Facebook Chicken

Something I've noticed about debates on Facebook. 

They don't create friends. Politics in social media are more like a game of chicken on a two lane highway.  This past week, the entire Facebook community seemed consumed by Chick-Fil-A, and yet I do not recall a single post of a single person being converted heart or mind from one side to the other. It was really a sense of tribal camps.  Camps that had good reasons for being, but camps that could see the multitude of reasons on its own side for joining, and none of the thought process of the other. 

The nature of the debate on Facebook shrinks rather than expand the arena of ideas.  It just divides us into the us and them, the like and don't like, the R and the D, the Yeah We're Great and Good and Wise and the Evil Other side is stupid...we do not see our own planks in our own eyes, but those splinters, WOW, they're big.  Let me help... Click "Like" and share is not the same as give love and sharing. We aren't doing much giving if all we are doing is standing on a soap box and saying anyone who doesn't agree with me is a doof and I'm unfriending.  

Facebook politics don't allow for much nuance, so there is much opportunity for hurt. But real relationships must change us, or they are not real. Because we do not see face to face, we miss the smiles, the eyes, the heart that comes with having a discussion about real things with real people. There is far more nuance in the motivations of our thinking than our political ideological monikers reveal.   It is a hard thing to recognize, that in this age of most people having 200+ followers, and over 500 "friends," true relationships are being lost in the cross fire of expecting that all friends shall be mirrors unto ourselves. We have to be willing to open our eyes even in the virtual world, to the bigger souls that are shrunk by our limited vision in cyber space, and to how we might be shrinking our own in the process. Friends are not mirrors, they are facets of God's eyes, that show back to us, the pieces we won't otherwise see. 

Pray for peace in all our hearts, in all our actions and in all we think and say everywhere. 

A State of Civility, Idiocy and Mind...A Texan Rant

On Facebook, the picture was a shot of the back of a car seen in Rhode Island. 

"Misplaced Texan" in the colors and style of the Lone Star flag had been slapped on the back.  The caption in the picture. "Somewhere in Texas, some village is missing..." and we all know the last word is idiot. 

Now I am a Texan, and I am on many subjects, an idiot.  But if it is wrong to cloak a whole people by a stereotype born of negative traits that harken to past and present close mindedness, then it is wrong to cloak a whole people by a stereotype based on geography and politics. I tried to ignore it.

Maybe because I'd spent a bit of the morning thinking fondly of my father (the Gospel's readings today remind me of several boating stories about him and fellow Texans), I couldn't ignore what I'd seen.  Reading another friend's descriptions of the sounds and smells and tastes of New Orleans put me in a decidedly nostalgic Southern frame of mind.  The insult of it kept gnawing at me.

I thought of how the air smells in my hometown Beaumont.  (Mine growing up was salt and peppered with mosquitoes).  Before we set foot on the driveway of our old home, we feel home.  Our bones know it when we are there, that this smells like home, because this part of home (if we left it to live somewhere else), we can only  experience by returning.  Breathing it in allows us to visit memories and experiences that otherwise very likely remain dormant and invisible even to ourselves. 

But for whatever the reason, the Texan in me wouldn't let go of the image and his words.  The Texan in me?She got mad.  It very likely proves the poster's point by responding but in all honesty, I'd prefer he allow each person from the Lone Star State to step forward and remove all doubt of their idiocy, rather than paint with a broad brush. So I'm stepping into it and forward by speaking back, by speaking up. 

If he didn't presume, if he got to meet even the person sporting the bumper sticker, he might find Texans, even misplaced ones, are friendly to a fault, laugh louder than most, love a good story, good food and a fair shake. 

Perhaps he'd tell me that's stereotypical too.

Most misplaced Texans (self included) put that sort of bumper sticker on their car as sort of a lament for the air of home.  Texans put those stickers on their car possibly because they'd prefer not to be surrounded by people that write them off as stupid because of how they talk and where they are from. Maybe they'd prefer to be with people who enjoy a good story, good food, a fair shake and laugh louder than most.  Maybe we miss something of that air, of that culture that did not presume we as individuals were idiots until we stepped forward and somehow proved it. 

I know there are plenty of smart Texans across this land.  I also know I may have just proved conclusively and permanently, (seeing as it's my blog and it's now on the Internet forever), I am not one of the smart ones.

So because it is Face book and just a bumper sticker that someone found amusing for different reasons than I would, I'd just like to invite the good professor to consider allowing himself to meet a few more of us.  We'll probably say some things you wouldn't, but we'll also probably surprise you.  I find that all humans do surprise each other if they take the time to break bread and  tell their stories; we are all poorer, dumber, weaker and more injured than we ever wish to let on, but we also are brighter, kinder and hold more wisdom than we ourselves imagine.  And we all sometimes show greater charity than previously presumed and also allow ourselves to snark more than we ought.

All of that comes out in conversation over beer or coffee or pie or barbecue much better than bumper stickers or even blogs.   I also know humor is subjective and sensibilities can be overly nursed to the point of being absurd which this probably has.

But I'm better now. I've said my piece in response to his and if I ever see a bumper sticker in the Lone Star State, "Misplaced Rhode Islander," I promise not to jump to negative or derogatory conclusions about the smallest state in the union missing a person.  I'll guess that person is missing something of the air of home that can't be found anywhere else but the place with the state motto "Hope" and ask to hear about what that person misses so much.

Then I went and reread the post that had provoked so much.  I saw it was a joke on the phrase, because it said, "Somewhere in Texas, a villiage is missing....the person who owns this vehicle."   I must have reread that post four times, checking for a mispelling, for an incorrect rendering of the Texas flag, anything to give the benefit of the doubt before sounding off and still missed it.  I missed the mark. 

Guess Beaumont is minus one idiot...and for the record, with all humility and laughing at myself for my myopia, "I'm very sorry professor, mea culpa and the crow tastes delicious."

The Perfect Call for This Day and Age

In case you've missed it, this past week a perfect game was lost because of a bad call.  Pitcher Armando Galaraga of the Detroit Tigers pitched a game that was one bat away from history.  Then Jim Joyce the umpire missed the call with the Cleveland runner and called him safe at first, when replays clearly showed him out.  For those who don't love or get baseball who say it's just a game, I say "Yes and no." 

Yes.  The game is just one of many.  Yes, it ultimately does not change the world. Yes, there are countless other more things, more exciting, more important, more vital. 

And No. This was an opportunity at history, at perfection, marred by human events.  So I feel for the pitcher who just gave 26 perfect performances only to have the 27th robbed as the umpire clearly muffed the call. 

And No because the real story was the next day.  It's part of why Baseball still matters and still means something, because there are moments like this that the broader world gets to see and given the level of vitriol, preening and self righteous puffery that we witness on a daily basis, having real people on a big stage matters immensely.  

The Umpire (Joyce), went to the locker room immediately after the game to apologize and Galaraga hugged him and accepted it.  He also apologized again the next day when Galaraga came out with the line up.  He shed tears. He even said, "I cost this kid history."

And No again, it isn't just a game because Galaraga did not call for a reversal of the call.  He did not demand his perfect game, he did not demand a pound of flesh for the loss of his moment. 

There is a lesson in this moment of baseball, about the way we return to civility and class as a society, as modeled in the Pitcher and the Umpire. A mistake was made. It cost the pitcher permanently. The umpire apologized, heartfully. The Pitcher accepted. The game went on and life went on and baseball was all the richer for the absence of a perfect game that was perfect; when perfect gentlemen responded as gentlemen should.


I know there are cries for the call to be reversed, but this would be a disservice to baseball and to my way of thinking, all of us. There are bad calls. The game goes on. Life is like that; the content of our character is revealed by how we respond to bad calls, to unlucky breaks, to perfection not being recognized; to not making history.

The fact is, that there are far more men like Jim Joyce the Umpire and  the pitcher Armando Galaraga than we know.  They just don't make the news because peace or the lack of open conflict isn't a news item. There are far more moments when we don't make history, when we are asked to accept apologies or our own sense of right and wrong requires us to give them. The little story of a blown call gives me hope for our society as a whole.  As long as good women and men keep coming forward with quiet dignity and fighting to do or say the right thing despite having the Kitchen sink thrown at them and people did boo and in some cases, threaten the umpire and his family despite calls from Armando not to be angry; civility will eventually be welcomed as a relief from the constant preening spinning, bickering and self righteous acid throwing that currently pretends to be this nation’s discourse. 

Given the fact that men like Armando and Joyce exist, I can hope.   Play ball.

My Two Cents vs. Their Three

Picking up the mail in January, I froze, and not just from the -10 degree wind chill whipping around for my winter pleasure. In my hands amidst the bills and late Christmas cards, flyers for pizza and leftover catalogs were an OVERDUE NOTICE.

I always pay all our bills at the beginning of each month. I keep the tabs and am scrupulous about knowing what checks I write and for whom. Maybe the Christmas rush had allowed me to miss one…I was upset as I sat at the table and began to open it up. Would my clerical error ruin our credit rating? The notice seemed to scold me with its very presence.

Opening the letter my fear gave way to rage. “This letter is to inform you that the bill on your 2004 Mini-van loan for the amount of $.03 is PAST DUE. Please remit the sum of $.03 to the Ameri-Bank account immediately to avoid procedures that could affect your CREDIT RATING.

I put down the letter. I got out my checkbook and past bill stubs. Sure enough, I had written the check for $379.76. The bill was $379.79. I called the 1-800 number to discuss the matter.

“May I help you Ms?” A disinterested voice came on after I had spent the better part of 15 minutes punching buttons on the phone tree to get to a human being.

“Yes! I’m calling about my account…”

She then proceeded to interrupt me to ask for all the information I had just spent 15 minutes punching into the phone tree. “How may I serve you today?” she said finally in a bored voice.

“Why am I getting an OVERDUE NOTICE?” I asked. “You have proof that I made my payment promptly.”

“Yes, it shows that you paid, but our computers indicate that you haven’t satisfied the terms of your contract for the loan.”

“Because of three cents?”

“Yes Ms.” She replied. “What if everyone started writing their checks for pennies less than the actual bill, the company would loose thousands of dollars.”

Momentarily stopped by the thought that a business could loose thousands because of a second of dyslexia, common sense reasserted itself in my brain. “This isn’t a vast conspiracy; I just switched a number by accident, from a nine to a six. I can’t just write three more cents on the next bill?”

“No Ms, our computer indicates that your account is not in compliance. Any additional money sent in next week would apply to the principle but not satisfy the outstanding balance left unpaid.” She droned.

“But it’s three cents. If I write a check for three cents it will cost .39 cents to mail it and more than that for you to process it. Why am I getting a threatening we will destroy your credit rating over three cents?”

“I understand Ms. But our computer reads the payment as insufficient funds and as such you have to send in a check immediately or it will forward your account to the appropriate collection agencies.” I could almost hear her filing her nails and chewing gum in indifference.

“What? For Three CENTS?”

“Yes Ms.” She said this with the evident self detachment culled from hours of telling countless people the same information for even smaller sums.
…..

Trying not to seethe at the incomprehensibility of having my credit rating ruined over three copper coins easily found on the bottom of my car for which the payments were made, I mentally debated the satisfaction of mailing three pennies, of mailing the next full payment in nothing but pennies, and of simply blowing the whole thing off.

“What about an electronic transfer?” I asked, trying to avoid an unnecessary chore and make the best of a stupid situation.

“There is a twelve dollar fee for the transfer Ms.”

“So it would cost me twelve dollars and three cents to square my account?”

“Yes—“

Not feeling particularly civil at that moment, I hung up in mid Ms.

As I wrote the check and began addressing the envelope, I wondered if the bank would fine me for having written a check for such a tiny amount. Phoning the bank, they explained that yes indeed, there would be a 5 dollar fee for writing a check for three cents. I could avoid the fee if the amount exceeded a dollar. I also figured that mailing three cents physically would cost $.45 cents in postage, and that probably sending three physical cents would warrant another letter from the bank.

Ripping up the check, I wrote a new one for a dollar with a note, “Since we both could use the change, I’m transferring my account.”