Thoughtlessness can breed contempt

     All too often at work, I'd be left in the dark about things that affect me and how I do my job if it weren't for an overheard conversation or two. After this saved my ass several times over the years, I became an active eavesdropper. Sometimes, I hear things that have nothing to do with me or my job, but which strike me deeply, all the same.

     This morning, an editor was on the phone (I don't know with whom), talking about a story about two kids who won the right to protest their school district's mandatory school uniform policy. We hadn't had a body to send out to cover it ourselves -- yesterday was particularly newsy -- so we went with an AP story in today's editions. The editor and his listener were discussing the play of the story (front page, below the fold).

     The kids, a fifth grader and a seventh grader protested by wearing buttons with the words "No school uniforms", slashed and superimposed over a photo depicting Nazi youth. The boys had been threatened with suspension at their respective schools for wearing the buttons. The parents of each both joined in filing suit against the school district.

     Yesterday, a court decided that ordering the students not to wear the buttons interfered with their freedom of speech.

     In an offhand comment, the editor told the person on the other end of the phone, "I support those boys, one hundred percent!"

     I gritted my teeth.

     When he finished his call, I turned to him (he sits directly behind me) and asked, "How can you say you 'support those boys, one hundred percent'?"

     I wanted to go and explain why I disagreed with his sentiments, but, uncharacteristically for this man, he cut me off and pretty much told me to shut up and mind my own business.

     I started to tell him anyway.

     Then, he did tell me to shut up and mind my own business. "I wasn't talking to you," he added. "This is bullshit. You do this all the time. The world doesn't exist for you to pass commentary. That's not what you're paid for."

     I have always liked this man. I'm certain that's the only reason I didn't get into a screaming match with him.

     "It's not like these kids are Nazis," he said. "This isn't anti-Semitism."

     He was missing my point entirely.

     There's no reason to believe these kids are anti-Semites. In fact, anyone who looks at the buttons with a clear head, would see their intention was to compare their district's uniform policy with the Third Reich's quest for a homogeneous "master race". And that's where I found offense.

     "They're not trying to offend anyone," said the editor.

     "Spoken like a White man," I muttered, loud enough so that only he could hear me. "You're missing my-- "

     He cut me off again.

     "I'm too busy for this . I'm sick of it. You do this all the time and it's not your job. This isn't what we pay you for," he blasted. "It's not like I was just talking about this. This is work. We were discussing the play of the story. It's not even your business."

     I quietly protested that, as a human being, it was my business. That, because he had been involved in loud phone conversation -- his voice carrying around the newsroom -- he opened his words up to debate. It's a common occurence in an environment such as ours. It's the very reason we work in a huge, open-plan space.

     All the while, he muttered that I wasn't getting his point. He vacillated between stating the kids weren't doing what they did as a racist act and grumbling that I needed to mind my own business. As I noted earlier, this is out of character for him.

     I understood what he was trying to say, I told him, but I didn't agree. I told him that I thought his perspective -- as a WASP male -- made it easier for him to be dismissive about the symbolism the boys (or, let's face it, their parents) used to get their message across. I believed they had a right to protest the uniforms, I said. I just thought the images they used to do so were ill-chosen.

     The editor mumbled, again, that I was missing his point.

     I gave up and started blogging.

     About fifteen minutes later, he came up behind me, the once again even-tempered man, open to debate, I'd become accustomed to dealing with.

     "We can discuss that now," he said. "You know, now that we're not upset."

     "I was never upset," I told him. "You just weren't hearing me. I got your point. I just don't agree. You didn't even let me make mine."

     So, he let me explain.

     Using depictions of the Nazi Youth to protest school uniforms, I told him, diminished the sufferings of Holocaust survivors, their children and grandchildren, and, especially, the people who did not survive.

     We're talking about uniforms. There's no comparison, the two are so far apart on the scale of evil.

     The editor started nodding his head before I could get all of those words out.

     "You're right," he told me. "It does look like they're making it seem less... Yeah. I mean, I shouldn't have said I supported them '100%' But you understood my point. I didn't think about it that way."

     By now, though, I was upset.  It angered me that it took so few words to make him understand. That when he'd argued with me, he'd spoken loudly and aggressively -- enough unlike him to make others turn and stare, but now he was almost whispering. I suddenly recalled that he'd attacked me personally during our debate. It pissed me off that he hadn't given me a chance to finish speaking then. Part of it was pride -- delayed embarrassment. Childish, I know. But that wasn't all.

     All out of words, I swung back to face my desk.

     "It doesn't matter," I muttered.

     "Yeah it does," he said. "I mean we shouldn't... We need to be more careful about what we say."

     Then he rushed off to the morning meeting, while sat here thinking, He's right. It matters.

Ripped from the headlines/When politics rips families apart

      Every morning at work, I read a number of newspapers to make sure we didn't get beat on any worthwhile stories. Usually, I'm happy to note, we don't. I work for a great paper that does a great job covering New Jersey and, sometimes, beyond. Today, though, The New York Times ran a news feature we didn't have. In our defense, the story is unfolding outside of our official coverage area, and the competing N.J. newspaper that does cover the area missed it too, but neither is a real consolation.

      In truth, there's nothing smile about in a story about two brothers -- grandsons of Italian immigrants -- who aren't speaking to each other because they're on opposite ends of the immigration debate. It's impossible not to feel a little heart-heavy for the widowed mom who worked three jobs to support her husband died when they were teens.

      According to the Times, Steve Lonegan, mayor of Bogota, NJ, who became known for his campaign to make English the official language of his town and for fighting against a McDonald's billboard (we wrote that story), has become estranged from his younger brother, Bryan, who was until recently an immigration advocate who is developing a legal clinic at Seton Hall University School of Law for immigrant workers. The two, the Times reported, were once close enough that Bryan, after becoming disappointed with the Clinton administration, joined the Republican Party to oversee his brother's bid for mayor in 1995. Now, they can't even share a meal, the Times article said.

      Just before reading the article, I had words with my own sister. We didn't bear our teeth or swear never to speak to each other again, but, looking back, I was still a little jarred. Life is too short to waste time avoiding the people we love.

       But when the people you love are making decisions that affect the lives of others in ways you find untenable, how do you choose the right path? It's a lesson the Lonegan brothers are figuring out the painful way.

       Oh, and Shannon and I? We're okay. Even if we disagree.