WHAT HAPPENED TO CIVILITY?

There’s been a lot of talk of civility in the past few weeks. Congressman Joe Wilson called President Obama a liar during a joint session of congress. Rapper Kanye West jumped onstage and ripped the microphone from singer Taylor Swift as she was giving an acceptance speech at the MTV awards. And from town hall meetings to ostensibly respectable members of the press, partisan bickering is nastier than ever.

Joe Wilson, the congressman from South Carolina, said that his comment during Mr. Obama’s health-care speech was extemporaneous, and I have no reason to doubt him, but a slip of the tongue stills calls for an apology. The good news is that Mr. Wilson called the president’s office and offered up a mea culpa; the bad news is that he refused to apologize to congress in the hallowed room where his outburst occurred. If the custodians in which we have entrusted these offices don’t respect them, then how are we regular citizens supposed to respect the offices, or the people that represent them?

Kanye West is known for his bad behavior in an industry where bad behavior is often celebrated. When he sullied Ms. Swift’s first win by taking her microphone and announcing, in essence, that Beyonce should have won the award, the reaction was fast and furious—Mr. West was booed off of the stage and continued to be booed the rest of the evening whenever his name was called. Beyonce repudiated Mr. West’s behavior when she won a later award by graciously inviting Ms. Swift back to the stage to finish her acceptance speech. Many artists tweeted or posted notes on their websites condemning Mr. West’s behavior. I found this encouraging given that Ms. Swift is more country than rock n’ roll. The people that responded immediately were not her “people”. If Toby Keith had been in the audience that night Mr. West would have probably suffered more than boos. However, despite the public reaction, Mr. West still had a hard time actually apologizing to Ms. Swift: In an appearance on a late-night talk show the following evening, Mr. West talked about how upset he had been regarding his mother's recent death. He sounded more interested in excusing his behavior than taking responsibility for it. Like Congressman Wilson, Mr. West had a hard time going more than halfway to correct his bad behavior.

Even the press has jumped on the incivility juggernaut. On a daily basis, certain MSNBC and Fox News personalities exhibit an enmity for each other and their ideological opposites that rivals that of the Israelis’ and the Palestinians’. Even the respectable Charlie Gibson interviewed Sarah Palin with a contemptuous tone and literally, looking down his nose at her. By the time Mr. Gibson interviewed Ms. Palin, many of us were aware of her “lack of knowledge”. We were, however, surprised and disappointed by Mr. Gibson’s lack of professionalism and, civility.

What happened to civility and what can we do to get it back? How do we teach our kids to be civil?

Listening to the news on the car radio a few years ago, a reporter was relaying the story of how the Texas band, Dixie Chicks, playing a concert in London, told their audience that they were embarrassed that George Bush was from Texas and that he was stupid. I turned the radio off and pulled the car over! I told my kids--not that they ever listen to me--that you could disagree with someone without calling them stupid. I told them that the Dixie Chicks could have said that they disagreed with Mr. Bush’s tax policy or with his invasion of Iraq, but to call him stupid made them look stupid.

We have to learn to disagree without calling names, yanking microphones out of hands, or looking down our noses at those we disagree with. Like I told my children that day in the car: You have to articulate your differences without contempt, and you have to be respectful of others opinions. It feels like we are losing the battle against incivility. That day in the car my kids responded to me, “We understand completely mom, can you please just turn the radio back on!"

Undaunted, I soldier on. Won't you join me? I think with Beyonce's help we can beat this thing!

Friday Froth...

I saw The Informant starring Matt Damon last weekend. While it's a very good movie--worth your time and $10.50--Mr. Damon's performance is the real reason to see this movie. He plays his character a bit like an idiot savant and he does so brilliantly. Most actors would have been tempted to play this character over the top, but Mr. Damon exercises control, even subtlety at times, allowing us to feel some sympathy for a contemptible man. Unless there are a lot of really strong performances in the next three months, I think that Mr. Damon should be nominated for an Oscar. I emphasize should because Hollywood rarely awards control and subtlety.

Did you notice Ralph Lauren's collection in the paper last week? Between the distressed overalls and the shirt-dresses with the paperboy caps, it's clear that Mr. Lauren is not convinced the recession is over. I, on the other hand, am ready for better times! I loved the feminine and elegant Donna Karen dresses--check them out.

I hear that Mitt Romney has moved to California. What I can't figure out is why. Mr. Romney is almost sure to make another run for the presidency in 2012, but Californians tend to vote more "blue" than "red" in presidential races. Wouldn't it behoove Mr. Romney to set-up camp in a more friendly, or early primary state? Californians are receptive to voting "red" in the governor's race--could Mr. Romney possibly be interested in straightening out California's economic mess, biding his time while Obama finishes out his two terms? Or, maybe he's moved to California to help his friend Meg Whitman with her campaign for governor--she formally announced this week.

The new fall television season has started. Did you see Modern Family (Wednesdays on ABC at 9pm)? The critics loved it and so did I--I think! The scenes that featured the gay couple were very funny. The scenes with the May/December couple were pretty funny too. The third family, the one that might be considered the most normal--father, mother and three kids--hit a little close to home. The kids bicker, there are discipline problems, and the oldest daughter is 15 and boy crazy (I have one of these creatures living in my house). I had to laugh to keep from crying!

And lastly, I leave you with something to make you wildly attractive and desirable--the art of the smeyes. Of course you know this is smiling with your eyes. Tyra Banks told Larry King that it was the key to her success. Don't think that this is a big crow's feet-inducing grin, it's not. Rather, it's a slight squint of the eyes with a very still mouth (Novocaine mouth, Tyra calls it)--the idea is to create a window to the soul, not a view of your dental work. I find it helps to think of something a little naughty. Start practicing!

It Feels Like Fall Today--It's Time

It feels like fall today.  The air is crisp.  But really, in San Francisco that means nothing, our "crispest" days can be in the middle of summer.  It's the light quality that let's me know it's fall. There's a warm glow, a slight sepia coloring the world.  Fall is bittersweet. 

Fall is the beginning and the end:  The beginning of an exciting new school- year and the end of the halcyon days of summer.  You put away your swimsuits and flip-flops and get out your sweaters and boots.  If you are in school, you are generally happy to move-up--most years you're taller, one year you will graduate from a cubby to a locker, and someday you may actually drive yourself to school.  If you are putting someone through school, you are generally shocked that they can't wear any of their clothes, concerned that they will never remember the combination to their locker, and TERRIFIED that they are behind the wheel of a car.  You watch them drive away and wonder how this happened. 

  

I took my son to college a couple of weeks ago.  2853 miles and three time zones away. 

I was ready for him to go.  I really was.  I promise!  The constant pull-and-tug of our relationship was exhausting.  Him pulling away because he's 18 and wants to live his own life; me tugging him back via my "rules" for living in this house and because I'm his MOTHER and I'm the one that's operating with a fully developed frontal lobe.  We were both doing our job. Having a child living in your house is like a baby living in your placenta:  At first things can be a little tricky, then everything is great, but toward the end it gets a little cramped and uncomfortable for everyone.  A placenta is only good for a limited number of days, and then as much as you know it's going to hurt, that baby has got to go.

Just he and I made the trip back east.  It was fitting.  What you might not know, and what he doesn't remember is that for the first three years of his life we were pretty tight.  With no family in the area, the dad working 12 hours a day, mostly single friends, and no nanny, my son and I filled each other's worlds, and thus, we developed a kind of shorthand.  As we walked around the campus on that first day, I knew just what he was thinking, I was thinking the same things.  I was nervous and worried about him; I could tell he was nervous and worried about me.  We were both overwhelmed by the possibilities (and the heat), scared at the thought of the responsibilities, and desperate to remember names and find our way around.  I knew that he wished he had a place to go and take a nap and just deal with all of this later.  I wanted to tell him to just put one foot in front of the other, but I didn't, I told myself.

When we left our house to go to the airport the morning before, it had been dark.  I sat in the car and watched him go from room to room, knowing that he wasn't just saying goodbye to a space that had housed him, but to his childhood. When I left his dorm room the next day, after moving him in, I made my way to my rental car making polite conversation with other parents, hoping that they couldn't see the gigantic lump in my throat.  I drove around campus and explored his new world while letting go of the old--I knew that things would never be the same.  I went back to my hotel room, ordered room service, got in the shower, and cried.

Back in San Francisco, walking the dog with friends at the beach, we talked about taking our kids to college.  One friend asked if I felt my son was ready for college.  I assured her that my son was half-baked, but that I had had the oven on high and had used the best ingredients.  I'm hoping that he's like his favorite cake: red velvet.  I get asked for my recipe all the time and when I give it to someone I always emphasize that you only cook it for the prescribed time.  I warn them that they will not think it's done but when the time is up they should take it out anyhow.  This is the only way that you can assure that the "heart" of the cake stays soft.  If you leave it in until you think it looks done it won't be good.  It may look good from the outside, but cakes, like boys, matter more on the inside.  It's scary to take what looks to be a half-baked cake out of the oven or to send what looks to be a half-baked boy across the country to college, but you have to have faith...and pray a lot!

I miss his big smelly hugs and when he tells me to not let go before he does.  I don't miss his stinky laundry.  I miss the sound of his car pulling in the driveway, knowing that he's home safe, whether it's in the middle of the day or the middle of the night.  I don't miss the calls in the middle of the night when he's trying to negotiate his curfew.  I miss listening to the radio with him in the car to see who can be the first to guess the artist of the song playing (I kill him at this game).  I don't miss asking him if his homework is done and him saying, "It's all good," which is code for no.

A few nights ago I dreamt that he was three and running down Chestnut Street in his Batman cape that he made from a black garbage bag--the vision was as clear as a summer day.  The next morning the memory of the dream had faded. His childhood has taken on a sepia tone in both our minds.  But the possibilities for his future, and for mine, are as bright and glaring as the noonday sun off the water in mid-July. 

Change is bittersweet, but this is the way it's supposed to be--he's eighteen and it's fall...it's time.