Author Archives: susanjustwrites

“One” Small Step for Humankind

Eliminating gender-bias in the English language has been a preoccupation of mine for many years.  During the 1980s, I came up with an idea that I believed would be a useful remedy for one kind of gender-bias rampant in English nouns.

My hopes that this idea would gain wide acceptance escalated when the Chicago Tribune in 1986 published a piece I wrote that advocated this change.

But despite my hopes that this idea would catch on (and although a number of people told me how much they liked it), it went nowhere.  During the intervening 27 years, everyone (including me) has moved on and dealt with this issue in some other way.  But I still think my idea is a good one.  Here’s why.

Back in 1986, I observed that few people were concerned with gender-bias in our language. Those who preferred gender-free language were using “person” instead of “man,” and “he or she” instead of “he” alone, and pretty much leaving it at that.  Others had refused to make even those substitutions and continued to use traditional parlance, much of which had an undeniable male bias.

Maybe the underlying problem was sexism, pure and simple.  But I preferred to have a more generous view and came up with another conclusion.

The fundamental question, then and now:  Why do so many people continue to use words like “man” to mean men and women?  I think I know the answer.  The persistent use of the word “man” and all of the words that use “man” as a suffix—policeman, fireman, repairman, deliveryman, Congressman, and all the rest—can be blamed on a simple fact:  It’s easier to say “man” than to say “person” or any other word or suffix of more than one syllable.

Why haven’t words like “Congressperson” caught on?   Because it’s easier to say “Congressman.”  (I’d be satisfied with “Member of Congress,” like “Member of Parliament” in the U.K., but that hasn’t caught on either.)

Let’s face it.  Even the most dedicated feminists among us would prefer to say mailman instead of mail carrier or repairman instead of repairperson–IF the shorter versions were gender-neutral–because they’re easier to say.  But any word that includes the suffix “man” cannot be gender-neutral.

People can tell me that “man” includes both men and women until their faces turn blue, but I don’t believe it for one second.  Why?  Because the word “man” conjures up the image of a man.  Just think back to your childhood.  Do you remember when you were being taught the meanings of the most basic words?  Who did your parents point to when they said the word “man”?  A woman?  C’mon!  All of us were taught that “man” means a man, not a woman.  No wonder we’re confused a few years later when we encounter writing or speech using “man” that purports to mean both men and women.

It’s almost impossible to say “businessman” and envision a woman.  The same goes for every other word using the suffix “man.”  But if we balk at such infelicitous terms as “businessperson,” what substitutes can we use?

I propose using the suffix “one.”  This suffix is commonly used as part of our everyday speech.  Think of the words “anyone,” “everyone,” “someone,” and “no one.”  No one quibbles about those.  On the contrary, the use of “anyman” or “everyman” would be comical (they sound downright medieval to me).  Why not, then, extend use of the suffix “one” to other words where we have traditionally used “man”?

In recent years, some gender-neutral terms, like “firefighter,” have caught on, and for that I’m grateful.  But many people still cling to the old descriptions, like policeman and Congressman.  If we adopted my proposal, the word “policeman” could become “police-one.”  “Congressman” could become “Congress-one.”  (I’ve added a hyphen for clarity until people become accustomed to the new usage, but that hyphen could disappear as the usage became second-nature.)  Adding “one” instead of “man” or “person” is both gender-neutral and easy to say.

These new words sound strange at first (and in print they look even stranger, especially if we omit the hyphen).  But after you use “one” a few times, it begins to trip off your tongue as easily as “man” because, like “man,” it’s only one syllable.  It also doesn’t sound very different from “man” (“person” does), and you don’t have to stop to think about which suffix to use every time you want to describe someone.  Instead of trying to remember “mail carrier” and “police officer,” you could just use “one” for all of them.

Why don’t you try it?  Try saying mail-one, police-one, sports-one, Congress-one.  Even…snow-one!  It might take a bit of getting used to, but I think it could work.

In my view, it’s never too late to do the right thing.  So even though we’ve come up with ways to get around sexist language, using awkward words like “spokesperson,” it’s not too late to make things even better.

Do you agree with me that we should stop using language that excludes half of humanity?  If you do, we could try this new approach.  If each of us tries it, maybe we can start a trend that changes the English language in this small but important way.

Why don’t we do it?  Let’s be bold.  Let’s target one day to try this experiment in gender-free language and see what happens.  I propose trying it on the first day of the first month of 2014.

Please join me.  On January 1, 2014, let’s try using this short and easy way to include absolutely everyone.

In Praise of San Francisco’s Weather

I moved to San Francisco eight years ago, and there’s much about the city that I truly love:  the breathtaking vistas, the natural beauty surrounding the city, the warmth of its inhabitants, and the rich assortment of parks, museums, theaters, concert halls, movie houses, restaurants, and shops.

There’s one more thing:  the weather.

I revel in the weather I’ve encountered in San Francisco.  After decades of living in a cold climate (mostly in Chicago), dealing with snow and ice for much of the year and heat and humidity for much of the rest, I relish the sunshine and cool breezes that San Francisco offers year-round.  People who’ve never lived in a cold climate can’t begin to imagine how difficult life there can be.  On many cold mornings I found myself crossing the bridge over the Chicago River, headed from the commuter train station to my office, snow and sleet blowing in my face.  No matter how many warm layers of clothing I’d wrap around my body, my face was largely exposed, bearing the brunt of the cold wind that persisted in hurling snow in my direction.

If you’ve never confronted them, let me assure you that icy sidewalks and streets are extremely treacherous.  Many of those attempting to walk on icy sidewalks have slipped and fallen, breaking bones and suffering concussions.  Driving on icy streets is equally hazardous, resulting in countless collisions.  Luckily, snow and ice are non-existent in San Francisco, relieving us of the challenges and pitfalls of negotiating on ice both on foot and in a vehicle.  Even rainy days don’t bother me, and locals who complain about the occasional chilly weather strike me as almost comically unaware of the reality faced by Americans in almost every other region of the county.

Unless you love hot weather and can’t wait to hit the beach, summers in San Francisco are delightful.  The temperature almost never rises above 80 degrees, and humidity barely reaches a noticeable level.  The contrast with places like Chicago, Boston, and New York is striking.  On recent trips to those cities, I encountered uncomfortably high humidity, thunderstorms, and temperatures in the 90s.  Extreme heat and humidity has plagued much of the nation this summer, but here in San Francisco, we’ve been as cool as cukes.

Air conditioning?  In San Francisco, we almost never need it, while most other regions of the country, including many parts of California, rely on air conditioning to survive.  I remember some vivid examples.  On one sweltering summer day in Ann Arbor, Michigan, my husband and mother joined me at Ann Arbor’s famed outdoor art festival.  I was surveying the artwork when l glanced at my mother’s face.  It was bright red. The thermometer on a nearby building read 99 degrees, and the humidity felt just as high.  We quickly abandoned the art festival and fled to our air-conditioned apartment.  On a recent trip to Boston, I was barely able to drag myself from the Harvard Square “T” to my daughter’s air-conditioned Cambridge apartment just a few blocks away, when both the temperature and the humidity hit 90-plus.  And don’t get me started on places like Arizona and Texas.

Here in San Francisco we save the financial cost of air conditioning, not to mention any feelings of guilt arising from  its demand on our energy resources.  And we don’t have to suffer the physical jolt of going from intense heat to intense cold every time we enter a super-air-conditioned building.

Our weather has another stellar feature.  Because San Franciscans can revel in sunshine and moderate temperatures all year long, we can spend much more time outdoors than most other Americans.  We’re not confined to exercising in sterile gray-walled fitness centers.  We have much better options.  I wake up every day almost certain that I’ll be able to take a walk, hike, or bike ride before the sun sets.

I don’t even mind the San Francisco fog that occasionally envelops the city.  Au contraire.  I think it creates a kind of magical aura over the city.  So long you remember to carry a light jacket, and drivers are careful maneuvering their vehicles in the fog, it really doesn’t have much of a downside.  Besides, if you want to escape the fog, you need travel only a short distance from the city in any direction.  The microclimates surrounding us are almost always fog-free.

Of course, life in San Francisco has its flaws.  For one thing, housing is more expensive than that in other cities (with the possible exception of NYC).  Rents are high, and on the rise as the city’s economy gets better and better, while buying a house in the most desirable neighborhoods has become more costly than ever.  And San Franciscans are constantly under the shadow of “The Big One.”  Perched as we are on the Pacific Rim, the threat of a major earthquake never really goes away.

But those of us who live here are willing to take those negatives along with all the positive features of life in the city.  Count me in.  I’m genuinely happy in my new hometown and especially delighted with its weather.  And when I recently came across the following story, reprinted from the San Francisco Chronicle of July 15, 1937, I realized that my reaction to the city’s weather is very much like that of a famous writer’s over 75 years ago.

The Chronicle reported:

Ernest Hemingway arrived in San Francisco yesterday ‘to get cool.’ On his first visit to [the city], he gulped in a few cubic yards of fog shortly after stepping from a …plane at [the airport] and sighed: ‘Say, this is great. After frying in New York, stewing down in Florida and sweltering in Los Angeles, this is something….  I can’t for the life of me see why anybody would ever move out of San Francisco, particularly in the summertime.’

Hey, Papa, when it comes to weather, we’re on the same page!

Quote

Audrey Hepburn and Me

I never thought I had a single thing in common with Audrey Hepburn.  She was tall and decidedly slim.  I’m short and, uh, not exactly slim.  She was a brunette with enormous brown eyes.  I’m a redhead with almond-shaped but not-so-enormous hazel eyes.  She was a famed film star who won an Oscar at 24 (for 1953’s Roman Holiday) while my adolescent dreams of becoming an actress never became reality.

So I never saw myself as having anything in common with this glamorous star of the ’50s and ’60s.  But a quick glance at a recent magazine article has convinced me that I have a few things in common with Audrey after all.

The article, appearing in the May issue of Vanity Fair, is based on a new book, Audrey in Rome, written by her younger son, Luca Dotti.  Luca lived with Audrey in Rome from the time of his birth in 1970 until she left for Switzerland (and he went off to a Swiss boarding school) in 1986.  As the magazine cover proclaims, in his book he recalls “the secrets of her iconic style.”

What were some of these secrets?  Well, for one thing, she was “fond of kerchiefs tied under the chin (not wound around and fastened in back in the French manner).”  Her love of sous-chin kerchiefs is apparent in a 1970 photo showing Audrey in a fabulous Givenchy coat and a scarf tied under her chin.

According to Luca, Audrey’s scarves were “a bit of a vice.”  Although she wasn’t “like Imelda Marcos and shoes,” she had “maybe 30 or 40” scarves.  In Rome, she often wore them along with big sunglasses as a disguise, enabling her “to do her shopping without having…crowds” following her.

This is one style-revelation I share with Audrey Hepburn.  My love of scarves, like hers, could be called a vice, but in view of the small amount of space they occupy and the small sums of money they cost, they’re a pretty harmless one.  I have a colorful collection in every possible fabric, suitable for every season, some bestowed on me as charming gifts, others purchased by me in a weak moment.

I admit I’ve never had crowds following me.  But I wear scarves (usually tied under my chin) for my own reasons.  In chilly weather, they keep my head warm.  On warmer days, they shield my curly hair from humidity and wind.

Childhood photos taken by my father show me, like Audrey, wearing scarves tied beneath my chin.  Ever since then, I’ve worn scarves no matter where I’ve made my home—from Chicago to Boston to Los Angeles.  Now, living in breezy San Francisco, I almost never leave home without a scarf in my jacket pocket, prepared to withstand whatever breezes the ocean blows my way.

Some have ridiculed my penchant for wearing scarves.  A friend once muttered that I liked to wear “babushkas.”  That hurt.  But now I can point to Audrey Hepburn as a scarf-loving style icon who, like me, wore scarves tied beneath her chin.

Another secret revealed by Luca is Audrey’s choice of footwear.  Generally basing her style choices on “simplicity and practicality,” she preferred to wear ballerina flats and low heels.  Vanity Fair claims that she wore them partly to accentuate her long feet, “adding to her elegant attenuation.”  (Huh?  Do you know any women with long feet who want to accentuate them?)  But even VF admits the far more likely reason:  she wore them so she “could walk comfortably.”

So here’s another preference I share with Audrey.  Long ago I gave up wearing high heels.  Like Audrey, I like to stride purposefully through the city, and wearing anything but low heels makes that impossible.  Every day I see women struggling with high heels that inhibit their freedom to move through life with ease.  I ache to tell them to forgo those high heels, and like Audrey and me, walk comfortably and safely wherever they go.

[Please note:  I’ve written another post on this blog, “High Heels Are Killers,” explaining at greater length my opinion of high heels.]

If truth be told, when I was younger, I wasn’t a big fan of Audrey Hepburn.  Maybe it was the way Hollywood portrayed her that was to blame.  After Roman Holiday (in which she fell in love with reasonably age-appropriate Gregory Peck), she was paired with male leads who were far too old for her.  At 28 she was supposedly smitten by Gary Cooper, then 56 (and looking even older), in Love in the Afternoon and by 58-year-old Fred Astaire in Funny Face.  I found these pairings simply baffling.  Why would radiant young Audrey fall for men twice her age?  At the time, I was unaware of the way Hollywood worked back then.  It’s clear to me now that she was complying with the demands of the movie moguls who dictated most of the roles she played.

No wonder she confided to friends that her favorite role was that of the nun in The Nun’s Story.  No superannuated men were slobbering over her in that role!

My view of Audrey Hepburn evolved as I learned more about her.  In her later years, she became an activist on behalf of UNICEF, traveling to more than 20 countries around the globe to advocate for the world’s most vulnerable children.  Her advocacy has endeared her to me, a fellow advocate for the underprivileged.

Moreover, during those years, she openly chose to welcome growing older.  Luca remembers that she “was always a little bit surprised by the efforts women made to look young.”  By contrast, “she was actually very happy about growing older because it meant more time for herself, more time for her family, and separation from the frenzy of youth and beauty that is Hollywood.”  She saw aging as part of the circle of life.

Audrey liked to say that “true beauty in a woman is reflected in her soul. It’s the caring that she lovingly gives, the passion that she shows. The beauty of a woman only grows with passing years.”

Some may remember Audrey Hepburn as a stunning style icon, but in my view, she should be remembered for much, much more.

“All in the Family” Revisited

Are you old enough to remember the TV sitcom “All in the Family”?  Or have you managed to catch an episode or two on late-night TV?

This sitcom was a number-one hit on TV in the 1970s (it debuted in ’71 and lasted till ’79), and it became an honest-to-goodness phenomenon.   Produced by Norman Lear, it featured movie and TV actor Carroll O’Connor as the irascible Archie Bunker.  Archie was a working-class bigot, openly racist and sexist.  Sitting in his favorite living-room chair (now enshrined in the Smithsonian), chomping on a cigar, he belittled gays and intellectuals and anyone else who lived outside his narrow world in Queens, New York.

Why did a sitcom revolving around this character become an Emmy- and Golden Globe-winning hit?  Probably because audiences felt comfortable laughing at Archie’s appalling antics.  Audiences could watch Archie clumsily try to maneuver through a rapidly changing world, feeling smugly superior to him while we grappled with many of the same troubling issues in our own lives.

Archie was surrounded by a memorable family, notably his long-suffering wife Edith, whom Archie called “the dingbat.”  Edith was played by Jean Stapleton as a somewhat flaky but kind-hearted helpmeet who tolerated her husband’s offensive behavior because she truly loved him.  Archie’s daughter Gloria, portrayed by Sally Struthers at the outset as a miniskirted twenty-something with corkscrew blonde curls, and Gloria’s husband, college student Mike, played by Rob Reiner in much slimmer times, completed the family circle.  Without enough money to afford their own place, Gloria and Mike lived with Archie and Edith, creating a situation rife with conflict.

Archie and Mike (dubbed “Meathead” by Archie) constantly clashed, their different world-views colliding on a daily basis.  Gloria was caught in the middle, sometimes siding with Archie but usually backing up her husband Mike.  This dynamic provided considerable comic fodder for the audience.  When, later in the show’s run, Mike and Gloria left Archie’s house and moved to their own place, a lot of the comedy went with them.

A few years back, someone asked me which TV show I would choose to inhabit if I was suddenly transported into a TV sitcom.  My choice was easy:   “All in the Family.”

I knew precisely where I wanted to go: 704 Hauser Street, Queens, New York, plunked down in the Bunker household as a newly minted version of Archie’s daughter, Gloria.

In my version of the Bunker family, Gloria would no longer be Archie’s relentlessly cute but somewhat uncomplicated daughter, declaring “Oh, Daddy!” whenever Archie did something that baffled or annoyed her.  I’d be a smarter, savvier Gloria, bringing a dose of common sense and a measure of sensitivity to the Bunker household.

Instead of running off to Mike, as Gloria was wont to do, I’d give Archie a hug, then sit down with him and offer him my empathy.  I’d let him know I understood how hard it was to be a blue-collar white male in a world that was spinning around him, changing by the hour.  I’d try to reassure him that he still had his place in that world, and that nothing would ever change my daughterly love for him.

I’d empathize with Edith, too, trying to reassure her as well.  I’d let her know it was okay for her to be content–for the moment–in her current role, that of a housewife whose focus was cooking, cleaning, and helping her husband deal with his daily defeats at home and at work.  At the same time, I’d encourage her incipient efforts to become more assertive, no longer entirely dependent on Archie and therefore no longer the willing target of his insults and disparaging attitude.

As for the Meathead, I’d struggle to keep our marriage intact, constantly reminding myself how much he loved me, calming him down whenever Archie was on the warpath, serving as a buffer between the two of them more effectively than Gloria ever did.

In sum, I’d bring tranquility and order to the Bunker household, thereby transforming the Bunker family into the kind of family I always tried to create in my own home.

There’s just one problem: “All in the Family” wouldn’t be funny anymore.  The Archie that I loved to laugh at would be buried under a cloak of rationality, with only bits and pieces of funny stuff breaking through now and then.

My family shared a house much like the Bunkers’, but our dynamic was nothing like theirs.  We bounced ideas off of each other, not always in total agreement but open to what each of us had to say.  As my children grew and the world evolved, we evolved, too.  We shared a home full of love and a minimal amount of conflict.

So, although we had loads of fun together, we were pretty boring compared to the Bunkers—not at all the stuff of a successful TV sitcom.  I guess I would have liked to see the Bunkers become more like us, but let’s face it:  The result would have been much closer to “Little House on Hauser Street” or “The Waltons of Queens,” and nothing like the very funny “All in the Family.”

Does Jury Duty Matter?

Have you ever served on a jury?  As a lawyer, I’ve observed juries over the years and found the whole process fascinating.  But although I’ve been called and questioned for jury service several times, I’ve never actually sat on a jury.

A few years ago, I wrote a book review recounting one juror’s experience sitting on the jury in a particularly salacious trial in New York City (please see my review in the Chicago Daily Law Bulletin in 2002 of A Trial by Jury by D. Graham Burnett).

More recently I read another book about jury duty.  Conceding that many of us try to avoid serving on a jury whenever we can, it makes a compelling argument that jury duty is absolutely vital in our democracy.

Here’s a review I’ve written of this new book, Why Jury Duty Matters.

  Book Review:  WHY JURY DUTY MATTERS

by Andrew Guthrie Ferguson 

         Does jury duty matter?  Anyone who’s seen the 1957 film “12 Angry Men” can answer that.  In that film, a single member of the fictional jury derails the conviction of a murder defendant when he persuades the other jurors that there’s reasonable doubt of the defendant’s guilt.

Real-world jury duty may not have the impact it does in that film, but it still matters—a lot.  In “Why Jury Duty Matters:  A Citizen’s Guide to Constitutional Action,” Andrew Ferguson tells us just how consequential jury duty is.

Ferguson writes from his perspective as a former public defender with the Public Defender Service for the District of Columbia, where for seven years he represented adults and juveniles in serious felony cases.  Now a professor of law at the David A. Clarke School of Law at the University of the District of Columbia, he has focused on how vital jury duty is to our democracy.

Ferguson notes that the significance of the jury was enshrined from the beginning of our country in the United States Constitution.  He points out that jury duty is “one of the last unifying acts of citizenship”—our “recurring civil obligation to head down to the courthouse and participate in resolving a criminal or civil case involving members of the community.”

He skillfully weaves in references to history, tracing the evolution of juries, first in England and later in the U.S.  For example, the unfair proceedings during the 1603 treason trial of Sir Walter Raleigh led to the right to confront witnesses, later enshrined in our Sixth Amendment.  Likewise, the 1735 libel trial of John Peter Zenger probably inspired the Sixth Amendment’s right to a public jury trial, as well as the First Amendment’s protection of free speech and press.  And the revolt against much unfairness by the British, which led to the American Revolution, led in turn to this theme in the Constitution:  protection against arbitrary police power.  The jury is a bulwark against that power.

Ferguson carefully reviews the many roles that jurors play:

  • deliberating—reviewing the evidence  and making a collective decision; thinking together, using reason and informed discussion to reach a decision
  • protecting dissenting voices—allowing each juror to dissent from the majority’s conclusion
  • judging accountability—assuming the responsibility to hold someone accountable
  • giving equal treatment to information and ideas, and above all,
  • ensuring fairness.

The key is fairness.

As Ferguson emphasizes, each of these roles, when taken to heart by jurors, leads to faith in our jury system.  And the faith we have in our juries is the cornerstone of our democracy.

Why Am I Suddenly a “Member”?

When did I become a member of groups I never knowingly joined?

Maybe I’m mistaken, but I always thought the word “member” meant that one had purposefully joined a club or similar entity.  Joining such a group can be a good idea.  For example, membership in a social club offers a range of pleasant benefits, like golf, swimming, or dining in an exclusive setting.

Being a member of a professional organization generally offers career-oriented perks, along with help climbing a possibly shaky ladder to professional success.  And then there’s membership in a political party, which has always meant sharing an outlook (more or less) on public policy.

But now it seems that my charitable instincts have turned me into a “member” of a host of other groups.  Charities to which I’ve donated a few stray bucks have anointed me as a member, and they are now pursuing me to “renew” my membership!

Jeez, I didn’t realize that when I sent Charity X a small donation I would suddenly become a “member” of that admirable group.  But apparently I did because here’s an envelope it recently sent me, announcing that there are “10 reasons to renew [my] membership”!

The X Foundation, another commendable organization to which I’ve donated a small sum on occasion, has now written me to ask for more.  The shocker is the envelope’s threat that this is my “final renewal notice” this year.  But please tell me, folks, when exactly did I join in the first place?

Yes, I’m a softie, and I have perhaps foolishly sent dribs-and-drabs donations to a wide array of worthy groups that tug at my heart.  But please let me know, Charities A, B, and C, why that constitutes “membership” in your organization?  Yes, you do such wonderful work on behalf of people with diabetes, cancer, or blindness.  But seriously, all I did was send you a check or two.  Yet now you’ve sent me a “renewal reminder.”

Some of these groups have even issued “membership cards,” complete with member numbers.  And a few have gone over the edge and sent me membership “statements” that strongly resemble bills.  I just got one in today’s mail.  C’mon, people!  Do you think that scares me into sitting down and writing you a check?

Truthfully, I resent being lumped into the category of “member” by groups like these, with which I have no real connection other than a desire to add a small amount to their coffers.  Being threatened with a “final renewal reminder” doesn’t induce me to respond.  On the contrary, it makes me wonder about the professional fundraisers these groups have hired.  Do their ominous reminders work on anyone?  They certainly don’t work on me.  Instead of loosening my purse strings, they encourage me to tighten them.  The threatening envelopes get tossed into my recycling more often than not.

All this tossing makes me think hard about the charitable world today.   For one thing, I’ve been warned about an insidious trend.  It appears that if you donate only a small amount, charities tend to sell your name to other groups, so you can then be hounded by ten or twelve charities instead of just one.  “Your name is worth more to these charities than the $25 you give them,” a friend confided.  If that’s true, it simply compounds the problem.  And it seems to account for the plethora of solicitations I find in my overstuffed mailbox every day.

While I’m at it, I’ll go further and denounce some of the other tactics these groups employ.  Even those that don’t call me a “member” are guilty of some pretty odious practices.  First, I am now the recipient of endless “free gifts.”  The proliferation of address labels has gotten totally out of hand.

My daily mail includes countless address labels from groups I’ve never even heard of.  I’ve received enough of these labels to last at least two more lifetimes, and that’s assuming I never move from my current address.  Other freebies include ballpoint pens, note pads, greeting cards, and calendars, many more than I can ever use (and many so unappealing that I never would use them).  Most of these freebies end up in one of my charity donation bags (one hand washes the other?) or, even worse, the trash, adding to our overflowing landfills and our overburdened recycling centers.

Honestly, I’d much prefer that these groups (who are clearly playing the “guilt” card) spend my cash quite differently.  Hey, folks, please use that money to search for a cure, actively fight racism, directly lift women out of poverty.  Note pads and calendars?  I can buy those myself.

Some of us have gotten wise to this endless pursuit of donations. Internet websites can now tell us just how efficiently most charities are run.  For example, Charity Navigator evaluates charities, distinguishing among them by giving four stars to those that operate efficiently, while giving only one or two stars to the charities that spend too much of their revenue on fundraising and other administrative costs.  This kind of ranking may not be perfect, but it’s helped me weed out some of the groups I used to support.  If enough of us did that, we might have an impact on their most deplorable tactics.

The solution for me may be to become more selective.  Instead of making small donations to a wide range of worthy groups, I may focus on a handful of them and send a larger check to each.  But I fear that my name may stay on the same old mailing lists ad infinitum, adding pounds and pounds to recycling as I continue to toss.  I’ve recently started sending back some solicitation forms, demanding that my name be removed from these lists, but so far I haven’t tracked whether that approach has done any good. I truthfully doubt that it has.

This blizzard of charity solicitations has to stop.  Where I once was charitable, I am now more likely to be hostile, vowing never to contribute a dime to most of the charities that pursue me with such zeal.

Don’t these groups realize that they’ve literally reached a point of no return?

[A version of this commentary previously appeared as an op-ed in the San Francisco Chronicle.]

The Politicization of Christmas Trees

I’m not planning to buy a Christmas tree this year.  I didn’t buy one last year either.  But as a consumer who’s interested in American retailing, I was disturbed to learn what happened in the Christmas tree industry in 2011.

According to a report that appeared in the San Francisco Chronicle, Christmas tree farmers were (and undoubtedly still are) struggling to compete with artificial-tree producers, who spend millions of dollars each year persuading shoppers to buy fake trees instead of real ones.  In an effort to improve their own sales, tree farmers united behind a program that promised to be helpful.  They petitioned the U.S. Department of Agriculture to administer a fund they would pay for themselves, and the USDA agreed to do it.

The growers wanted to contribute 15 cents—15 cents—from the sale of each real tree.  This tiny amount would have created a Christmas Tree Promotion Board that would remind shoppers of the delights of a real tree.

What happened?  The politicization that has infected so much of our public life suddenly spread to the very non-political world of Christmas trees.  Although the USDA has overseen at least 20 of these kinds of programs for many different types of farmers during the past 45 years (including the popular “Got Milk?” program for the dairy industry), some conservative commentators got wind of the tree farmers’ plan and decided to make it a political football.

Suddenly critics became incensed by the idea that shoppers would have to pay an additional 15 cents for each tree purchased.  They decided to dub this miniscule amount as a “tax,” even though it was nothing of the kind.  The 15 cents was to be paid by the farmers, who hoped the new Board would persuade shoppers to return to putting real trees in their living rooms.

But instead, these critics seized on the fact that the USDA, as part of the Obama administration, would administer this program.  President Obama became the target.  He was described by one U.S. Senator as the Grinch who stole Christmas and likened to Scrooge in “A Christmas Carol.”   A member of the U.S. House called the 15-cent amount a “new tax” that was “a smack in the face to each and every American who celebrates Christmas.”  Huh?

As criticism became more heated, the Obama administration backed off and pulled its support for the program.  The whole scenario baffled the tree farmers.  They were disillusioned by the critics on the right, who described the farmers’ contribution as a tax and skewered the President for supporting it.  But they were also disheartened by the President’s staff, which buckled under what one farmer called “misinformed pressure.”

This farmer noted that “unlike artificial trees exported from foreign countries, ours are from America and create jobs for Americans.”  Unfortunately, knee-jerk politics got in the way and stopped a valuable program in its tracks.

As Christmas nears, tree buyers are once again considering their options. But whether or not we plan to buy a Christmas tree this year, all of us should reflect on what happened last year.  Should we allow American farmers to spend their own money to promote their products?  Or should we let dysfunctional political leaders shut them down in order to gain a cheap political advantage?

[A version of this commentary previously appeared as an op-ed in the San Francisco Chronicle.]

 

Sharing Old Clothes in Panama City

The term “old clothes” has a brand new meaning for me.   In Panama City, I recently shared not just one but two different kinds of old clothes.

A culinary standby in Panama is “ropa vieja,” a traditional dish of spicy shredded beef and rice.   “Ropa vieja” translates as “old clothes.”   The name stems from a cook’s inclination to use up whatever is left over in the kitchen, just as all of us grab our old clothes whenever we’re at a loss for something to wear.  Somehow Panamanian cooks got in the habit of throwing together shredded beef (often leftover steak) with rice and tomato sauce, plus some spices to perk it all up.

When I read a description of this spicy bit of local cuisine in a couple of guidebooks, it sounded like a dish I’d relish.  So, from the moment I landed in Panama City, I couldn’t wait to try it.  When I discovered El Trapiche, a restaurant featuring local dishes like ropa vieja, I wasn’t disappointed.  The dish came steaming hot, and the meat tasted a lot like juicy brisket to me.  Along with a hearty portion of rice, it was both filling and delicioso.

El Trapiche sits on Calle Argentina, not far from a number of other restaurants in the area called El Cangrejo.   The décor is basic, and our fellow patrons were mostly city residents who’d come to indulge in local specialties like ropa vieja, sancocho (a traditional soup made from chicken and the popular yucca plant), tamales, arroz con pollo, and mondongo (tripe).  The price was right:  $6 for a large helping of ropa vieja, $4.50 for my companion’s order of arroz con pollo, and $4 for a large bowl of sancocho.  We shared all three dishes, thereby sampling three different kinds of local cuisine.  (A “tipico” platter featuring samples of a variety of things was available for $11.)  A scoop of ice cream for dessert added a minimal $2.

After this hearty, totally satisfying meal, we walked to a nearby corner, flagged one of the city’s ubiquitous yellow taxis, and secured a ride back to our hotel for $3 (no tip required).

Sharing old clothes turned out to have a whole other meaning for me in Panama.  As a frugal and immensely practical traveler, I like to pack well-worn clothes that I’m prepared to jettison either during or at the end of my trip.  All year long, I look through my closet for things that no longer fit well or are somewhat out of date.  I put these into my “jettison pile.”  Then, when I pack for a trip, I peruse the pile and select those items that strike me as both appropriate and acceptable for the destinations I’m heading to.

For a trip to a location where most travelers wear casual garb, I’ll choose old t-shirts and pants that are now a bit baggy but will do just fine at my destination.            For a trip to colder climes, I dig through my pile for sweaters and warm slacks I rarely wear now (I still harbor a collection of these items from my years in Chicago).

Another item I jettison is shoes that have seen better days.  They tend to be a bit scuffed but still wearable.

One goal of this process is to carve out room in my suitcase for new purchases, like clothes or souvenirs that might otherwise require  another bag.

If I need more items to wear and later jettison (to make room for new purchases), I scour local charity shops and frequently hit pay dirt.  Before leaving for Panama City, I headed to a local shop that perennially features a $1 rack.  I found a treasure trove of men’s white dress shirts and bought several to wear over my t-shirts to protect me from the hot sun while hiking or taking a boat trip.  I happily left these behind, knowing I can always find more.

Who’s on the receiving end of my jettisoned items?  I generally leave them behind in hotel rooms, hoping that the cleaning staff will make good use of them.  I always leave a note (in the local language if I can manage it) specifically stating that I no longer want these items and the staff is welcome to them.  (For example, in basic Spanish I’ve written:  “Usted puede tener estas cosas.  No quiero estas.”)   Even if my Spanish or French isn’t perfect, I think I get my message across.  I don’t want anyone at the hotel to think I left these things behind by mistake and send them back to me!

Of course, when my travels include seeing people I know or attending an event like a wedding, I eschew my jettison pile and instead pack flattering, current clothes and shoes.  The jettison pile is reserved for trips, like my recent trip to Panama, when most of my encounters will be with total strangers–or close friends who already know my predilection for sharing old clothes.

But Is It Reunion-Worthy?

“Belt-tightening” is the word on everyone’s lips these days.  We’ve all become uber-cautious purchasers of everything from laundry detergent to pancake syrup.

This new ethos fits in perfectly with my lifelong approach to shopping.  I’ve never been a big spender. Au contraire. My chief indulgence has always been to hunt for earth-shattering bargains.

But now I have another reason to watch my pennies when I consider buying something new. With a class reunion looming, the prospect of seeing my former classmates has led me to rethink how I shop for clothes.

After scrutinizing a closetful of things I wouldn’t dream of wearing to my reunion, I’m launching a whole new wardrobe strategy.

The new standard for my purchases? Are they reunion-worthy?

I’m a bargain-hunter from way back, and one of my favorite pursuits has always been scouring the reduced racks at stores ranging from Loehmann’s and Macy’s to Nordstrom and my neighborhood boutiques.  Not to mention bopping into stores like T.J. Maxx and Marshalls now and then.  The result?  Although some of my choices have served me well, my closet is crammed with bargains that I never wear.

OK, I’ll admit that some of them don’t fit.  They were impulse purchases during those giddy moments when I actually thought I was going to wear a size 4 again.

But even those that fit me perfectly well often hang there along with the others.  Yes, they looked good in the dressing room.  Was it the soft lighting that sucked me in?  Or was it the “skinny mirrors”?  (Remember how Elaine on “Seinfeld” accused Barney’s of having skinny mirrors?)

I happily toted my bargains home.  But by the time I appraised them in my bedroom mirror and realized that they didn’t look so great on me after all, the deadline for returning them had too often expired.  I was permanently and unalterably stuck with them.

Fast forward to now.  Before I hand over my cash for another purchase, I’m going to ask myself:  “Is it reunion-worthy?”

We all understand what that means.  We want to look absolutely smashing at a class reunion.  Everything we wear has to be fabulous.  Now translate that to your everyday wardrobe.

Here’s how the new approach will work.  Remember those classmates who were slim and sleek when you were kind of puffy?  Thanks to your fitness regime and a healthier diet, you’ve pared down your poundage and tightened up your tummy.  If you were going to a class reunion, you’d want everyone to know it, wouldn’t you?  So view every dress with that in mind.  Ask yourself, “Do I look as slender in this dress as I really am?”  If not, don’t buy it!  It’s not reunion-worthy.

Or suppose that you’ve slowly, painfully, come to realize that you look awful in pale pink and that navy blue suits you much better.  You wouldn’t buy a pale pink pantsuit to wear to your reunion, would you?  So…don’t buy it for any other occasion, no matter how gigantic a bargain it may be.

I’m frequently tempted to buy jackets in bold bright patterns with large colorful designs.  But after I bought one the other day, I took another look at it in my bedroom mirror.  It overpowered my petite size and shape.  Would I wear it to my reunion?  Not on your life!  Back to the store it went.

Thanks to my awakening, we can all begin to view everything we buy through this new lens.   So what if an outfit’s been reduced from $200 to a rock-bottom 39 bucks.  Don’t buy it unless it’s reunion-worthy.  That designer dress may be terribly chic, but let’s face it:  it’s styled for someone with a totally different shape.  Forget it.  It’s not reunion-worthy.

As you hunt for clothes in your favorite stores, keep thinking this way, and spend your hard-earned dollars on only those duds that make you look terrific.  You’ll save money, and your closets will no longer be clogged with unwearable clothes.

Happy shopping!  You can thank me (and my class reunion) for a splendid result.

[A version of this commentary previously appeared as an op-ed in the San Francisco Chronicle.]

No Butts About It

If you’re like me, you find secondhand smoke unpleasant, irritating and a downright menace to your health.  A raft of studies has confirmed the dangers of inhaling secondhand smoke.  To reduce its impact, we’ve banned smoking in the workplace, restaurants and other public places.  But those bans have produced a new menace:  street smokers.

You know who they are. They’re the people who insist on smoking while they’re walking down the street, right next to you and me.

Sure, they’re angry because they can’t light up in stores and theaters the way they used to.  They miss smoking in their favorite bars and restaurants.  And they’re annoyed that they can’t smoke at work anymore.

But hey, street smokers, don’t make the rest of us suffer.  You should be content to pollute your own homes (even if you are endangering the health of your spouse, your children, and the family dog).

But are you?  No, you’re not.  You’ve become street smokers.

You stride through our city streets, puffing away with complete disregard for anyone else.  I’ve come close to being burned by one of your smoking wands too many times to keep it to myself anymore.  You’ve got to be stopped.

Okay, I admit you’ve been entrapped by carefully designed advertising, depicting smoking as glamorous and seductive, inducing you to start smoking at an early age.  Convinced by Big Tobacco that smoking was “cool,” that it would make you more attractive to the opposite sex, you began smoking in your teens, then found yourselves addicted.  So maybe I should pity rather than condemn you.

Sorry, I just can’t.  Uppermost in my mind is the health and safety of us nonsmokers.  First and foremost, I worry about secondhand smoke.  But I also worry about the prospect of burnt skin and ugly holes in my faux designer duds.

Maybe you think smoking outside is harmless to others.  Wrong!  If you’re within ten feet of me on a busy sidewalk, or standing near me as I wait for a stoplight to change, I can’t avoid inhaling your smoke.  And the burning end of your cigarette is more dangerous on the street than off, where you rest it in an ashtray instead of waving it mere inches from my skin and clothing.

Another problem you’ve caused:  Your discarded butts are everywhere.  They now make up one of the worst sources of unsightly litter on the city’s streets.

Instead of pulling out that cigarette when you’re walking next to me, try being a bit more creative.  Maybe an entrepreneur could open “smokers’ lounges” in high-density locations.  (Here’s a idea free of charge:  Call them Smokebucks–a Starbucks for smokers.)  Surely most cities could support one or two.

If you tried, you could initiate some even better options.  You could try a nicotine patch, investigate hypnosis, or join a support group.  In the meantime, don’t expect me and my fellow nonsmokers to shower you with sympathy.

Listen up, street smokers.  Nonsmokers are fed up with you.  We’re tired of inhaling your smoke as you walk in front, behind, or next to us.

We’re tired of dodging the red-hot tips of your cigarettes as we walk through the city.  If you don’t cut out your lung-damaging, skin-threatening street smoking, we’ll organize.  We’ll form a group called ESS (Eliminate Street Smoking).  ESS will create a new morality that makes it unacceptable to smoke on the street.  We’ll lobby for laws banning street smoking, just as drinking liquor and spitting on the street were banned long ago.

If none of this works, I’ll come after you myself.  I’ll pull that burning stick out of your nicotine-stained fingers, hurl it to the ground and crush it underfoot until it’s dead.  No jury in the world would convict me of causing harm to anyone—especially you.