Tag: contemporary culture

Whatever Happened to Polite?

hater3For the last couple of days I’ve been rattling on about how people aren’t polite anymore.  I’m sure it’s just old man nostalgia for a more genteel time, but for the life of me, I can’t figure out how we got from “please and thank you” to “Yo, bitch!  Ain’t no thing.”  I know language changes, usually for the better, but I also know that it’s the canary in the mineshaft, signaling changes in social behaviour and attitudes.  Our language and the way we use it is a reflection of what kind of people we are.  The fact that we’re rude says a lot about us; I just don’t know what.

Let me give you an example.  There’s this old man.  He spent his entire life devoted to his profession.  He showed up for work, worked hard and never complained.  What he did might not have moved mountains, but he did the best he could with what he had.  Nor is he exactly what you’d call a saint.  Actually, he doesn’t really have the same values as the vast majority of people in this world.  However, he did try his best to live a good life, as he knew it, and to help the people around him do the same.  Now he’s old and sick and too frail to work anymore.  All he wants to do is retire and spend the last few years he has on earth in quiet contemplation — perhaps with his God.

It seems to me that we should have some kind words for this old fellow.  We should treat him with a little respect.  Whether we like him or not, or even know him, common courtesy tells us that we shouldn’t make fun of him.  Why would we?  I’m not saying we should be extravagant in our praise, but there’s no need to dis the guy.  His retirement doesn’t warrant a bunch of snide remarks or clever wordplay wisecracks or cartoon sight gags.  In fact, I can’t think of a single reason to verbally beat up on this, or any other, old man.  Yet, our society has spent the better part of a week being as disrespectful as possible (Have you figured it out?) to Pope Benedict XVI — for no other reason than we can get away with it.

I’m not a Catholic (actually, I’m not much of anything) so it really doesn’t matter to me, but I would hope that the spiritual headhater1 of any religion (whether it’s yours or not) deserves a little reverence.  Nothing I can think of, including atheism, is really a good excuse for bad manners.  Nor can I conjure up a single journalistic purpose that was served by the headline: “German Shepherd Abandons Flock.”  At least it was better than “Ex-Benedict” which was merely an idiot pun that still doesn’t actually mean anything.  Then, of course, there were the editorial cartoons with the Pope subletting the Vatican, Craigslisting the Sistine Chapel and searching Catholicmingle.com — not to mention the series of faux tweets, Pinterest posts and late night comedians.  After that it just gets tawdry.

Believe what you will about Pope Benedict XVI and the Catholic Church, I’m only using this as an illustration of just how rude a people we’ve become.  We call each other names, in the name of politics, insult each other in the name of comedy and laugh at injury and misfortune just because we’re bored.  However, the worst part of it is we are discourteous off-handedly, as if we we’re shooing flies with our tails.  Rudeness has become our automatic response to the world around us.  We reserve no respect for anything and wonder when we are not respected in return.  Unfortunately, as we get further and further away from “please and thank you,” it’s going to get more and more difficult even to respect ourselves.

Valentine’s Day: There’s Plenty of Time to Panic

ValentineI don’t care how many Popes resign and, you can forget about your nuclear North Koreans, too; if you’re having a panic attack this morning, it’s because tomorrow is St. Valentine’s Day.  It doesn’t matter which side of the hearts and flowers you’re on; Valentine is a big deal.  Once the exclusive province of teenagers and hopeless romantics, these days, he’s strictly uptown and bringin’ the bling.  A simple “Roses are red; violets are blue” Hallmark moment just doesn’t cut it anymore, and most people are looking to De Beers or Alain Ducasse to demonstrate their depth of emotion.  Sounds serious?  It is.  Recent studies have shown that Valentine’s Day is now right up there with St. Paddy’s and Hallowe’en on our festive calendar, with an anxiety rating that rivals Christmas.  Do I have your attention?

It wasn’t always that way, though, St. Valentine himself is practically historically anonymous.  We have no idea who he was, what he was and only the vaguest notion of when and where he was.  In fact, chances are good he was at least three different people cobbled together by a fledgling church in need of some local celebrity.  The story goes that while waiting for martyrdom he “miraculously” cured his jailer’s daughter`s blindness and wrote her a card (which she could then see) signed “Your Valentine.”  It’s the stuff of legend but hardly provable.  Today, Valentine is not on the A-list of Catholic saints, and his questionable relics are in a number of churches, scattered all over Europe.  Actually, if it wasn’t for February 14th, most people wouldn’t pay much attention to the guy.

Our St. Valentine, the secular one that lovesick young people bankrupt themselves over, was born in the imagination of Geoffrey Chaucer.  You remember Geoff, he`s the poet whose long and windy Canterbury Tales has been terrorizing undergrads for the last eight hundred years.  Anyway, before Chaucer ever thought about Canterbury, he wrote something called The Parlement of Foules, which, at 700 lines, is a bit windy itself.  In it, he sets the scene in a throwaway couplet referring to Seynt Volantynys Day (St. Valentine`s Day) as the day when birds gather to chose their mates.  The idea caught on in medieval England (it’s where we get the birds and the bees metaphor from, as well.)  The Christian martyr Valentine became hopelessly confused with the more robust and ribald Roman god Cupid, and by the time Billy Shakespeare was wearing the King’s doublet, Valentine’s Day was universally celebrated as the day when spring fever met courtly love.valentine3

For the next four centuries, Valentine’s Day lounged around as a once-a-year occasion to declare one’s love — usually in the form of a flowery verse or paper card.  By our time, in the late the 20th century, it had been reduced to a harmless Victorian hangover.  We gave out valentines promiscuously, more as greeting than anything else, but nobody minded.  The day was reserved for school children and newly-minted couples who were busy ODing on simpy.  Life was good.

Then, sometime in the late 1970s, when no one was looking, all hell broke loose.  February 14th became the hottest date night of the year, and suddenly Valentine’s Day was the eater of souls.  No credit card was safe.  Dinner and a movie just wasn’t good enough anymore.  Elegant dining was de rigueur with the appropriate price tag.  Paper valentines had better have some jewelry attached, and even weekend trips and car keys were not out of the question.  Lovers and wannabes were expected to fork out some serious cash as a measure their affection, and for thirty years, we’ve been upping that ante.

So, today, as you sit there wondering if tomorrow’s champagne and caviar, moonlight, hot air balloon ride is going to melt your lover’s heart, you need to understand one more thing.  Statistically, more people commit adultery on February 15th than any other day of the year.  If that doesn’t raise your anxiety level, I don’t know what will.

Gender Equality: A Lesson in Polite

polite2Since Valentine’s Day is only a few sleeps away, it’s time for a cautionary tale.

A little while ago, I got picked up in a bar.  It was a shameless act; the woman was old enough to be my granddaughter.  She asked me if I was alone; I coyly said I was waiting for someone, and she sat down.  Gender rituals have obviously changed in half a century.  BTW, despite what anybody who knows me will tell you, my ego is not so large that I considered (even for a nanosecond) that she was interested in me.  I’m fully aware that my best before date was a long time ago and about the only thing I have to offer young people these days is hackneyed advice.  Which, it turns out, was exactly what she wasn’t looking for.

Her story was the usual one: girl meets boy, boy treats girl like Disney Princess, girl treats boy like he’s the Prince, neither one of them is, the unsustainable passion ebbs, everybody gets pissed off.  She asked me why.  I’m too old a wily coyote to jump into that creek without a paddle, so I hesitated.  Then, call it ego, captive audience or one too many hefty white wines but – whatever! — she proceeded to explain it to me.

Apparently, the battle of the sexes has changed dramatically since Ricky and Lucy used to fight it out every week back in the 50s.  It seems men, no longer interested in women, have quit being polite.  They’re greatest failing, aside from bathroom etiquette, is an obstinate refusal to hold doors open.  This archaic practice, above all others, is the major reason why older couples (she tipped her glass to me) have stayed together all these years.  I have an ex-wife who could have provided stern evidence to the contrary, but since I obviously wasn’t waiting for her, I kept my mouth shut.

Yet there was more.  Since doors had become a sort of feminine DIY item, men just weren’t even trying anymore.  They certainly polite3don’t dress the part – not like in the old days.  Nor do they hold coats, chairs, flowers or their bodily emissions in check.  I stopped her there.  There are some things strangers don’t let strangers share.

She went on for another wine and a half and since I wasn’t about to have three pale ales on an empty stomach, I said I was late, excused myself, and went outside to wait.

She was right, you know.  We men are not as gallant as we used to be.  Chivalry is not necessarily dead, but it is in intensive care.  It’s a casualty of gender equality and our increasing descent into permanent Casual Friday.  It’s difficult to be on your best behaviour when you’re wearing flip flops and a sweatshirt, especially when your companion is falling out of most of her clothes.  Besides, the quintessential act of opening a door for someone has become a chauvinistic minefield.  Polite might not be seen as patriarchal, but it’s not always smart to take it on faith.  There isn’t a guy over 16 who hasn’t been stitched up after an encounter with the feminist fascisto, who don’t always make their presence known – until it’s too late.

Of course, there is a moral to the story.  I wasn’t aware of it at the time or even standing outside in the dizzily rain.  For all her caustic observations, it never occurred to my new friend that I hadn’t ever invited her to sit down.

Images by Dina Goldstein