If you grew up in the last half-century, your mother probably told you to think before you speak. She knew that words have a way of hanging in the air long after they’re said and they can travel on a wisp farther than you’d ever imagine. Mothers of the future will have to amend that age-old advice to think before you speak and then make sure the microphone is off.
The wave of embarrassments displayed by our public figures continues to wash over us with the Reverend Jesse Jackson’s latest gaffe at the forefront. Whispering a derisive comment that Barack Obama disparages his black church-going followers would seem reckless enough from a prominent reverend appearing as a guest on a TV panel. But his Lorena Bobbitt hand gesture regarding the senatorial family jewels added a dollop of instant infamy. When you consider that during another election two decades ago this same individual referred to New York as Hymietown, a pattern is hard to ignore.
Reverend Bounty Hunter anyone? What have we learned from the racially charged tape-recorded phone call of Dog Chapman’s that circled YouTube in 11 seconds last year? Two things: 1) don’t be a hater; and 2) George Orwell’s 1984 has been here long enough for all of us to know that the walls have ears and eyes and the buzzing inside them is real. And whether what we utter is meant for everyone to hear or not, like that insipid song from Titanic, it goes on and on.
When I was about nine years old, my family belonged to a pool club in Brooklyn where I befriended a girl named Tina. My world view was small back then and I had no idea if Tina lived a block away or on the other side of Brooklyn. All I knew was it was somewhere other than the housing project where we lived and I saw her every day at the pool.
One day we were playing in the water and we noticed one of the male lifeguards talking with a gorgeous teenager who I recognized as the daughter of a good friend of my mom’s. She was a senior in high school and she looked just like Annette Funicello in Beach Party. We were watching them silently when I decided to show Tina how worldly I was by sharing some gossip I had overheard between my mom and Annette’s mother.
I said, “You know, that girl has a steady boyfriend named Frankie but she has a crush on the lifeguard. They’ve been secretly dating behind her boyfriend’s back. Her mom says he’s much better for her than her loser guinea boyfriend.”
Tina’s eyes got wide but she said nothing. I nodded my head to reinforce my revelation and considered her suitably impressed. I had absolutely no idea I had repeated a derogatory term for Italian-Americans nor had I ever met the boyfriend in question nor did I know Tina’s ethnic heritage.
That night I overheard another conversation, this one between my parents. My mom was telling my dad she just received a phone call from Annette’s mother saying Annette’s boyfriend had come over that evening and broken up with her suddenly, leaving her in tears. On top of all the things I didn’t know about Tina was the fact that she was Frankie’s little sister.
I never shared with anyone that I was the cause of Annette’s troubles. A year later she married the lifeguard and they went on to have three children. I was glad she got her happy ending but it never lessened my childhood guilt. Better I should have heeded Husband’s sage advice which I will pass on to readers, reverends, and bounty hunters alike: Never miss an opportunity to shut the fuck up.
My pal betty is planning to frame some of Daughter’s Leaves to hang in her living room. Here are more Featured Fotos from Costa Rica to choose from
inside out
bitten
remnant
kind of like a black and white cookie
ghost leaf