Mister Tweed and Missus Slick
I've been told that the ability to hold two opposing thoughts in your mind at the same time is a sign of high intelligence. I've also been told that it's a sign of low character.
According to that logic, I'm a wicked smaht amoral low-life floor-flushing sack of scuz because for decades, now, I've been able to exorcise neither the liberal nor the conservative perspective on American politics from my overworked immigrant brain. About the best I've been able to do is point out to apologists of one camp or the other that by villifying their opponents, they simply compare their villain's worst qualities to their hero's best qualities, thereby rationalizing a position they probably adopted on emotion.
Given the enormous gulf between the abilities required to be a good President and those possessed by the man currently in the job, villification can be a difficult temptation to resist. So naturally, when Obama showed up talking about healing the divisions within this country, my ears perked up. The Republicans appeared defeated and the Democrats were on a roll, but here was a leading candidate talking about reconciliation.
Then a funny thing happened on the way to the airplane. Missus Wife, Da Girlz, and I, plus our bags and ski gear loaded onto two SmarteCartes, were headed back to Boston from a week with the in-laws in Colorado. The week before at Logan airport in Boston, our little pack team had stood in a line 90 minutes long just to check our bags. Three burly guys with walkie-talkies and Jet Blue blazers kept that line in order.
Once again we were standing in line with all our bags and ski gear, only this time, there were no burly guys with walkie-talkies and Jet Blue blazers. The line moved forward at a snail's pace. From my vantage point at the end of our mule team, I kept reminding my chitty-chatty daughters at the front to pay attention and keep moving. The line behind us was getting longer, and having lived in both South America and the Northeast, I know what happens to lines that you don't protect.
Sure enough, when we reached the point where the line met the guide ropes, a guy in a tweed jacket tried to cut in front of our daughters from stage left and a slick couple slid in beside them from stage right.
A few meters closer to the action than me, Missus Wife politely pointed out to Mister Tweed that ...um... in case he hadn't noticed... he was cutting in line.
"Oh," he replied with patronizing concern for all of Earth's life forms, "we're all going to the same place." Then he tossed a big fake smile her way and didn't move.
You know how when somebody says one thing but means something else, you kinda get brain freeze? Happens to me all the time. When I was a teenager and said something stupid, if somebody else called me a goddamned genius, I was likely to respond with, "You think so? Gee, Thanks." That gave me a reputation as a sardonic wit, but I was simply too dumb to notice the sarcarm.
Not Missus Wife. She's a pro at reading the message within the words. While deftly moving the SmarteCarte with the ski bags around his knees without knocking them off, she proceeds to explain to Mister Tweed how a line works, what a brilliant idea one person standing behind another is, and so on. Was he, by any chance, familiar with the concept?
Daughter One, a chip off the old block if there ever was one, crosses her arms, leans back against her SmarteCarte, and with a look of unabashed delight, begins to watch her Momma disembowel somebody else for a change.
"Do you think maybe you've had a little too much coffee," Mister Tweed responds after a few moments, already looking defeated.
"Yes, why don't we all just get along," Missus Slick on our right says, and quietly slides between us and the people waiting in line behind us.
As Missus Wife turns her attention to Missus Slick's rhetoric, I begin to feel a vague sense of familiarity...I was 11 years old and sitting in the bleachers waiting for my parents to pick me up after football practice. Three older kids with nothing much to do that afternoon decided to beat me up. During the preliminaries, in which they pulled some gear out of my bag and called me a girl, a puss, a stupid, a girl again, and if I recall correctly, a belly-crawling worm sissy puss-face dick, I came to the conclusion that it would be advisable to don my football helmet. So I quietly put it on and fastened the chin piece in place and when the leader committed the tactical error of coming within reach, I snapped his head under my arm and punched in his face as best I could.
The coach and a few parents showed up before I could do much damage. The boy was crying. I was crying. I'm really not sure why I was crying, since I had definitely gotten the better of that exchange, but here's the curious fact: Coach made us both shake hands and apologize. At the time I didn't think much of it. But at the Denver airport, I realized I'd just decided who I was going to vote for.
According to that logic, I'm a wicked smaht amoral low-life floor-flushing sack of scuz because for decades, now, I've been able to exorcise neither the liberal nor the conservative perspective on American politics from my overworked immigrant brain. About the best I've been able to do is point out to apologists of one camp or the other that by villifying their opponents, they simply compare their villain's worst qualities to their hero's best qualities, thereby rationalizing a position they probably adopted on emotion.
Given the enormous gulf between the abilities required to be a good President and those possessed by the man currently in the job, villification can be a difficult temptation to resist. So naturally, when Obama showed up talking about healing the divisions within this country, my ears perked up. The Republicans appeared defeated and the Democrats were on a roll, but here was a leading candidate talking about reconciliation.
Then a funny thing happened on the way to the airplane. Missus Wife, Da Girlz, and I, plus our bags and ski gear loaded onto two SmarteCartes, were headed back to Boston from a week with the in-laws in Colorado. The week before at Logan airport in Boston, our little pack team had stood in a line 90 minutes long just to check our bags. Three burly guys with walkie-talkies and Jet Blue blazers kept that line in order.
Once again we were standing in line with all our bags and ski gear, only this time, there were no burly guys with walkie-talkies and Jet Blue blazers. The line moved forward at a snail's pace. From my vantage point at the end of our mule team, I kept reminding my chitty-chatty daughters at the front to pay attention and keep moving. The line behind us was getting longer, and having lived in both South America and the Northeast, I know what happens to lines that you don't protect.
Sure enough, when we reached the point where the line met the guide ropes, a guy in a tweed jacket tried to cut in front of our daughters from stage left and a slick couple slid in beside them from stage right.
A few meters closer to the action than me, Missus Wife politely pointed out to Mister Tweed that ...um... in case he hadn't noticed... he was cutting in line.
"Oh," he replied with patronizing concern for all of Earth's life forms, "we're all going to the same place." Then he tossed a big fake smile her way and didn't move.
You know how when somebody says one thing but means something else, you kinda get brain freeze? Happens to me all the time. When I was a teenager and said something stupid, if somebody else called me a goddamned genius, I was likely to respond with, "You think so? Gee, Thanks." That gave me a reputation as a sardonic wit, but I was simply too dumb to notice the sarcarm.
Not Missus Wife. She's a pro at reading the message within the words. While deftly moving the SmarteCarte with the ski bags around his knees without knocking them off, she proceeds to explain to Mister Tweed how a line works, what a brilliant idea one person standing behind another is, and so on. Was he, by any chance, familiar with the concept?
Daughter One, a chip off the old block if there ever was one, crosses her arms, leans back against her SmarteCarte, and with a look of unabashed delight, begins to watch her Momma disembowel somebody else for a change.
"Do you think maybe you've had a little too much coffee," Mister Tweed responds after a few moments, already looking defeated.
"Yes, why don't we all just get along," Missus Slick on our right says, and quietly slides between us and the people waiting in line behind us.
As Missus Wife turns her attention to Missus Slick's rhetoric, I begin to feel a vague sense of familiarity...I was 11 years old and sitting in the bleachers waiting for my parents to pick me up after football practice. Three older kids with nothing much to do that afternoon decided to beat me up. During the preliminaries, in which they pulled some gear out of my bag and called me a girl, a puss, a stupid, a girl again, and if I recall correctly, a belly-crawling worm sissy puss-face dick, I came to the conclusion that it would be advisable to don my football helmet. So I quietly put it on and fastened the chin piece in place and when the leader committed the tactical error of coming within reach, I snapped his head under my arm and punched in his face as best I could.
The coach and a few parents showed up before I could do much damage. The boy was crying. I was crying. I'm really not sure why I was crying, since I had definitely gotten the better of that exchange, but here's the curious fact: Coach made us both shake hands and apologize. At the time I didn't think much of it. But at the Denver airport, I realized I'd just decided who I was going to vote for.
