Churlish is a word one rarely gets to use in normal conversation. “Stop being such a…churlish fellow!” does not readily roll off the tongue in modern repartee. But lately I find myself thinking it, often in response to one thing or another I’m reading; usually comments, Facebook contributions; even a hatchet job written on a recent Huffington Post piece I published. We’ve become a churlish, snarling society, ready to snap at the drop of a hat, quick with the snarky rejoinder, poised for the jugular as a default position. We seem incapable of intellectual debate, conversational exchange or even simple discussion without the attempt to draw blood.
Why so cranky? Why can’t we share our ideas – different, opposing or even mildly alternative – without turning on each other like a pack of cur dogs? Foot-stomping, whining toddlers? Finger pointing, snotty grade-schoolers? We’ve gone from the repressive culture of the Victorian era, through the enforced civility of the 40’s and 50’s, past the wild rebellion of the 60’s and 70’s, right up to the Pit Bull Throat-Ripping Mentality of the 2000’s. It ain’t pretty and I, for one, don’t like it much.
It all started with the damn Internet (oooh, you….damn Internet!). Suddenly we were no longer limited to shaking our fist at the TV, arguing with our booth mate at a diner, or sending those oft-ignored Letters to the Editor when we had something to say. Now there’s no obligation to attend a rally, get our ass to a meeting, lick a stamp or even sign our name. No, in this new era of instant, anonymous communication, we can freely spew all manner of hate-speak, below-the-belt criticism, vitriol, bile, venom, or any other kind of yellow-hued toxicity without ever identifying ourselves or leaving the comfort of our ergonomic at the computer table.
Internet as the White Hood of cultural communication.
Don’t get me wrong, I love the Internet. Seriously, if I could marry it I would. It has given me the tools to create, write, disseminate, telecommute and do my art in ways that were unimaginable just a few short years ago. It is brilliance in the tangible and I am its biggest fan. But as with any innovation, with the good comes the bad. And what this heady freedom has wrought is the ready availability of anonymity…which has allowed the worst of us to regress to a certain and deeply unfortunate state of grunting Neanderthalism.
On any given day, if for some inexplicable reason you want to induce nausea or just masochistically muse on the dubious state of mankind, scroll through a comment thread under pretty much any article on the Internet. It is a study in the basest of human nature. It doesn’t matter what topic. An article on Obama will, of course, bring out the literal White Hoods, along with the so-called “economists” or “small government” contingent who somehow find any piece on Obama to be a sponge for bile so deep you could swim through it. But even an interview with an artist of some kind – male/female, attractive/not so, popular/waning – will induce a bevy of bottom-feeder comments about big boobs and fat asses and how “he’s a douche” or “she’s a pig anyway.” Political essay? Picture a piranha tank…now throw in some fresh meat. I swear, you could write an article about “the cutest little kitty that ever lived on the fluffy face of the earth” and the comments below would be “cats suck, dogs rule!” or “let’s throw that ugly little shit in a blender..hahah!” or even “I hope that faggot cat dies!” They’re a cesspool, Internet comment threads.
It’s as if by removing the responsibility of identity we have removed all manner of decorum, sensibility, respect or just common decency. A person goes from being nice guy, good neighbor Bob Jones to Snarling Tea Party Member Who Wants to Lynch that Muslim Obama and Take Back the Country For Real Americans. Mary Smith morphs from sweet PTA President and loving mother to Christian Who Thinks Homos Should Never Be Allowed Near Children and They’re All Going to Hell Anyway. Put a computer in your tree-hugging, pot-smoking, hemp-wearing cousin Horizon Flower’s hands and she signs in as Militant Uber-Environmental Queen Who Thinks Anyone Questioning Industrial Wind Turbines Is a NIMBY Asshole (never mind that the growers supplying her weed are busy destroying the natural forest as she types!). It’s all about positioning, ego, arrogance, narcissism, shoving shoulders and bullying tactics. It’s about the sucker punch, the shot in the back, the darkest recesses being given the light. It’s cowardice and weakness and a lack of integrity. It sucks.
But it goes beyond that. The toxicity of anonymity has become so pervasive, so widely dispersed and subliminally accepted that it has infected even those who are willing to put a name to their snark. I always find it amazing that one can post something inspirational or meaningful on Facebook and there will always be SOMEONE in the network of “friends” who feels it’s their job to run in with the kidney punch, as if we cannot, for one moment, reflect on the meaning of what’s posted without having the contrary agenda jammed into the dialogue. Wearisome. The smarter, more gracious, person knows when it’s best to keep one’s negativity and cynicism to oneself.
I’m pondering the idea of writing a book called the The Audaciously Holistic Human and in it I plan to analyze this phenomenon and offer, in greater depth than I can do here, my prescription for remedy. It starts with this list:
1. Always use your real name when you sign in to leave a comment. If you aren’t comfortable enough with your perspective or proud enough of your comment to take responsibility for it, don’t write it. If your grandmother couldn’t read it and say (whether she agrees with the thesis or not), “that’s my boy/girl,” you’re on the wrong track. If you get a little queasy when you imagine your friends knowing it was you who wrote it, step away from the comment box. Rule of thumb: Don’t write it if you can’t put your name to it. (see addendum below.)
2. Control the snark. The “I know you are but what am I??!” kind of baiting and bullying online has become so de rigueur that the impulse to respond in kind is tempting. Don’t. Don’t take the bait. Snark begets snark and like that alien weed that’s taking over indigenous habitats, nip it at the root or it will overcome the very nature of elegant human discourse.
3. Write any comment as if the recipient was sitting across the table from you planning to pick up the check. If you wouldn’t say it that way in person, don’t say it that way online.
4. Understand that despite your conviction, there are others who simply do not and will not ever agree with you. Stop trying to convince them. Especially when you’re insulting them while you’re trying to convince them. Counterproductive and pointless. Most of us are preaching to the choir. We’re not expecting to change any minds. We’re just putting forth our ideas to the village in which we live. If you don’t agree, either keep it to yourself or, if you have some compelling reason to express it other than the aforementioned Facebook Kidney Punch, write with respect and the full understanding that you’re the odd man out. Wit and decorum win more debates than snark, guaranteed.
5. And since it’s been mentioned, understand that snark is not wit. It is snark, similar to wit only as Arby’s resembles roast beef.
5. Learn how to converse…and debate. I swear, if I were running schools my curriculum would include such mandatory subjects as “How to Become a Good Conversationalist” (hint: listen and be sincerely interested in others), “How to Intelligently and Respectfully Debate,” “The Value of Communicating with Dignity and Integrity,” and “Learn How and When To Shut Your Pie-Hole.” I’m working on the rest of the list.
6. Seriously and authentically open your mind. And by that I don’t mean pretend you have an open mind while you denigrate and stereotype the people you’re accusing of denigrating and stereotyping you or those on your side of the aisle, I mean REALLY open your mind. So that you can look at a member of an opposing political party, philosophical group, religion, or football team and realize that, despite opposing views, the humans involved also have some good and admirable traits. Other than Fred Phelps and family, certain religious zealots who hate in the name of God, and anyone who sends me spam about Miracle Whip, that’s likely true for most. Even John Boehner.
The list goes on but you’ll have to wait for the book (wow…should I really write it??). The moral of the story is this: Have the courage not only of your convictions, but the courage to plainly, respectfully and intelligently express them, openly and with your byline. If you’re going to comment on an article, join a Facebook thread, tweet, email, or make a point on a blog, do so with that mandate in mind.
I don’t mind disagreement, but disagreeable is a losing proposition.
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P.S. And while you’re at it, you might want to reread this post: What the World Needs Now Is Empathy. I daresay, the lack of empathy has a whole helluva lot to do with the proliferation of snark.
Addendum: A commenter just brought a very specific situation to the table which required some rethinking of #1 above. Let me offer these exceptions to the “sign your own name” rule: Given our unfortunately pugilistic society when it comes to public discourse (aka., rancorous, spittle-flying debate) and the sometimes very irrational reactions to those debates, there ARE some valid times and reasons to use a pseudonym. Whistle-blowing is certainly one. Self-protection in the kind of heated scenarios that come with real life threats or personal attacks is another. There is often good reason to use a sign-in disguise when one is leaving a pertinent and thoughtful response to a particularly explosive piece in a community where everyone knows each other and big ideas are sometimes followed by small minds who foment neighborhood in-fighting, loss of friends, and a form of community shunning. The necessary shield of anonymity is not only allowed in those very unique and specific circumstances, but probably wise. I maintain that the courage of one’s convictions still suggests standing behind what you have to say, but when life, limb, profession, home, peace and quietude are at tangible risk, “Mad But Smart” can take the floor!
Everyone else? All you other commenters? You potty-mouthed kitty killers? Put your name to it or shut the pie hole. Actually, name or no name, just shut the pie hole!
Cartoon by Lorraine Devon Wilke
Visit www.lorrainedevonwilke.com for details and links to LDW’s books, music, photography, and articles.
I remain unconvinced that growing up and leaving home is just a required part of the program. In my own case it certainly was but in his… well, somehow it strikes me differently. I’ve always felt if it ain’t broke don’t fix it and we had a pretty unbroken thing going. He was a delightful companion, a relatively responsible roommate (though I admit the early years with the diapers and spoon feedings were a tad one-sided); a stellar entertainer, and quite the flexible traveler. There were tantrums, I admit, occasional lapses in academic devotion, and the limited food palate could be a challenge, but he was never incorrigible, and he generally thought we adults were cool. He was like living with your best friend through the various stages of your best friend’s life right down to the moment he figured out HTML and could build your website — then it just seemed silly to let him go.
As we edge closer to this second chapter of Empty Nest, what’s coming into view is the reality that once the child leaves home for that first school year away, nothing is ever quite the same. We will get into familiar rhythms of dinner around a good movie, card games at the table, hikes down to the jetty, meals and plans and trips together, and it will be wonderful and I will cherish every moment. But unlike before — when this was just OUR LIFE, when time stretched before us so wide and open and whatever happened today might happen again tomorrow and we didn’t need to talk about it or look too far ahead because it was just there, unfolding naturally every day; Family. Mother, Father, Son — what it is now is… I don’t know. I’m not sure. We’ll see. Send suggestions.
to, once again, face the tortuous and inevitable death of our God’s Son (a sensitive youngster, this just cyclically broke my heart). I found all the suffering quite ponderous and from the more self-absorbed angle, Lent’s required deprivation (I typically gave up chocolate and some favored activity) felt punitive, my self-pity lessened only by the guilt induced when Mother would holler that Jesus died on the cross for our sins, I could “at least give up candy, for God’s sake!” Yes. I could. For God’s sake.
beyond copious ironing of new Easter finery and an enormous amount of high-tension prep for the baskets yet to be filled. When I was very young this was obviously done by my parents, though we were assured the quite capable Easter Bunny accomplished the basket task while we were sleeping (odd how E. Bunny and Santa followed the same playbook!). When I got older (Bunny fantasies dashed and reality clear on the horizon), I was relegated, as one of the “three big girls,” to join the assembly line in the secret room upstairs to help crank out those baskets, an assignment I actually enjoyed with its aesthetic demands of proper basket assemblage and easy access to jelly beans and the forbidden chocolate (one day away, what did it matter?). If you’ve never seen the voluptuous beauty of twelve well-stocked Easter baskets (eleven kids and a big one for Mom and Dad) lined up on a table waiting for distribution to clever hiding places around the house, you have missed a seminal secular holiday experience on a grand scale.
his wrong. Given the late hour and the proximity to Easter, all he could find were stuffed pigs and so he made the executive decision to bring them home. Though my mother was seriously horrified by this epic blunder, we loved our Easter pigs and it’s a story well told whenever speaking of family Easters!).
further as an adult, he surely can.
Well …
Marriage does not need defending. If your marriage does, I feel for you and suspect your problems lie much deeper than whether or not gay couples can marry. I would also guess that most who feel that marriage needs defending have never really known, been close to, or witnessed the bonds of devoted, monogamous gay or lesbian couples and their families. I have. Many. My son grew up surrounded by deeply committed gay couples who remain a part of our family of friends. My son is also a heterosexual who evolved with an inclusive, compassionate heart and I believe he and his generation will do much to bring this country to a brighter, less divisive reality.
expense! Though it depicts an in-house industrial rather than a 1983 version of an Apple commercial, it remains a hilariously dated snapshot of another, seemingly very distant, era in computer history.
could not produce. With the Disney project my vocal was predominantly used on the theme song of the movie but I at least got union wages, credit as a “singer,” and residuals for years after. The TV actress? She never knew I stood in a vocal booth for hours, sweating to create the necessary vocal affectation to sound like her but in-pitch. No one knew except the recording engineer and the music director. I was paid cash, shook on an NDA, received no credit and later, while catering an event for the very TV show on which she was a star, found irony inescapable when she rudely snapped at me while ordering her drink, huddled with friends jabbering on about her soon-to-be released movie. True story.
As for the parents, critics, bloggers, pundits and columnists who find themselves equivocating here and there about Miz Chua, I must question their own philosophy of parenting. To use one of Miz Chua’s words, don’t be lazy, people. It’s one thing to view something retrospectively and make judgments about the ultimate outcome in hindsight but go a little deeper. Forget for a moment the pictures of those smiling older girls standing with their smiling mother, all love and no regrets and she made me who I am today. Go back in time and put yourself in that room with Miz Chua and her sweet-faced seven year old daughter sitting at the piano, repeatedly pounding out “The Little White Donkey” and picture this scene: “I rolled up my sleeves and went back to Lulu. I used every weapon and tactic I could think of. We worked right through dinner into the night, and I wouldn’t let Lulu get up, not for water, not even to go to the bathroom. The house became a war zone, and I lost my voice yelling, but still there seemed to be only negative progress, and even I began to have doubts. Then, out of the blue, Lulu did it.”
came away with the crystal-clear understanding that abuse will always be abuse and it’s a chicken-shit way to achieve your goals. It may elicit the desired result and there may later be smiling all around, but not too far below the surface, conscious or sub, will lie anger, resentment, rage, and a profound sense of negation. A disassociative response is not uncommon and I question the smiles and nods of Chua’s two girls, wondering if therapy will be in their future once the Tiger has finally unhooked her claws and they experience enough of life without her to take stock of the damage. God, I hope so…it would be better than continuing to believe they deserved that kind of heinous parenting.
At the heart of this debate lies two questions: what do you think a child is and what is your role and goal as a parent? If you believe a child is a blank, malleable entity whose identity is at the mercy of your view of what they should be, and your paramount, non-negotiable goal as a parent is to crank out someone who has been molded and shaped to be THE BEST AT ALL COSTS, well, Amy Chua’s prescription of long-term, unremitting, soul-crushing abuse as motivation may be the way to go. It worked for her and apparently many other Chinese families and, come on, just look at those test scores!
But if you believe a parent is a sacred and in some ways temporary role, a precious conduit designed to facilitate the bringing into the world of a bright individual whose destiny — with your loving care and guidance – is to find their passion, their voice, their truest self and, most importantly, evolve with a wholeness of spirit, a desire to learn and accomplish, and the unequivocal urge to be the most honorable, compassionate, and meaningful version of themselves, put the book down. You won’t find the answers there.
But good parenting is a wonder.
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