were regular attendees at family gatherings in south Florida, where most of the remaining family members had moved in the 1950s, bringing their children and their children’s children, who now considered themselves native Floridians and did all that they could do to distance themselves from their New York roots, while at the same time being deeply offended anytime someone spoke disparagingly of New Yorkers.

Issac’s father Jakob, the oldest of eleven children, one of whom was my paternal grandmother, was a waiter at Coney Island in the first quarter of the last century.  He was making very little money.  Each evening when he left work, he saw a young Russian immigrant outside of the restaurant drawing pencil sketches of passersby, sketches which he then offered to them for $2.00 each…quite a good deal of money at the time.  The Russian, whose name was Leon, was very good, the sketches frequently sold, and Jakob, a courtly and elegant man with a waxed handlebar mustache despite his humble beginnings and lowly station in life, had his epiphany.  Jakob died that day, and in his place, Michael was born.

Some families produce doctors, some produce lawyers, some produce athletes.  My family produces salesmen…REAL salesmen.  Now being a salesman is fine if you have a product to sell, but Jakob, now Michael, didn’t, and he needed one to fulfill his destiny.  So the newly-minted Michael struck a deal with Leon…he would bring Leon photographs, and, using those photographs, Leon would paint oil portraits, and sign them with Michael’s name.  Leon would be paid two hundred to three hundred dollars each for the portraits, and Jakob (hereafter referred to as Michael) would deliver them, claiming, both in person and in his beautiful, colorful brochures, to be the artist himself.  Leon was a better artist than he was a businessman.  Michael was getting thousands of dollars for each painting in a time when such a sum represented more than twice the median annual wage for an average worker.

And who had enough money to commission such a painting?  Captains of industry, political and military leaders, and other luminaries.  By the time a few of these portraits had made the rounds in the upper echelons of northeastern society, the word of mouth began to snowball, and the need to sell commissions was replaced by the need to field commissions.  You had to be accepted into the society’s inner circle before you were permitted to commission one of Michael’s “originals.”

This went on for many years.  Michael gave his family a good, prosperous life, but he was getting older and wanted to retire.  He had three children.  His daughter was happily married to a physician, one son was active in the stock market (and that’s another story), and the other son, Cousin Issac…well…Cousin Issac was a lot like his dad, and his dad realized this.  So…as if by magic…Cousin Issac became Michael, and seamlessly took over where his father had left off.  And old reliable Leon, ensconced in his tiny basement tenement apartment in New York, continued to receive photographs and deliver portraits, 139 of them (at an average of $7,000 each) from 1972 to 1974 alone, according to published reports.  The pig walks in, the sausage comes out.

By the time I knew him, Cousin Issac cut quite a striking figure, with his perfectly styled gray hair, his muted, tasteful, obviously very costly clothes, and his eighteen karat gold Patek Phillipe Calatrava wristwatch.  He had purchased a penthouse in the most luxurious and desirable condominium in Miami, and joined the most exclusive country club.  When he and his beautiful wife would show up at family events, he would always be introduced as “The Portrait Artist,” but you could usually tell who in the crowd knew the whole story by who was trying to stifle a chuckle during the introductions.  Despite his “colorful” reputation in the family, I never met anyone who knew Cousin Issac and didn’t both like him, and enjoy his company.  Perhaps that was why he was so very good at what he did.

Despite his many political and social connections, he got into trouble with the I.R.S.  Although he was wealthy, he refused, as a matter of principle, to pay a tax judgment for $40,000, a pittance for him.  Apparently the irony never occurred to him.  In the process of fighting the judgment, the press got wind of the story, and, as they used to say, the jig was up.  A thorough and scathing article, detailing the process by which the portraits were created and sold, appeared in a major national magazine, and the new commissions stopped coming.  If he had paid the judgment without fighting it, he might have been able to continue the “business” with no one any the wiser, but I suppose that so many years of being “the esteemed portrait artist” led him to believe that he was bulletproof.  He wasn’t.

Even though, at this point, the true nature of his business (and the fact that he never really painted anything) became widely known, not one portrait buyer ever complained or asked for a refund.

We never saw Cousin Issac at a family event again.  He died suddenly, on the golf course, reportedly after playing a pretty respectable top nine.  Leon outlived him, content at his easel in his tiny basement tenement apartment, finally able to sign his work with his own name.

AS IS THE CASE WITH ALL OF MY BLOG ENTRIES, THIS IS A TRUE STORY.  SINCE MANY MEMBERS OF MY COUSIN’S IMMEDIATE FAMILY ARE ALIVE AND WELL, AND I DON’T WISH THEM TO BE EMBARRASSED, I’VE CHANGED THE NAMES IN THIS LITTLE TALE, AND HAVE AVOIDED USING LAST NAMES ALTOGETHER.