Overt or implied, there's a chill in the air
- Mike Dewey: Life Lines
- May 4, 2024
- 245
In the four months since I returned to my hometown, I’ve been struck by the coarsening of discourse, politically and generally.
Maybe it’s because I’ve been away for so long, but I’m surprised.
It seems no one has any tolerance for a point of view that doesn’t align, at least partially, with theirs, and that’s new to me.
Let me admit at the outset I’ve been less inclined to enter pointed debates than I ever thought possible. Time was when I’d eagerly wade into the muck and mire of any controversial topic, but that’s no longer true; in fact, I tune out the noise and walk on.
What I’m still trying to understand is the seeming loss of good manners. The place where I grew up, back in the mists of a long-ago time, was a lot of things but never just out-and-out rude.
Forgive me if devote a few hundred words to how it used to be.
I remember being taught the importance of “please” and “thank you,” the proper way to address one’s elders as “sir” or “ma’am,” the correct use of “may” when asking permission to do something, never asking “can” I do such and such. I remember being polite.
Common courtesy extended into virtually every avenue of daily life, ranging from the way you answered the telephone — “Dewey residence, Mike speaking” — to the use of “Mr.” and “Mrs.” when you knocked at a friend’s door and one of his parents opened it.
And then there was my mother, who had one trigger when it came to her husband, and that was the use of the word “doctor.” God alone could help you if you called up looking for a Mr. Dewey.
“There’s no one here by that name,” she’d say icily, “unless you mean one of my sons, one of whom is 10 and the other who’s 7.”
Mom knew how hard Dad had worked to earn his doctorate in political science, largely because she typed his entire dissertation. This was in the Dark Ages of academic achievement when years and years of research and study had to be painstakingly transcribed, page by endless page, using a manual typewriter and carbon paper.
I can still see her sitting at the kitchen table, a baseball game playing on the radio atop the refrigerator, typing away as dinner simmered on the stove, multitasking before there was such a thing.
So if you wanted to talk to my father, you’d better call him “Dr. Dewey” or else you’d find yourself holding a dead receiver, hearing an angry dial tone that would drone on until you hung up.
The funny part — to me, anyway — was Dad didn’t really care, though I think he got a kick of being called “Doc” by my Little League coach, who trusted him to keep the score book in the dugout.
“OK, Doc,” he’d say. “Read the lineup and batting order, please.”
And even through we won two city championships in a row, we lost every now and then, and when that happened, it was important to stand in line and congratulate the opposing team’s players.
“Good game,” you’d say, shaking a kid’s hand. “Good game.”
It was just simple sportsmanship and not that hard to do, really.
In school teachers were “Sister” or “Mister,” the pastor was “Father,” and when the bishop visited, he was “Your Excellency.”
You stood straight as an altar boy, you remained standing next to your desk after reciting the Pledge of Allegiance until the teacher said, “Be seated,” and you understood the words, “Ladies first.”
Lest I leave the impression Catholic boys were saints, allow me to disabuse you of that notion forthwith and without hesitation.
We were not. I don’t want to go off on another tangent, so I’ll just say there was a reason we were required to go to Confession twice as often as the girls, or so it seemed to me at the time.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” you’d say. “It’s been a few days since my last Confession,” and off you’d go again, politely asking forgiveness before heading right out and failing once more.
Proper behavior had its place in public schools too, though with the relaxed dress code and a much larger student body, it was easy to fall into bad habits, most of which I’ve detailed over the years.
Perhaps the most memorable example of high school etiquette — aside from learning how to square dance in gym — was something called speech, a class I took as a senior, looking for an easy A.
It wasn’t easy at all. The centerpiece of the course was a formal debate, and the rules, we were taught, had their origin in antiquity and remained a vital part of democratic societies around the world.
A topic was chosen — “Resolved: Marijuana should be legalized” — and two teams of three students represented both sides of the argument, with a third acting as judges. It was all very structured, with rigid time limits enforced and informed discourse encouraged.
Interruptions were forbidden, and speakers had to wait for their turn.
Hmm, I think I might have just stumbled upon a way to help my little town in this time of heated polarization and general discord.
We’ll form a debate club, with no dress code. No need to thank me.
Mike Dewey can be reached at Carolinamiked@aol.com or 1317 Troy Road, Ashland, OH 44805. He invites you to find him on Facebook, where the issues of the day are sometimes resolved.