Author: Becky Sarwate

The Catch-22 Of Manners (June 12, 2010)

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Whenever I pick up a Jane Austen novel, a work by the Bronte sisters, or one of many other classics of British literature, I am both thrilled and saddened to recognize myself in a world of slackened manners. On the one hand, keeping up with appearances and civilities seemed to be such an exhausting effort, one I just don’t have time for in my own life. I am not that great at remembering names, so how often would I redden in the face at having lost Mr. So and So’s surname? I would be a social pariah at the neighborhood ball in a flash.

On the other hand, people today are bracingly rude. I am not simply referring to the guy who steps on your toe in a crowded commuter train and never apologizes. Neither am I alluding to people who cut in line, take more than their portion, or burp in public. While all of these behaviors may be obnoxious, I am interested in the power of words and their varying effects. I both love and loathe that we live in a historical epoch where people will say just about anything to you, with zero regard for your feelings or their own image. This phenomenon is amplified when it comes to the Internet. The ability to be controversial from the safe confines of your home office seems to be empowering for many.

And that is terrific in a variety ways. We live in an alienated, siloed quasi-community. Many of us don’t engage with our physical neighbors anymore, but are able to carry on debates and conversations with other web surfers in Sri Lanka. There is something both strange and wonderful about that. As we become more fractious and divided in our personal politics, and lose the ability to make small talk with those we encounter while taking out the trash, at least we can form connections, somehow, some way. When we feel in our daily lives, that our little voice doesn’t matter, it is affirming to know that we can be heard (or read) by someone, somewhere.

At the same time, I wonder if these e-connections we are building across the world cause us to forget that we are actually interacting with people, not machines – people who have feelings and reactions that you cannot see while staring at a monitor. My personal rule of thumb is this: I will never write something that I am fearful or ashamed to say in public. However, this is clearly not general practice. When I read a news item on the web, or am directed to the latest hot You Tube video, I am often beyond appalled at the galling commentary I find at the end of the item. As a writer, a liberal and a human being, I cannot but champion free speech. It is simply lamentable that this right is often misconstrued as the right to be an arse.

There is no use hankering for a return to formality. Once lost, social fetters are not willingly recalled, and that is as it should be. I remind myself that I would not have liked to be a female in Austen’s time, treated as a simpleton and “protected” as an item of witless property. The liberty to express oneself often accompanies quantifiable improvements in social status, and I wouldn’t undo centuries of progress for anything. That said, it is hard not to feel wistful for the days when the days when people thought a bit before they spoke. Being a jerk just because you can is not an empowering exercise of your rights. Consideration can be trying, but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t make the attempt a little more often.

Making the Name “Stanley” Sound Cool (June 10, 2010)

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stanley-cup

Though it took me, and the rest of the City, a minute or two to process what happened, it sure feels good to be a Chicagoan today. Last night, after Buffalo native and youngster Patrick Kaine slipped the puck past Flyers’ goaltender Michael Leighton, for a 4-3 overtime victory over Philadelphia, and handed the Blackhawks their first Stanley Cup championship since 1961, Windy City residents were stuck in a lengthy moment of determined disbelief.

In the first place, the final flash, the end of an eight month, bruising journey that is the NHL season, was a bit anticlimactic. I had to watch the replay several times to finally grasp that a puck had gone into the opposing net. My friend Ann said it best, likening the winning instant to “some one pulling the plug on a video game and then saying ‘oh by the way, you won.’” It was a bit disorienting. Even as I watched Kaine, possibly the only man in the free world who knew immediately that the Hawks had done it, skate down the ice in the midst of a war whoop, I was afraid to trust the emotion.

And that is because, in addition to the end of the game being somewhat unusual, Chicago denizens just aren’t used to winning that often. The last time we had a sporting victory parade was in 2005, when the Chicago White Sox won the World Series. But let’s be honest, some of us (Cub fans – 102 years and counting) felt a little left out of that soiree. Prior to this, it was the late 1990s, the end of Michael Jordan’s Chicago Bulls dynasty, when the City last united in drunken revelry with a side order of good natured taxi tipping.

My husband and I discussed the euphoria we experienced on election night 2008, the night Obama stood before hundreds of thousands in Grant Park to become the first African-American President-elect. I suppose many parallels could be drawn between politics and sports, but comparing a momentous moment in American history to a Stanley Cup victory seems to cheapen Obama’s accomplishment. I will never forget that unseasonably warm November evening as long as I live, but it’s still different.

Today is the rare day in this violent, corrupt and financially troubled City when we can all set our differences, factions and grudges aside and enjoy being fellow members of Blackhawks nation. For just a moment or two, the local media has turned its head away from the sideshow of the Rod Blagojevich trial to celebrate something positive and unifying. The parade that will stream down Michigan Avenue tomorrow, as our heroes hoist the Stanley Cup high for all to see, is not a protest, demonstration or some other form of social unrest. The only thing to fear Friday morning is litter, or the vomit piles of over-served revelers.

There just aren’t enough moments like this. I plan to milk it as along as I can. Blago isn’t going anywhere.

Adult Onset Anorexia (June 8, 2010)

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Tori Spelling

While contemplating issues such as the immolation of the Gulf of New Mexico and the anemic American economy, the prolonged churning of my insides often leads to hunger. And when it does, I immediately become distracted with the question of what to eat. In 2010, the decision is more complicated than it might sound.

Time was when I would have cracked open that old blue box of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese, before I was aware of the evils of processed carbohydrates, and have been done with it. Kraft has moved with the times and developed a whole grain variety of the good stuff, yet there is no discernible protein, or fruit and vegetable boost, so I still experience considerable guilt and anxiety when indulging. When exactly did eating become so complicated?

The topic of food led me down a stream of conscious path that somehow ended with Tori Spelling. To my mind, she represents a visual of the problem as I see it. In the 1990s, when Spelling played the role of Donna Martin on the old Beverly Hills, 90210, she had what I considered, then and now, to be a pretty banging body. Though she may not have possessed the pulchritude of a Shannen Doherty or Jennie Garth, Tori was able to work it on location at the Beverly Hills Beach Club like nobody’s business.

The image on the right, of Spelling, now in her late 30s and a mother of two, represents the actress as she appears today. Does anyone envy her physique now? Sadly, the answer appears to be yes. Because I can compile an endless list of actresses (and a few actors) who looked simply swell a decade or two ago, but who have since virtually disappeared into their collar bones: Courtney Love, Kristen Johnston, Jennifer Aniston. To go a bit younger, and though she swears otherwise, I believe there is world of difference between Keira Knightley’s healthy, youthful glow in Bend it Like Beckham and the bag of bones she became by the time she filmed Atonement.

I am calling the condition “Adult Onset Anorexia,” and the reason I believe we need a new label is to draw some attention to a very real problem. Consider the following conventional wisdom of the medical establishment:

“The average age of [anorexia’s] onset is 17. Older woman can have it as well, although it is usually diagnosed in the teens or twenties.”

I wonder when was the last time, if ever, that a research body took a look at modern women: mothers, career people, gym enthusiasts. Because though I can’t be certain, the examples provided above, and countless others, seem to suggest that the tendency to develop a distorted body image knows no age. It is no longer the paradigm to assume that if you emerge from your teens and early 20s unscathed, you’ll be just fine.

It is not only members of the Hollywood glitterati who are prone to this developing trend. Last week, I published a post-Memorial Day weekend FaceBook status update, regretting the sheer amount of gluttony I had indulged in while away on vacation. This concerned verbal smackdown was the response I received from my sister Jen:

“Please stop acting like you can’t afford to eat real food. Ridiculous. Like when you didn’t eat lunch becuase you were going to order a tall soy frappachino. Gimme a break. You’are a size 2. Stop the madness! People who work out like you do NEED extra calories. There, I’ll step off my soapbox now…”

Brusque? Certainly. More than a hint of truth? Most definitely.

Because as I identify Tori Spelling’s transition from healthy looking teen hottie, I am also aware that I weighed 5 pounds more in high school than I do today, wore a bigger clothing size, but at the time, saw nothing wrong with myself. Oh sure I wished for a flatter stomach, – who doesn’t? But I sure wasn’t going to skip dessert worrying about it. I read the fashion magazines all the time, but never once held myself to the standards of the models I viewed on the pages. When and why did that change? More importantly, why did I let it?

The origin of my neuroses, and that of the other women I reference may lie in the need for control. As any good therapist will tell you, individuals grappling with self-image in this manner are almost, without fail, trying to grab onto something they can manage – a circumstance where the perceived failure or success stems from their own agency, rather than external forces. In a bleary-eyed world full of constant chaos, pulling the strings on your image might be the one action with no surprises. If you overeat and sit on the couch, you’ll gain weight. If you run like crazy and limit your calorie intake, you will lose. However, this generation of women seems to know exactly how far to push it without ending up like Karen Carpenter. It’s like we are getting better at torturing ourselves.

Logically, I abhor this, and yet somewhere deep in the recesses of my culturally brainwashed soul, when I see a tiny, toned woman walking down the street, I am aware that I envy her discipline and size-0 figure. What is it about intelligent women of this generation, ladies that have achieved so much and are so successful, trapped in a hell of their own making?

Jen was right. Stop the madness.

Racism in South Carolina? How Original! (June 5, 2010)

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Nikki Haley

Talk about the ultimate backfire. When Palmetto State Republican gubernatorial candidate John M. “Jake” Knotts Jr., called GOP frontrunner Nikki Haley, a converted Christian of Sikh Indian descent, a “raghead” this week, he made the young lawmaker a household name. Heretofore, she had only been known as the slutty would-be replacement for the current tramp in the Governor’s mansion, Mark Sanford. Haley was well on her way to doing herself in, having faced two separate allegations, within the span ten days, of having sexual relations with GOP operatives. But leave it to an old, fat, racist white man to breathe new life into Haley’s candidacy.

I have to admit that I never bothered to search for an image of Haley, until Knotts hurled his antiquated and culturally ignorant epithet. I read a column in the New York Times by the incandescent Gail Collins this week that addressed the infidelity accusations dogging Haley’s campaign, and upon coming across her name for the first time, I assumed she was simply another hypocritical, greedy member of the far right, which tends as we know, to be WASP-y in its makeup. No thanks. It wasn’t until news spread that Knotts had not only insulted Haley’s cultural heritage, but managed to rope President Obama into a racist slam at the same time, that I wanted to know more about this woman.

And if I am discovering interest in Haley, it is not a far conjectural leap to assume that voters in South Carolina are doing the same. The rumored adulterer and mother of two has suddenly been rendered sympathetic by the shocking ignorance of a challenging member of the ruling class. In a political climate that is very anti-establishment at the moment, Knotts could not have made a more damaging faux pas, leaving aside what it says about his tolerance and character. All of the sudden, the clout of Republican heavyweight Sarah Palin is thrown behind Haley’s candidacy, in the form of recorded robo-calls. Whatever one might think of Palin, there is no denying her star power, particularly in the Red States. I doubt Knotts can count on any important party support, except perhaps from the ghost of late South Carolina Senator and fellow ideological crackpot, Strom Thurmond.

Which brings me to another point. I thought conventional wisdom had it that in order for the Republican party to compete in the ever more diverse landscape of American politics, they were going to have to break with the past, be more inclusive? Wasn’t the point of hiring bumbling jackass Michael Steele as chairman of the RNC (the gift to the Democrats that keeps on giving), to put a face on that effort? Well you can place as many visages of color in leadership positions as you want, Republicans, but as long as you have wingnuts like Knotts, and media personalities like Rush Limbaugh and Bill O’Reilly doing your talking for you, it’s going to be hard to convince people that you are other than the party of discrimination. In a nation that becomes more multi-ethnic by the year, intolerance is dangerous and unsustainable.

One can only assume, despite Knotts’s predictable, insincere apology for his comments, that his candidacy is all but over. Thank goodness for that. I believe an additional boost to Haley’s run will stem from her measured, savvy response to the controversy. She was quoted as saying: “What the race in 2010 will prove is the goodness of the people of South Carolina, that there [are] fewer people of the Jake Knotts [ilk] and that there are a lot more good, educated people [who] want their voice heard in government.”

I can only hope that other members of the new Republican movement are sincere in their desire to expand their membership base, and are not just cynically chasing votes. Because even those of us are who lean far left have much to gain in finding a worthy adversary with new ideas and attitudes. Clearly however, the old guard of the GOP has not looked a calendar lately. It’s 2010, not 1959 fellas.

Two Ten Year-Old Girls and a Lemonade Stand: Yes, They Can (June 3, 2010)

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As a student enrolled in a Lutheran grade school growing up, I learned each year, from each new instructor, that Jesus taught his disciples to live like children: view the world with wonder, seek truth with an innocent heart, and always maintain a basic sense of fairness and justice. I did not grow up to be a devout Christian, but there is still much to dig about JC and his universally applicable, deceptively simple, lessons.

We adults find the world very complicated, and no doubt that it is. But once in awhile, it does the soul good to be reminded that small actions can lead to big rewards. Change is possible, no matter how small, if you choose your spots wisely.

For those of you who read my last post “An Argument for Anarchy,” consider this a balance to that cynicism, not a cancellation mind you, just an equalizer. I did not set out to answer myself in this manner. I was perfectly content to stew in my own helpless, indignant juices. How was I to know I’d be shaken out of pissy reverie by two adorable urchins and a darned tasty brew of old fashioned lemonade?

As I alighted from the train yesterday afternoon, en route to my new church – the gym – I was immediately accosted by the dulcet, and cannily sales-savvy tones of two young voices, inquiring of passerby, “It sure is a hot day. Wouldn’t you like a glass of lemonade, perhaps a cookie?” Now I would have blessed the young spirit of entrepreneurship with my hard earned dollar had the pitch stopped there. However, I was completely caught off guard by what came next.

I was informed by these juvenile small businesswomen that the proceeds from their afternoon goody stand were to be directed, 100%, toward the funding of a new well dig in the war-torn Sudan region. Well as Flo of Mel’s Diner fame used to say, “Kiss my Grits!” These girls are cute, intelligent, with good hearts and social/worldly awareness? This is not what we have come to expect from our nation’s youth. In all the very best, spiritually invigorating ways, I was shaken to my core.

As the children’s beaming father stood by, coaching them to repeat what they knew of the conflict in Sudan and how they got the notion to raise money, the little ones informed me that they had been personally affected by the sight of starving, dehydrated children in images seen on the evening news. Apparently, they didn’t get my memo that the only thing to do with this world is to overthrow it and start fresh. “Let it burn” would not suffice for these earnest youngsters.

Having learned, through the benefit of Internet research, that it costs between $150-$225 to dig a well in Africa, the children rightly figured they could earn that much by taking advantage of some great late Spring weather in Chicago. Add some home made chocolate chips and a cooler full of fresh lemonade, and the girls may very well be on their way to saving lives. Sometimes it really is that simple.

These beautiful girls did not figure out how to plug up the BP oil leak in the Gulf. They have not reformed the banking industry, solved the Middle East peace crisis, or found a cure for cancer. But their good hearted interest in suffering children from another land taught me an important lesson about activism. Love your neighbor, no matter how far away, as yourself. That love will spread with a force of its own.

A glass of lemonade never tasted sweeter.