Blame Game

As the oldest of four girls, I heard the question, “Who did this?”, a lot. “Where did that come from?” ran a close second, but never knocked “Who did this?” out of first place.

The question, of course, always led to pointing fingers and defensive whines. The words “…but she…” were thrown around quite a bit. I’m not saying those fingers were usually pointed at me…but my mother would.

Fast forward lots of years. It’s the late 80’s. MTV still played music videos and John Bradshaw was the darling of public television. Mr. Bradshaw wrote a book called “Healing The Shame That Binds You”, among others. He was featured prominently during pledge week. At the time, I was hoarding quarters in hopes of collecting enough to buy a box of Hamburger Helper, but I often dreamed of pledging and, when I did, I determined to do the magnanimous thing. I’d tell them to keep their silly old umbrella.

Bradshaw fascinated me for a number of reasons. He was good looking for one. And he had a great voice; a voice a father would have if you had that kind of father. You know the kind; the kind whose lap was yours for the taking, the kind that listened, the kind that comforted.

No, I didn’t have that kind either.

The thing I remember most when thinking of John Bradshaw, besides his delicious shock of salt and pepper hair, is the mobile. That’s what sucked me in, really; it was a simple thing. It might even have been made from a clothes hanger. Family members, represented by shapes cut from shiny paper, dangled from it. Bradshaw used the mobile to demonstrate that instability in one family member threw everyone else off balance. With a flick of his finger, he’d send one paper doll spinning. The rest followed suit in a crazy chaotic dance that demonstrated it didn’t matter who jumped first; in the end they were all hopelessly tangled up in their own strings.

Everyone loves a good whodunit…Who was the last one here? Who took the last paper towel? Who left the seat up? Who spilled the tea? Who moved the remote control? Who left the window down? And the classic…who let the dogs out?

Our society’s obsession with blame is the main reason I no longer talk politics. It’s impossible to make a comment, no matter how innocuous, without someone borrowing from my sisters and I; “But, he…”, “But, she….”, “But, they…” And we all know what happens next.

Mom gets the switch.

She never seemed to notice, but I did. Nothing good ever came from getting a switch. Despite her admonitions to the contrary, there was always lots of crying and, afterwards, Mom was red-faced and sweaty. We didn’t stop doing what she didn’t want us to do, we just did it better, more quietly, and with a heightened sense of accomplishment.

As the rare liberal living and working in a red sea of Bible-based Republicans, I’ve kept my head down since the partial government shut-down. (Even typing those words feels ridiculous…but I digress.) You can hear better with your head down, and what I hear is a lot of blaming. The paper dolls are dancing, and everyone is so busy pointing out who jumped first that no one noticed Mom going for the switch.

Maybe Ken Fisher watched John Bradshaw too. Fisher is the chairman of the Fisher House Foundation. On Wednesday, Fisher House committed to providing death benefits and transportation to family members of soldiers killed in the line of duty. Ken Fisher didn’t ask “who”. He kept his fingers to himself and, instead of muddying the waters with feckless accusations; he provided a solution to a problem caused by lesser men with bigger titles and lots to lose.

You can learn more about Fisher House Foundation here: http://www.fisherhouse.org/

Photo credit: http://www.diabetesmine.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/09/pointing-finger.jpg

Politics and Pharisees

I work in an office populated by political people, the majority of whom prefer their chairs roll only to the right.

And, then there’s me.

Clinton was still in office when I started this job. Those were the salad days…

Other than a few last-minute shenanigans for which he reportedly employed official pardons and office equipment to, in essence, give his successor the finger, my office-mates had little to complain about.

Political discussions, many of them heated, became more the norm after Bush took office and particularly after he made the decision to invade Iraq. They reached such a fever pitch, in fact, that administration mandated they stop. And they did, forcing those so inclined to perfect the use of loaded questions and pointed barbs as a means to draw political blood.

“What do you think about Donald Trump running for president?”

I studied the face of the asker for signs of sarcasm and/or levity, finding neither in her blank stare.

“I don’t know…”, I started, hoping she’d take the bait and declare her position.

“I saw him on Entertainment Tonight last night! He’s got some good ideas!”, she gushed around the hook.

I leaned back in my chair and focused on attaining the same level of blank upon my face as that with which she’d greeted me.

“Really? Like what?”

As I spoke, my mind flashed back to an earlier conversation in which she had detailed Gary Busey’s firing from “The Apprentice”. So she knows, I thought. She knows, and she’d vote for him anyway. Despite my efforts, I felt a twitch begin in the crow’s feet surrounding my left eye.

“Well, like Afghanistan. He said in the old days, when we declared war on a country, we just went in and took over. He wants to do that in Afghanistan!”

“It’s not really that easy, you know?” Only conscious effort kept the “Mommy” out of my voice.

She was silent for two beats before dragging her sneakered toe across hopelessly unattractive institutional carpet.

“Yeah….”, she managed to mumble, deflated.

My “smartphone” was impressed enough by Trump’s decision not to run that it alerted me immediately.

I, in turn, went to a different co-worker, who soon after declared she had never watched a single episode of “The Apprentice”.

“Trump’s decided not to run! Who will we vote for now?” My moan dripped with sarcasm.

Cora, a seventy-five-year-old woman who delights in telling people she’s known me for over forty years, turned in her chair.

“Well it sure as hell won’t be Newt Gingrich!”, she nearly shouted. “Can you believe he’s running?” Many more sentences followed before she ended with, “I mean he’s obviously a very smart man but he just can’t keep his pants on!”

I’ve noticed that those in my office (This might be read as everyone except me.) who support Republican/Libertarian/Tea Party candidates seem to do so with a “religious” fervor.

Take June, for example. Sunday mornings find June, her husband, and any college-age offspring who happen to be home for the weekend, in “their” pew inside a large sanctuary replete with ecclesiastical “Jumbo-trons” necessary for those in the very back of the church to see the pastor.

At work, June occupies the cubicle next to mine. Her youngest daughter, fresh from freshman year at UGA, has joined her. And, yesterday morning, her brother stopped there on his way to his own office. Did I mention I work in a family business?

I don’t know what they were talking about. I didn’t hear anything before the word “Pharisee”.

It’s not a word you hear everyday. I can’t, in fact, remember the last time I heard it.

“Isn’t that rich?”, June giggled in that way she has, reminding anyone within listening distance that she still has lunch with several sorority sisters once a month.

“I mean Obama, the Pharisee, was actually quoting from the Bible!” She giggled again.

Her family members remained silent until her brother offered up a weekend anecdote.

I made the decision to forget. I filed away her words, her giggle, and the surprising spark of indignation I couldn’t deny feeling.

After all, I haven’t been this disillusioned by another human being…ever. Obama wasn’t my first choice but, by the time the election was held, he was the only choice. I did my best to believe in him and, despite his admittedly inspired rhetoric, he turned out to be just like the rest of them…

But, I couldn’t. I couldn’t forget. I thought I knew what a Pharisee was, but I wasn’t absolutely sure. It nagged at me all day.

I held my own special brand of indignant curiosity at bay until I got home from work. I fed chickens, collected eggs, checked in on the garden, flipped through mail, and gave my son an extra-big hug before sitting down at the computer.

And, then I “Googled” it.

“phar·i·see/ˈfarəsē/Noun

1. A member of an ancient Jewish sect, distinguished by strict observance of the traditional and written law, and commonly held to have pretensions to superior sanctity.

2. A self-righteous person; a hypocrite.”

President Obama is definitely not Jewish.

But then, neither is June.

41“Why do you look at the speck that is in your brother’s eye, but do not notice the log that is in your own eye? 42“Or how can you say to your brother, ‘Brother, let me take out the speck that is in your eye,’ when you yourself do not see the log that is in your own eye? You hypocrite, first take the log out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to take out the speck that is in your brother’s eye. 43“For there is no good tree which produces bad fruit, nor, on the other hand, a bad tree which produces good fruit.44“For each tree is known by its own fruit. For men do not gather figs from thorns, nor do they pick grapes from a briar bush. 45“The good man out of the good treasure of his heart brings forth what is good; and the evil man out of the evil treasure brings forth what is evil; for his mouth speaks from that which fills his heart.

Luke 6: 41-46

>Party Pooper

Until recently, I’d never thought of people in terms of political affiliation. Of course, ten years ago, “recently” meant last week. Now, “recently” refers to any occurrence still present in my short-term memory bank. That happened about the same time I came to think of the wraith-thin, long-haired, twenty-five-year-old in my office as a kid.

I changed jobs ten years ago. I spent the first day on my new job alone in the boardroom, in a leather chair, pushed up to a massive, gleaming, cherry table. Heat from my hands left a steamy outline on its surface, a way to pass time between tests. There were aptitude tests, and intelligence tests. My favorite was the personality test. Every question read like a trick question. By the time I had filled in one circle on every line of the answer sheet, I felt sure I would be declared certifiably insane.

Apparently, at least one of my answers gave away more than my IQ. From day one, I’ve been labeled “The Token Democrat”

I don’t like labels. I don’t like labels even more than I don’t like being told what to do. And, I really don’t like being told what to do. My tendency in both cases is to prove the opposite of the assumption, giving little or no thought to my own best interests. In other words, even if I had thought of myself as a Democrat, I certainly wouldn’t own up to it. But, the truth is, I didn’t.

The truth is, I rarely give a thought to politics at any time other than a few weeks before an election, at which time I dutifully research the candidates, read the amendments, and stand in line with the other five percent of the population who give a damn. Actually, five percent might be ambitious. Some voters appear just a little too pleased to see “Fred” or “Ethyl” behind the folding table passing out pencils they might have pilfered from Yahtzee. And, apparently, it’s not possible to hand out forms and pencils while reciting what amounts to two years worth of Christmas letters.

I work with CPAs, real estate investors, and mortgage brokers, self-proclaimed Republicans all…until recently. A couple of weeks ago a real “maaaverick” of a woman attended a Sarah Palin rally and henceforth refers to herself as a Libertarian. Her penchant for shoes rivals mine. She’s sure to have at least one pair that will compliment a tri-cornered hat.

On Wednesday, a memo circulated about the office, detailing changes prompted by our ever-weakening economy. This led to a discussion that, as it seems most do, turned political.

“It’s the same way Clinton was elected.” The speaker’s expensively sheathed legs stretched as he leaned against the corner of my cubicle. “The economy went south under Reagan, and Clinton was elected. The economy went south under Bush, and Obama was elected. No matter who the Democratic candidate had been, he’d have been elected.”

“Those darned Republicans…”, I murmured, aiming a coy smile in his direction.

“Hey, Stacye!”, the Sarah Palin supporter called over the unfortunately-colored, burlap-covered wall separating our PCs. “Why’d Barack change his name?”

I hesitated, looking to the leaner for enlightenment. He answered with a half smile and raised eyebrows. We both waited.

“Before he was elected he was Barry. Now all the sudden he’s Barack!” She’d obviously taken notes.

“It’s a nickname.” I failed in keeping derision from my voice. I don’t set out to defend Democratic positions. It’s just that I abhor inanity.

“Well you know…”, the leaner’s voice got louder as he straightened. Throwing both arms wide, he finished. “It’s like a lot of people who come to this country from somewhere else. They adopt an American name!”

A local radio station plays the sound of crickets when someone says something stupid. I heard them then. There was no other sound until I spoke…softly.

“You know he’s American, right? Barack Obama was born in America. You know that… right?”

Relief washed over me as fast as color filled his face.

“Yeah…”, he shuffled his Italian leather loafers. “Yeah, of course, I knew that…” He turned towards his office.

“It was a Freudian slip!”, he called over his shoulder, composure already regained.

The latest issue of New Yorker magazine contains an article by Jane Mayer in which she depicts Koch Industries, and specifically David and Charles Koch, as the Mad Hatter. Its tea time and Alice is drinking the Kool-Aid.

The Koch brothers might be described as fundamentalist Libertarians, a doctrine borne out of their father’s fervent anti-communist stance. Koch Senior made a fortune in Russian oil until Stalin kicked him out. Following in their father’s footsteps, David and Charles preached “No Government” while Koch Industry oil refineries raked in millions in subsidies mandated under George W. Bush.

I listen as my newly minted Libertarian office-mate encourages her friend to apply for a “handicap sticker”.

The disillusionment I feel in Barack Obama can not be overstated. I miss the prosperity we enjoyed under Bill Clinton. But, I know he wasn’t entirely responsible. I am one of the few Georgians I know, including my Republican friends, who continue to support our Republican governor. John Linder was my congressman. We emailed, back and forth, often. His idea for a Fair Tax was appealing if somewhat unrealistic, as presented.

I’m not a Democrat. I’m not a Republican. I’ve a sudden aversion to tea.

I’m a woman. I’m a Mom. And. as any mother knows, not necessarily in that order.

Ask any Mom.

We just want what’s best for our babies.