On Kids and Manners

"I long for the "good ol' days" when kids were taught some manners."

Maybe it's my faulty memory but it seems to me when I was growing up in the 1970's that kids behaved better in the check out line at the store. I know for certain that I would have had one of those screaming "I want this" and "I want that" temper tantrums like I see so many kids have today while I'm waiting to pay for my groceries, there would have been a dire price to pay. My Mother just would not have put up with that.

Then I remember the stories of my Grandmother who always talked about how kids were taught to show respect for their elders. It was considered an important lesson of childhood that continued on into adulthood. Nowadays, I don't think we show the same amount of respect for our elderly people who have so much to offer us in terms of wisdom.

I'm certainly not in favor of physically abusing a child but I do wish that parents would take a more constructive role in the stores regarding their children's behavior. When I see kids basically terrorizing the adults by running wildly through the stores and ramming into people, some of who are elderly and almost fall down, I long for the "good ol' days" when kids were taught some manners.

I don't understand why the parents of the children having the tantrums just stand there and ignore their child or actually give them what they want. It just reinforces this bad behavior, and in my opinion, sets them up to have problems later in life.

Riding in the Back of Pickups

"Life – and death – will play out regardless of how much we try to control the outcome."

I remember the freedom of sitting in the bouncing bed of a pickup truck on the way to the swimming hole.  The thought of getting hurt or killed back there never occurred to us.  We would just snug up to the back of the cab, suck on a lollipop and wait with eager anticipation to get to our destination.  I have a lot of fond memories that began with that pickup bed ride.

These days, you are a bad parent if you let your child sit in the back of a pickup.  In many areas, it is outright illegal now to let anyone ride without a seatbelt.  In our area, you still can if all of the available seats are already taken, but it is highly frowned upon.I am not diminishing the tragedy of deaths or injuries that happen when people have ridden in the back of a pickup, but I wonder just how many people actually suffered by riding that way.  Do these new laws really have a big impact on our safety?  My brother died in a car accident.  His seatbelt would have done nothing to save him, so how come cars aren’t outlawed?  Sometimes, I think our government overreacts in their eagerness to impose more restrictions on us.

While even one death is a terrible tragedy, and I know this from experience, changing the rules for the entire population seems a bit overdramatic.  Yes, we want closure.  Yes, we want to know that no one will suffer that terrible loss, but we cannot protect everyone from everything.  Life – and death – will play out regardless of how much we try to control the outcome.

Big Girl Dance

I sometimes think of my first big girl dance with anything but fond memories. In some antiquated offshoot of southern belle-hood in Omaha, NE,a between our kickball match-ups and Egyptian history, most of my sixth grade classmates and I signed up for cotillion classes. Rather, our parents signed us up.

Most of you are probably so blessed that you don’t know what a cotillion is, but basically its purpose is to prepare children to be cultured young adults. I can’t remember everything that our Sunday evening classes entailed, but I learned that one shouldn’t put one’s elbows on the table. How one should set a proper table. How one should ballroom dance with boys with sheens of grease on their faces and sweaty arms underneath their dads’ suit jackets.

That’s where the dance comes in. The finale for our class was a big dinner and dance at the country club where we could use our knives and forks properly (I still remember that you’re supposed to lay your knife across your plate and take—BUT DON’T SPREAD—the butter from the dish with a special utensil), and finish the evening with a waltz performance. After the waltz, they would play Backstreet Boys or whatever was popular as a reward for our good behavior.

My classmates were psyched. I was not psyched. I think this was the dance that created my anti-dance stance which culminated in hyperbolic fashion with me leaving my senior prom in favor of Burger King hamburgers with my mom. But in the sixth grade, these were just nascent inclinations against dances and dresses and popularity, but there was still that nagging incentive to go—a good grade.

So I borrowed my mother’s dress. Not a dress from her high school prom or anything quite so romantic. I borrowed a dress that she wore to work—a blue, distinctly ‘90’s velvety fabric topped with a strange, woven bolero—and went to the dance. All the girls wore chokers and hair glitter that made their twisted up-dos into tight, industrial-looking coils and rods. All the boys looked stiff and small in their red ties and suit jackets that were too big in the shoulders and hung long past the wrists.

Nobody asked me to dance after the first waltz, and some of the girls wondered asked me if I had borrowed my mom’s dress. I told them I had. But I didn’t care. I got to eat a fancy dinner, and got an A in the class.

Ice Cream the Old-Fashioned Way

It tastes better and is usually much healthier.

Back when time was slower and we made more of our own food, one of the most enjoyable food experiences was making old fashioned ice cream (only then, it wasn't called old-fashioned).  A little salt, ice, cream, sugar and flavoring made for a delicious treat.  The fact that you had to work for your treat made it that much more satisfying.  These days, it is so much easier to run down to the grocery store and pick up a half-gallon for a few dollars, but it leaves something to be desired.

As with most foods, homemade ice cream tastes infinitely better and is usually much healthier for you too.  Old-fashioned ice cream is no exception.  Often richer and creamier, you can customize it to exactly the perfect flavor.  From basic vanilla made of cream, sugar and vanilla to taste explosions filled with fruits, expensive flavorings and other exotic ingredients, old-fashioned ice cream knows no limits.You can make your own ice cream using plastic food storage bags in just 10-15 minutes.  Most of us already have those bags on hand, so you can experiment with homemade ice cream with very little expense.  Foodlists has a great recipe and complete instructions using plastic bags.  It takes a little bit of elbow grease, but trust me - it is well worth the effort.

Next time you are waxing nostalgic about the good old days, pull out a recipe for old-fashioned ice cream, roll up your sleeves and give yourself a little taste of the past.

A Belated Fake Love Letter to Columbus Day

Actually, Just Screw You, Columbus Day

Two weeks ago tomorrow marked an occasion many of you users of online banking may not have registered.  But to those few Luddites (me included) who are still beholden to physical banking and mailing, it marked a disastrous revelation.  My particular revelation came when I failed to open my bank doors.  Confusion reigned in those first few seconds, and I pulled again.  Panic.  I pulled again.  

Thankfully, I was gifted with the powers of reason, however late to the party they were.  The lights in the bank were off.  Ergo, the bank was closed.  Thus, there must be a reason for the bank to be closed and, by extension, a strawman for my rage.

Upon checking my calendar, I discovered it was Columbus Day.  And I discovered that Columbus Day, for some God-awful inexplicable reason, is still federally recognized.

Let's break this down.  Our venerable government, that august body of enlightened individuals, still recognizes a holiday celebrating Columbus.

The man who, while he traded with the natives and could sometimes even be friendly with them (when he wanted to leave some men with them with assurances that they'd be safe), he also took them as slaves and recommended the pillage of their lands to the Spanish court upon his return to Europe.

The man who outright lied about the riches contained in the Americas-- gold lying bare on the hillsides, waterfalls of jewels, et cetera-- to shore up his credibility.

Who confused Native Americans with Indians.

Who missed what is now the United States by a few hundred miles.  Who was not the first person to find the United States (the Vikings, and maybe even Polynesians).  Who did not destroy preconceived notions of the world being flat (as many of us were taught), because the notion had been disproved before he was even born.

The point is, Columbus doesn't deserve veneration, much less the federally recognized sort.  No, he led to the massive rape and destruction of an entire indigenous culture.  And maybe we shouldn't be held accountable for that (that's up for debate), but he certainly should.  He openly encouraged such actions.  Columbus was born of a time of ignorance and endemic racism.  Perhaps he doesn't deserve scorn, being indoctrinated with ideals of white supremacy from birth, as everybody of his time was.  But surely, we should not celebrate the man.

Because the thing is, this blog is called we used to be.  And how we used to be is a double-edged sword.  Yes, we live in a scary time, with  (arguably artificially inflated) dangers throughout the globe.  But we know better now.  When Columbus Day was first recognized in 1937, we had limited cultural understanding, and little desire for it.  Watch a John Wayne war movie if you don't believe me, but be prepared to cringe when he refers to the Japanese as little yellow bastards.  And that was years away in 1937.  In 1937, we may have had little regard for the negative impact our colonization had on the indigenous people and culture.  But we know better now.

"How we used to be" is a double-edged sword.  We live in a scary time, yes, of upheavals and terrorism and dangers domestic and foreign (many arguably artificially inflated, but that's a discussion for another time).  But we are more tolerant now.  And more intelligent.  We should have moved past such an unbecoming celebration that heralded decades-- centuries-- of oppression and slavery.

Also, I want one less day when the bank is closed.

 

Is TV Making Us Fat?

I spend a lot of time waxing nostalgic about how things used to be.  Life was so much simpler and people enjoyed each other more.  I have never lived without TV, but I certainly never had 120 HD channels and in our house, you got up to change the channel.

With the advent of the remote control and cable TV, we have begun drifting farther away from family values, real laughter and good old-fashioned motion.  I remember when being a kid meant going outside to make hay forts, climb trees or look for frogs.  My kids, while they are still young, have never really done any of those things.  I’ll bet mine aren’t unique, either.  Kids are more comfortable in their safe little homes with their safe little TVs.  But what is the cost for this comfort and security?Today, you can’t help but hear about rising obesity rates, childhood diabetes and other scary health concerns, all centering around the fact that our kids are eating more junk and moving less.  And why not?  With global TV channels, you can explore the world, watch the workout instead of participating in it, and hang out with your friends in online games.

Now, I don’t think the poor little inanimate TV is any more responsible for making us fat than the gun is for making us dead.  We are the people who control how things go in life, and if we spend all day in front of the TV, or let our kids do the same, it falls entirely on us to bear the consequences.

Next time you put your feet up and start flipping channels, think about what life might be like if you participated instead of watching from behind the scenes.

Whatever Happened to Smiling at Strangers?

Miss Manners Would Be Appalled

I grew up in a small town, so maybe I was spoiled from the beginning.  But it seems to me we used to smile at each other a whole lot more than we do now.  In fact, it seems as if a smile is met with an answering scowl more often than not these days.  So, whatever happened to smiling at strangers?Our world is speeding up while our manners seem to be slowing down.  When you smile at someone now, they look at you suspiciously and wonder what you’re up to or if you’re about to grab their baby from them.  There used to be a time when a friendly smile and eye contact was the norm, when we were greeted with dirty looks if we didn’t act friendly.  I even find myself raising a suspicious eyebrow if a stranger seems to be getting too chatty with my young children.  How did we wind up this way?

Some might say this lack of friendliness is a result of the corporate world we live, but I want to put forth a different suggestion:  Perhaps our corporate, cold world is a result of our changing attitude toward strangers.

Whatever the case, this world could sure use with a dose of happy.  Therefore, I propose that each of us focus on repaying suspicious glances, dirty looks and downright frowns with the type of friendly, good-natured cheer we used to greet strangers with.  Do we really want to be teaching our children that it’s appropriate to be so mistrustful of everyone?  Doesn’t that perpetuate the sour manners of our country?

Bumper Stickers: The New American Collectivism

Or, You can Pay Someone to Not Be Clever for You

Quick note before continuing.  I have discovered that I'm going to use the word bumper sticker a lot throughout this post.  I'm going to, from now on, refer to bumper sticker with the singular acronym B. S.  Any similarity to any already extisting acronyms is purely coincidental (and hilariously appropriate).  Let's try it: the B. S. is prevalent throughout American roadways.

Ha.  It tickles.

Here we stand, at the yawning mouth of the 21st century, and in the same breath that people decry American-made socialism and bemoan the impending loss of individualism, they buy assembly-line-made bumper stickers that decry American-made socialism and bemoan the impending loss of individualism.  Maybe they even fist bump their neighbors when they return home to the delightful surprise that their neighbor has the exact same bumper sticker.


I'll assume you catch the irony there.

Back to the task at hand.  B. S. owners are not just people who decry socialism and so on.  No, it's parents who have children on the honor roll, or parents who don't have children on the honor roll, or parents who have children who could beat up other people's children who are on the honor roll.  It's people who believe in Jesus or Darwin, people who love bands or hate bands.  It's people who love their granddogs.

I have to stop there.  I saw that last B. S. at a gas station near my apartment.  Let's examine this B. S. in a tangent I'm going to call "Making Assumptions About Complete Strangers Based on Automobile Decor".  Assume that this is the lone B. S. on the granddog-lover's car.  This means if the owner has dogs of their own, they are not worthy of B. S.  Their grandchildren are similarly unworthy.  And perhaps most tellingly, the children are also left in the lurch, no thoughts of B. S. reminders that they are loved to keep them warm through the cold, lonely winter of their adulthood.

Hm.  That sounds even more bitter with the acronym.

Anyway, this is not the point.  The point is, B. S. wasn't always on our cars.  We weren't always so open about our niche interests and compulsions.  But here we are, practicing a kind of corporate-sponsored collectivism.  All B. S. owners are tacitly claiming membership in a group who not only agree with them, but are willing to inflict knowledge of this membership on their fellow drivers.  What happened to wanting to speak for yourself?  What happened to wanting to say something original?  When did we ever go so far from espousing our American creativity, and decide to shell out money for some anonymous writer to be (not) creative for us?  And why do I always feel so compelled to read those stupid things myself?

So I say, our cars are nothing more than hunks of plastic and metal made only to hurtle at unsafe speeds across levened surfaces.  They are not billboards.  They are not the media of your proclivities, political leanings, ideologies, pet peeves, interests, platitudes, or admonitions.  If you want to say something, say something yourself.  If you want to have a thought, think it yourself (for another dose of irony, keep an eye out for B. S. that admonishes you to think for yourself).  If you want to espouse a belief, particularly a strong one, do not demean its weight by paying for something that an anonymous writer scribbled out in a pique of half-thought.   I don't want to learn from some car that the owner hates Barack Obama or Dick Cheney.  I don't care.  And don't feed me some B. S. defense that I should ignore it if I don't like it.  I can't: it's not the message of the B. S. that offends me.  It is the presence of it.  B. S. is colorful and eye-catching, easy to use and hard to ignore.  It appeals to that side of us that wants to belong, and easily.  To join some group that requires a quick slap of magnet on metal, or dollars in hand, or ear to the radio.  That, my friends, is the essence of B. S.
 

I Was In Seoul, South Korea on 9-11

I'll Never Forget It

 

I visited New York City last weekend; when I was eating a snack on a patio in Greenwich Village, a firetruck stopped in front of the cafe. The truck had the names of some of their firefighters who were killed on 9-11. More than any memorials or any pageantry I saw on television, the sight of the firetruck brought back all of my memories of 9-11. 

 

On September 11, 2001, I was in South Korea. When the twin towers in New York City were hit by airplanes, I was watching Apocalypse Now on the the big screen in a movie theater in Seoul.  A student called me on the phone on the way home from the movie theater and told me what happened. 

 

I thought it was a mistake and couldn’t quite understand what he was saying. 

 

When I got home and turned on the Armed Forces Network, I couldn’t believe my eyes. I was living ten minutes away from one of the largest army bases in Asia; the base was on high alert and there were fighter planes in the air ready to attack any highjacked planes. The noise was so loud that I thought we were under attack. 

 

The days blurred together. I had to teach the next day and couldn’t believe that the Koreans around me didn’t feel the same way that I did; South Korea and the United States have always been (and will always be) allies, but it wasn’t the Koreans who were attacked, it was the Americans. My students had little to say about the attacks and the events of the day, but it was all I felt like talking about for months. 

 

I think I was in shock. 

 

I wasn’t thinking then about what would happen to the United States and had no idea how we would retaliate or what the consequences to American citizens would be. It wasn’t the first time that I felt like an American, but it was the one time that I felt solidarity with all Americans. 

 

I later read an article in the New York Times about residents in the small town of Pendleton, Oregon who feared that they, too, would be the victims of a terrorist attack. I, myself, remained vigilant when I walked around Seoul. When my friends and I saw a car with two middle-eastern men stopped in front of the United States military base in Itaewon, I called the military police. 

 

It was the first and last time that I was guilty of racial profiling. 

 

I couldn’t watch violent movies for months and tried to block out any mental images of victims jumping out the windows. I was thousands of miles away from New York City, and had never even been to New York City, but the events of that day affected me more than almost anything else in my life. 

 

http://www.nytimes.com/2001/10/10/us/nation-challenged-isolated-town-faraway-events-hit-home-for-town-eastern-oregon.html?scp=1&sq=pendleton+oregon+terrorist&st=nyt

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