Social Media Clones

Upon attending a concert given by Olivia Rodrigo, I recalled an episode on the Twilight Zone, They All Look Like #12, that I had seen back in 1964. In his introduction, Rod Serling says let’s imagine the year is 2000.  We are now 22 years past that year projected by Mr. Serling but, I regret to say, ever closer to what was portrayed in the Twilight Zone in that episode.

The episode tells of how a young girl, Marilyn, aged 18, is being told by her mother that it is time for her to go through the transformation process in which she can look exactly like a model exemplified by the number 12 figure.  She is urged by her mother, Laura, and her friend, Valerie, to go through this transformation as they tell her: “What girl would not want to be beautiful.”  But Marilyn remembering the strong feeling she had for her father, who we later discover has committed suicide to avoid the decree of transformation, replies: “Being like everybody is the same as being nobody.” Toward the end of the episode, Marilyn says her father cared about her as a person and not what she looked like.  We see her futile attempt to escape with her being apprehended, placed on a bed, and the doctor telling her mother the procedure is done.  She gets up and sees that she looks beautiful but a clone of her friend Valerie, #12, at which point the viewer hears Rod Serling’s voice in the background: “Portrait of a young lady in love with herself….In an age of plastic surgery and body building and an infinity of cosmetics those and other strange blessings may be waiting in the future which after all is the twilight zone.”

There is little doubt in my mind that Olivia Rodrigo’s album, Sour, shows a unique brilliance with great potential for such a young woman.  However, as I pointed out in my earlier blog, her songs are all laced with a sadness (as reflected in the album title, Sour) where social relationships with young males have gone awry.  I believe much of the troubled feelings expressed by Rodrigo is reinforced by social media.  Thus, from the period between 2019-2021 suicidal attempts by female adolescents increased by 50% resulting in a much higher rate of hospitalizations for them than adolescent boys.  The pandemic may have contributed to this alarming statistic by causing the need to isolate that allowed a greater amount of time to be spent alone on social media.  Use of such platforms such as Instagram where teens, not only take photographs of themselves, but can dress up their features through a filtering process has only escalated this issue.  The intense rivalry for who has the most beautiful picture, through real or fake means, can be deleterious to young females who are often severely impacted by such comparisons at the tender age of teens.

Beauty, as an ideal that Serling spoke about in the Twilight Zone, necessitated a surgical procedure but in 2022 adolescent females have found a way to create their own beauty through social media.  Unfortunately, the arm of social media is almost infinite in length allowing friends and strangers to see posts and make either favorable or unfavorable comments, in real time, on these posts.  Jonathan Haidt, professor in psychology at New York University, has argued that 13-year-old adolescents are too young to have access to such social media and has suggested raising the minimum age to 16.  But even if the minimum age to allow teens access is 16, there still needs to be a way of enforcing this rule.  Such a procedure does not currently exist.

The need to fit in with its concomitant peer pressure always has been of supreme importance during adolescence.   This need has been intensified with the constant monitoring and comparing fostered by social media.  When the standard becomes how beautiful one appears to countless others, those that don’t meet it can suffer immeasurable harm.  This, I would maintain, is what has caused a precipitous increase in the incidence of suicidal attempts of female teens.

The Wrong Message

The other night, during dinner with a friend, David Alpern, we discussed my last blog:  Scorn in America, when he made an interesting observation. There had been a march in downtown Long Beach, California, where we both reside, with the goal of prompting the end of gun violence.  A woman at the march held up a sign saying the following:   How could any one (sic) be proud to live in a country that protects its guns over its citizens?

In a follow up letter to the editor to a local newspaper, David pointed out that this type of message will further alienate those that don’t think like us rather than attempting to bring these people to our way of reckoning things.  Granted it, this message was held by only one of the marchers in the rally, but I think it reflects the partisan climate that we all find ourselves in today.  The message implies that if you don’t agree with me on a much-debated subject, the right to own firearms, you can’t feel proud of what America represents.  This brings to mind the statement Hillary Clinton made in 2016 during her campaign against Donald Trump when she referred to the “deplorables” that don’t think like us.  What Mrs. Clinton appeared to have forgotten was that the deplorables she spoke of consisted of approximately half of the country.

If our goal is to change the present status of gun laws, then as Alpern mentions, our messages need to recruit not repel those that hold opposing views.  I have suggested to couples having difficulty seeing their partner’s differing perspectives on an issue that they employ the disarming technique.  When one of the partners is criticizing the other, rather than become defensive and go in the attack mode, I ask them to find some truth in the criticism.  This often has the effect of disarming or neutralizing the one doing the criticizing.  Underlying this method of communication is the fact that the person finding fault with you needs to be listened to rather than counter attacked.  It very often leads to more sane and rational communication between the two partners.

So, when discussing a point, and this especially holds true with our leaders in Washington D.C., we might look for either the strength or weakness in our position and go from there.  Now if it’s a question of something you absolutely think is wrong like the elections being rigged, as Trump and some of his followers do, then this technique probably will not be useful.  But most situations are not black and white where one person is perfectly right and the other is perfectly wrong.  That is to say the “truth” for one person may not be a factual truth but rather a strongly held viewpoint.

The pandemic and social media have rendered any kind of civil discourse difficult.  The anonymity intrinsic in much of social media allows people to hide and not face those whose opinions differ from them.  The pandemic has kept us isolated from others and has perhaps increased the amount of time people spent on the internet. This has resulted in an inordinate amount of confirmation bias, that is, reading only what reinforces one’s opinion.  Hopefully, if the worst of the pandemic is over, people will have the chance to interact with others in a more humane way than previously.  More face-to-face meetings with coworkers and others that think differently may at least transform the hostility we feel toward each other, stemming from labeling the other “bad,” into a less combative more useful conversation.  The aim in mind will be to expand our perspectives on controversial subjects rather than limit them.

Scorn In America

I recently read an op ed article in the New York Times titled:  American Has a Scorn Problem.  When I saw who wrote it, Tish Harrison Warner, a priest of the Anglican Church, and read the opening sentence taken from a parable in the Bible’s Book of Luke, I had a knee-jerk reaction.  My automatic thinking process was telling me that the essay I was about to read could be an effort to proselytize me due to the many street vendors and mailers I have received in the past that have this goal in mind.  But to my pleasant surprise the article made much sense to me.  It spoke of how Americans have adopted a polarizing and moralistic way of thinking that paints those who have contrary beliefs as inhumane and monstrous.  This view of the “other,” as not only wrong, but bad, eliminates the possibility of useful dialogue among those that disagree with one another.

The above essay reminded me of an interaction I had with a member of a movie group of which my wife and I belong.  When it was his turn to select a film, this person chose:  Blue Ruin.  He and I have had a history of disagreeing with one another.  For the sake of brevity, let me simply say that his views are quite a bit further toward the left than mine.

The plot line of the film, Blue Ruin, was one of revenge in which a man in his twenties has planned to avenge the murder of his parents by another family, whose leader, was being released from prison after spending some 10 years incarcerated.  This man goes on a ruthless murder spree killing several family members, responsible for the death of his parents, before he himself dies.  When I first reacted to the film, I felt little empathy with the protagonist. Furthermore, in general, I do not enjoy movies that glorify violence.  The individual, who had selected the film, knowing that I am a psychologist expressed his surprise that I did not empathize with the main character. I did not reply to his comment at the time he made it.

Later that evening, however, I pondered over why I did not share his empathy for a man whose parents had been slain when he was a teen-ager.  I realized more fully that though I may have felt empathy for the killer when his parents had been murdered, I could not feel this emotion toward a man ravaged with hatred.  Moreover, the film had portrayed his sister as having gotten over the family tragedy, having married and had a child.  I could not feel empathy, that is put myself in the shoes of a person who had become obsessed with revenge, at the expense of improving his life circumstances, resulting in a killing spree.  I carefully took the time to write a letter to this very same person more clearly elucidating my point described above.  I thought he may agree with me, but even if he did not, I was pretty sure I would get some response back indicating he had read my letter and respected my point of view.  To my surprise, I never received a reply from him.  When I next saw him to discuss another film with the others, I approached him telling him I was disappointed that he had never answered the letter I had taken the time to compose.  He said something to the effect that he hadn’t responded because it was clear we disagreed implying he didn’t want to be bothered with people that don’t hold the same opinion as he does on issues of debate.

Polarization occurs when each side refuses to even listen to or have a conversation with the other.  I began this essay by pointing out my gut reaction to an op ed article written by a priest.  But I wisely decided to read the article against an instinctive reaction that would have denied me of the opportunity of seeing an important point, expressed in a unique way.  Here I allowed myself to see a perspective on the polarization occurring in America from a minister’s eyes.  Insofar as my colleague in the movie group refused to dialogue with me, any conversation and relationship I might have had with him was never allowed to begin.  Of course, the example of the two of us moviegoers not being able to start a meaningful dialogue is a microcosm of what is going on in much of America.  If we are only willing to accommodate those that think like us, we will be limiting our perspective and may be locked into a groupthink.  To avoid the groupthink mentality, we need allow ourselves to hear what others have to say and avoid the knee-jerk reaction of he/she is wrong and bad.  This more positive attitude will hopefully lead to a more meaningful dialogue where people can listen, with respect, to another’s viewpoint without necessarily agreeing with it.

An Evening with the Teeny Boppers

Last week, during our visit to Santa Barbara to celebrate our respective birthdays, my wife, Lisa, and I learned that Olivia Rodrigo, a young pop music star, would be performing at the Santa Barbara Bowl.  About a year earlier, I had read a complimentary piece in the New York Times discussing the song album, Sour, that Ms. Rodrigo had recently released.  The article had piqued my interest.  Needless to say, however, my attempts to buy tickets online or by phone were futile.  Because it was not too far from where we were staying, we went to the box office at the Santa Barbara Bowl and were told there were no tickets available for the concert.

Given what I had told Lisa about Olivia and our curiosity at going to an event at the Santa Barbara Bowl, we decided to go before the show began last Saturday evening.  We found ourselves at the back of the line that was growing in size waiting to see if there were extra tickets available at the last moment.  We were surrounded by teeny boppers, practically entirely female.  Inasmuch as the likelihood of gaining admission to the show did not look good, we agreed that I would roam around and see if anyone might have extra tickets to sell.  

As it was evident, that no one approaching the Bowl had extra tickets, I asked one of the parking attendants, if anyone had spoken of having a few spare tickets.  Sure enough, he led me to a woman who had two tickets she needed to sell.  She told me that she had bought them months ago for her granddaughter who could not go because she was studying for her final exams.  She wanted $500 for the two tickets.  To me that seemed high for, at most, an hour of entertainment as the opening act was already in progress.  She refused to come down in price saying that she had paid $1000 online for them months ago and wanted to only lose half of her purchase price.  My wife confirmed my uneasiness at paying so much for a concert whereupon I declined the woman’s offer.

As the evening progressed, we were in the middle of the line with still quite a number of people (i.e. teenage girls) in front of us.  We had arrived at about 7 p.m. with the show starting at 7:30 and Olivia Rodrigo to come on at 8:40. By now it was about 8:15, and with no hope in sight, I suggested to Lisa, we call it quits and go for a drink. Not one to give up when she had a goal to reach, in this case what looked like the impossible, she remained on line with the teeny boppers.  Suddenly, out of the blue appeared two men, one somewhere in his fifties, the other about 20 years younger.  The older gentleman walked up to the line of us waiting and said he had 19 extra tickets mentioning a price of $150.  When one of the younger girls said that was too much he said fine I’ll take a $100 per ticket.  I heard murmurs of “he must be scamming us.”  But at this point knowing we had nothing to lose Lisa and I followed them with a few other girls and then, spontaneously, many other girls broke from the line and went with us.

We reached the turnstile where one of the attendants asked Lisa and I for proof of vaccination and upon showing it to him let us through.  Although we had been admitted, neither of us actually had the tickets in hand so we waited for all to go through the turnstile.  Then, our sugar daddies, introduced themselves as James, the older of the two, and Michael.  Because we only had a few minutes to get to our seats, they gave us their phone numbers; James told us we were on the honor’s system and we could pay them the next day.  James made sure we would not be sitting on the ground when he gave the two of us the tickets.  A trolley was parked waiting to take us up the ramp toward our seats in the nick of time.  Lisa and I, amidst a packed crowd of young teenagers, the majority by far being girls.  We located our seats about three or four minutes before Rodrigo came on.

It had been years since I had attended anything remotely similar to this type of event. I made two quick discoveries: 1) The teeny boppers that were there knew all the words and were singing with Ms. Rodrigo and 2) Practically everyone at the Bowl was standing the entire one hour of her performance.  Fortunately, the two girls in front of me stood far enough apart, as they sang, allowing me to see Olivia from a sitting position.  Although I had difficulty at first understanding the lyrics, I was able to adjust to the surrounding noise and tune in to the words sung by Ms. Rodrigo.  The contents of these songs followed the theme of young love, turned sour, Sour, being the title of her album.

The songs capture the pain of her being left for someone else. But it also points to her wanting so badly to be accepted that she does what she believes her partner wants. In the song, Enough for You, Olivia writes:

I wore makeup when we dated

‘Cause I thought you’d like me more

if I looked like the other prom queens

But later in the same song, she declares:

I don’t want your sympathy

I just want myself back

These lines express quite accurately the conflict that adolescents have in trying to impress others without forgetting who they really are.  Perhaps before taking on identities to please others, it is best to look ourselves in the mirror and ask the very complicated question of:  Who We Are?  Complicated because adolescence represents a stage of development where each new experience offers a different meaning, a different way of seeing those in our world.  It is a period that has been referred to from the German:  Sturm and Drang (Storm and Stress).  Rodrigo’s songs speak to the vicissitudes of the emotions that ring true for so many adolescents today.  Moreover, the peaks and valleys of adolescence are further magnified by the ubiquitous nature of social media, so much a part of teen-age culture.  Regardless, to the fans that resonate with Rodrigo’s songs, she is more than a prom queen.

Let me conclude this blog on a positive note.  The next day I called up Mark and paid him the money I owed.  Expecting to be one of the few that paid on the “honors system,” he surprised me by telling me of the 19 people only two had yet to pay.  He also told me that both James and he had received texts thanking them so much and comparing them to Santa Claus.

The Muhammad Ali Syndrome

  

Years ago, my major advisor from graduate school, Arnold Lazarus, published an essay about retirement.  In the article, he was comparing the plight of the renowned Albert Ellis, who at the time was in his ‘90’s, to Muhammad Ali.  Although he had his wits, Ellis was almost deaf, and what he had been known for in his early days, his use of four-letter words to shock his clients into changing, had become excessive, and no longer funny nor charming. 

The case of Muhammad Ali, a figure familiar to the world, is a perfect illustration of an individual who refused to retire from the brutal sport of boxing.  Recently, I saw the Ken Burns series that neatly captured the life of Muhammad Ali.  Although Ali was perhaps one of the greatest heavyweights of all time, the highlights from some of his fights showed the many punches he absorbed in winning his matches.  Many of his family and friends wanted him to retire but he wouldn’t listen to them.  If he had a glass jaw and was easy to knock out, he probably would not have wound up with the brain damage that he suffered from in the boxing ring.  After Ali knocked out the young, favorite George Foreman in the 8th round in Zaire, most observers thought Ali should have left the fighting game.  But he refused to quit. 

Ali went on to fight Joe Frazier a third time, in what he called the Thrilla in Manila, and he won by technical knock out after the 14th round.  It was a savage battle in which both fighters threw some heavy-duty punches.  Though, Ali continued to fight after that bout with Frazier, friends noticed that his mental processes had slowed.  Ironically, when the world had come to regard Ali with admiration, he lost the ability to talk aloud. After finally leaving the boxing arena, Ali admitted that Father Time had caught up with him.

In 2004, Lisa and I went on a Red Sox—Oriole Cruise where we had the pleasure of meeting Earl Weaver, the former manager of the Baltimore Orioles.  I asked Mr. Weaver what was the most difficult aspect of managing a major league baseball team.  He told me the hardest part of managing was benching a former star who no longer possessed the skills he had had earlier.  He named Brooks Robinson, the famed Oriole third baseman, as an example.

Because they don’t have to play their position but only have to bat, the designated hitter has allowed older sluggers, that may have retired earlier, to play more years.  An exception to the tendency for athletes to stay in the game too long, David Ortiz (aka Big Papi) could still hit the ball without showing the concomitant signs of aging.  The Red Sox would have signed him in 2017 but he did not want to return even though he had put up good numbers the previous year.  The constant physical conditioning had taken its toll on him as he stated to reporters: “I was done man. I ran out of gas.” He knew the Red Sox wanted him back and would pay him a hefty salary but it was no longer worth it to him.  Good for you, Big Papi!

I plan on working until my 80th birthday.  People ask why I am still working.  First, I am only working two days a week to avoid burn-out.  But also, because I very much like seeing people, and as a psychologist, enjoy helping them problem solve issues related to the difficulties brought on by life circumstances. Moreover, at this point in my career, I have the luxury of selecting clients I can work with and believe I can help.  When I first started out in my profession, I did not have that luxury.

I recently read an article in the New York Times about some of the problems Diane Feinstein, the Democratic Senator from California, is having with recent memory.  She is currently 88 years old.  The newspaper account indicated she is firmly holding on to her position because she is of the belief that she still has the capacity to serve in the fullest.  Though some of her democratic colleagues have defended her, many others question her ability to function in the manner she has in the past.

Without a doubt, quitting can be especially hard for those with prominent careers and the desire to continue to contribute in their fields of interest.  Long ago, my father, who never retired, and did have his “marbles” to the end of his life, told me: “When you leave, you are out of the game and no one cares about you.”  For some of us, leaving the game might be too hard to bear. Others might not know what to do after they retire. I have seen a number of clients that have this problem.  I have assisted some of these clients in finding alternative ways of spending their time such as volunteering or mentoring younger people in sharing whatever set of skills they may offer.  I have a colleague who has maintained regular support and guidance with his grandchildren, an exercise that has provided him with much satisfaction.  Lisa, my wife, has just transferred her enthusiasm and organizational skills in her career to volunteering with an advocacy organization. The key point to recognize is that retirement need not be the end of one’s road but the beginning of another journey where purpose and meaning still can be found. 

    Those Were the Joys

The last word, Rosebud, uttered by Citizen Kane, in the wonderful movie of the same name, before he dies, very much reminds me of my earlier years growing up (Spoiler Alert).  Reporters investigate the meaning of that last word that remains a mystery until the famous last scene when a sled, used by Kane as a child is tossed into the fire with the word Rosebud seen with the flames enclosing it.

I remember it well:  We all wanted it to snow with the hope that those l in charge of the city would close the schools.  I grew up in a blue-collar factory city, home of Singers Sewing Machines, in Elizabeth, New Jersey.  Because the leaders that made such decisions were hesitant to shut down the factories, light snows were not enough to close the schools inasmuch as children then might not have a parent to take care of them.   You needed a snow storm that would paralyze the city, temporarily, rendering driving virtually impossible. One reason I relocated to Southern California was my distaste and discomfort for cold weather.  But if it snowed, I, like most kids, was impervious to the cold.  To us kids, snow was like manna from heaven.  Lots of snow meant a day off from school but it also meant you could do all sorts of things that were out of the ordinary such as make snowmen, have snowball fights and go sleigh riding.

In Elizabeth, there were two streets that would be closed off to the traffic that offered both a good slope and pitch for us kids to go down:  Keats Avenue and Wyoming Avenue.  I had the good fortune to live near enough to both of those streets to be able to tote my sled on foot to either one.  Of the two, I preferred Keats Avenue.  Although it was a shorter ride down than Wyoming, Keats had a hill much steeper allowing one to gain a much faster speed than what was afforded by the less steep gradient of Wyoming.  Thus, my sleigh ride stomping grounds was pretty much Keats, and if I wanted a change of pace, I would walk over to Wyoming.

 At the top of Keats Avenue, Esther Stavis, the mother of George, a classmate of mine, would offer all of us a hot chocolate.  It was a warm and welcoming respite fortifying us from the cold.  I don’t remember any bullying or rough housing or the need to compete on how fast one could go down the hill.  Insofar as there were so few snow days off from school, there simply was no room for that sort of behavior.  We all were out to have a good time and celebrate the fact that there was no school that day. 

 Amazingly, I only have one negative memory about a School Free Snow Day.  I  remember, on one occasion, how distraught I felt in losing three dollars when I had gotten to the base of the hill after a great ride down.  This seems like a small amount of cash nowadays, but given inflation, over a long period of time, that three dollars had a current value of about $33. I had just earned that money from shoveling, and had stashed it away in one of my deepest pockets. But now it was gone.  When I walked up to the top of Keats, saddened by my recent lost, two kids, with big grins on their faces, one of whom I knew fairly well, told me they had recovered three dollars in the snow. When I told them that I had just lost the same amount, they appeared crestfallen and did not want to believe me.  Because I did not have the reputation of being a liar, they reluctantly returned my money.  I thanked them copiously letting out a sigh of relief.  So even this situation that started off being negative had a positive ending!

There were no virtual realities to distract us from the touch and feel of the snow. Our parents knew where we were going and, if anything, encouraged us to go. We didn’t have cell phones to check in with mom or dad or fiddle with in the snow. We were in an age before the helicopter parents. Contacting friends with a cell phone or texting messages would have killed the spontaneity of play that a heavy snowfall would bring. We might be required to shovel the yard and the front before any snow plowing had come our way.  We were motivated, and so, we did it as fast as we could without much regard to its appearance. Once we were done with the requested shoveling, we were on our way.

Yes, it gives me much joy in recollecting those days. Those were pristine days where we were free of the complications and vagaries of life that we would have to face later in our lives.  They lasted for a brief span of time when we were in elementary school.  If I recall correctly, by the time we entered junior high school, there were other more interesting and challenging ways we would spend our time.  But sleigh riding was a joy of childhood that we lucky kids that owned sleds could experience even in the freezing cold.  It was a time of innocence that remains, to this day for me, unforgettable.  It was that innocence, that Citizen Kane remembered and cherished, evidenced by his last word:  Rosebud.

Categories
Baseball

Baseball Tickets

After all the bad news that we have been inundated with in the last few weeks, let me offer to you all a positive moment that I recently experienced.  My brother, Andrew, and I had just arrived at Tropicana Field in St. Petersburg, Florida to see the Tampa Bay Rays play the Boston Red Sox.  We arrived, or so we thought, in the nick of time to make it to the first pitch.  Most of my readers know that I am a diehard Red Sox fan so I was excited to be able to once more see a game live and not on TV or streamed. 

Upon reaching the ball park, however, I was in for a surprise.  I was intercepted by one of the ball park attendants, who told me I needed to scan a bar code on my phone.  Before I could react, he pointed to a bar code on what appeared to be a poster. There I saw another guy who appeared as confused as I with his grandson, who was about 10 years old, who immediately offered me help in scanning the bar code onto my phone.  Because I was with my brother, who is even more of a luddite than I am, I kidded the boy’s grandfather telling him he was cheating in bringing along his grandson.

Once I had scanned the bar code into my phone with my camera, I had no idea what to do.  As it became evident that the attendant could not help me any further, a woman that identified herself as Karen Jones,  told me she could assist me. When the fellow with his grandson gave a gesture of thanks to her, I assumed she was in the know as I continued in my quest to conquer this increasingly complicated act of purchasing tickets to gain entrance to the stadium.

Ms. Jones quickly located the MLB account on my phone.  I gave her the passcode I had set some years ago but it did not accept it.  I then watched her attempt to gain entry into the website at which point I blurted out “that they really don’t want to take our money.”  She assured me that that was not the case.  As she continued to fiddle with my phone, I asked what would happen if you didn’t have a phone.  She said you would not be able to gain admission to the game.  At which point, I sighed in disgust not being able to contain my utter frustration with this seemingly endless process.  Seeing my bemused expression, she glanced at me for a moment and said: “You know Bernard I like you.  I’m going to give you and your brother two tickets to the game on me.”  Awed by her sudden friendliness and recognition of my helpless situation, I told her I did not want them if she had to pay for them.  She assured me that she did not as she was the Manager of Ticket Operations.  When she asked me where I wanted to sit, I wasn’t shy in telling her as close to home plate as she could get us with an aisle seat preferred.

Although the ticket agent at the window could not find aisle seats, she finally located two very good seats.  Moreover, Ms. Jones set a new password to my MLB App that I now would be able to navigate on my own.  I heartily thanked her and waved to my brother. As we hustled to our seats, I was surprised, not only to find I was seated a few rows behind home plate, but also that one of the seats was on the aisle.

I later discovered that there had been many scammers when people presented printed tickets bought online causing the MLB to stop accepting tickets in that format.  When I called MLB’s 800 line, the woman who took my call did not know why Tropicana Field only accepted tickets bought from one’s phone.  However, she did say Angel Stadium in Anaheim, California, near where I lived, allowed ticket purchases at the stadium ticket window of any tickets not sold online.  Though I was armed with my new password on MLB, I signed in relief that there remained option B, to buy tickets at a stadium nearby where I resided.

A World Lost In One Hour                                         

 As we approach the observance and celebration of both Passover and Easter this week-end, I wish to point out a passage from the Talmud, about which Rabbi Ilana Grinblatt spoke with such eloquence at our Temple last Saturday.  The Talmud is the body of Jewish civil, ceremonious law and legend that offers various interpretations and perspectives of the Bible.   Rabbi Grinblatt’s reference to the Talmud was the following: 

          There are some who acquire their world in an hour and others

          who lose it in an hour.

The origin of this saying, more than likely, comes from the time when God commands Moses to strike a rock with a rod that would bring water to his fellow Israelites.  Moses fails to contain his temper toward the Israelites in calling them rebels.  God then angrily tells Moses that he will no longer be permitted to take his people to the Promised Land.  Maimonides, a renowned Jewish scholar, speaks of the importance of being able to control one’s emotions.  His interpretation of this Biblical event is that God punished Moses for the moment, when he loses his patience with his People, defying the trust he had toward God in bringing forth water to them.

Rabbi Grinblatt cited Will Smith as a contemporary example of one who has lost his world in “one hour”.  “One hour,” of course, is a metaphor representing how quickly one can go from the pinnacle to the nadir in one’s life.  In reality, Will Smith’s slapping of Chris Rock was done in a matter of seconds with his ensuing expletives directed at the comedian moments later.  This slap portrayed over and over by the news media quicky took on a persona of its own in being framed: “The slap heard around the world.”

In biblical times, shameful actions may have gone unnoticed.  However, today we live in a time in which social media scrutinizes our actions ad nauseum.  Whereas opinions and interpretations of the Bible took hundreds of years to form, social media devours us all in opinions within minutes, hours and days after an untoward event such as the Will Smith occurrence.  The ubiquitous nature of social media is not necessarily a bad thing if one considers the case of Derek Chauvin, the police office who killed George Floyd.  Certainly, Mr. Chauvin falls in the category of a man who lost his world in one hour in that, for whatever reason, he lost complete control of his emotions.

However, social media can become deleterious to diverse ideas when it suppresses those thoughts that may differ from the majority.  Disagreement and dissent are the healthy barometers of a free society.  They do no require the bearing of arms.  But this is where the ability to have control of one’s thoughts and feelings is vital.  I was once derided by a comedian when I arrived a bit late for his show with a friend.  Perhaps he was angry at us due to our late arrival.  I understood, implicitly, that no matter what I could say would have been ridiculed simply because comedians are most skilled at riposte and any type of verbal dueling.  So, I chose not to engage in verbal warfare with him.

Likewise, Will Smith, though a great actor, is not a comedian.  Any verbal exchange he might have had with Chris Rock, a comedian, could not have gone well.  His best reaction would have been to grin and bear the comedian’s rather crude joke about his wife’s buzz cut, and respond to him the next day in a letter, statement or call telling the latter that his joke about his wife’s physical condition he found both offensive and inappropriate.  This would have shown restraint on Will Smith’s part but also assertiveness in expressing his feelings, subsequently, when his temper had cooled.

The sad consequence of Will Smith’s actions buries the many good deeds that he has done in the past.  An example of this is the fact that he has been barred from attending any Oscar’s event (even if he is a nominee) for the next 10 years.  Judaism and Christianity both believe in the concept of repentance and forgiveness.  My hope is that the remorse Will Smith has shown for slapping Chris Rock, in conjunction with his own subsequent achievements, will allow him to regain his former place in and out of the Hollywood circle. 

Humor’s Dark Side

Comedy hit a low spot at the Academy Awards when Chris Rock’s lame joke about the buzz hair style of Will Smith’s wife, Jada Pinkett Smith, caused by her embarrassment in suffering from the stressful condition of alopecia (loss of hair).  Most of us believe Will Smith overreacted to Rock’s attempt at humor (not only was the joke an insult but also, not in the least, funny) by walking up to the stage and slapping the comedian in the face.  Given the current state of race relations in the United States, one can only imagine what would have happened if a white actor had been the one to have struck Chris Rock:  I’m quite sure bedlam would have ensued.

Although this is not a good example, nevertheless, the fact that a Black comedian can joke about a member of his own race, if nothing else, represents an advance of sorts in race relations.  When Black comedians began to hit the stage, there was an unspoken taboo to make fun or belittle other Blacks.  Much of the humor was situational and non-racial (e.g. Bill Cosby) or about past transgressions of whites such as the vile practice of lynching Blacks (that action recently banned by the government).  This type of humor, indeed funny at times, like much of its kind, had an angry undertone to it.  Audiences would sit and, as members of the white race, would grin and bear it and laugh either because the joke was genuinely funny or because they were expected to laugh.  The late Jewish comedian, Jackie Mason, made sure when he indulged in ethnic humor, he would roast all ethnic groups rather than picking on any particular one.

The recent court case of Jussie Smollet, a gay Black actor who was convicted of staging a false hate crime, has taken a number of twists.   His story of being attacked at 2:00 a.m. in the morning in Chicago by two men that yelled racist, antigay and pro-Trump slogans, splashed him with bleach and put a rope around his neck, appeared extraordinary.  Many of Chicago’s leaders, reflexively, came to his defense supporting his narrative, thereby exacerbating existing racial tensions.  Mr. Smollett’s lack of credibility became clear when the men, two brothers, that had purportedly mugged Mr. Smollett, confessed to the police that the actor had hired them for $3500 to commit the fake attack. Mr. Smollett was initially charged with 16 counts of disorderly conduct, but these charges were dismissed by Cook County Prosecutor, Kim Foxx, after the actor agreed to surrender his $10,000 bond and serve two days of community service.

This ridiculously light sentence for an offender, who had caused utter chaos in the Chicago Police Department and potential civil unrest, was reviewed by a special prosecutor, Mr. Webb.  Because he found some irregularities in the way Ms. Foxx handled the case, a trial took place.  Subsequently, Mr. Smollett was found guilty of five counts of disorderly conduct, a felony, for reporting a false hate crime to police.  Although the maximum for each count would have been 5 years, his lawyers pleaded that he receive no jail time.  His attorneys made the point that this act was the defendant’s first criminal offense. However, the Cook County Judge, James Linn, upset with the evident perjury he committed, in conjunction with his complete lack of remorse, sentenced Mr. Smollett to 150 days.  The actor left the court screaming “I am not suicidal and I am innocent.”

But Mr. Smollett’s attorneys then brought the case to the Appeals Circuit.  Two of out of the three judges on the appellate panel agreed that the actor’s offense was non-violent in nature, and he was released from jail, after six days, and posted a $150,000 recognizance bond.  The actor’s attorneys sought the release of Mr. Smollett due to the fact that the review process ordinarily would take much longer than the 5 months sentence he had received.  Although the press and most Blacks initially sided with Mr. Smollett, after the facts became fully known, many remained conspicuously silent.  Chicago Police Superintendent, Eddie Johnson, took exception to this stance of other Blacks by pointing out at a news conference how an Afro-American man had exploited racial divisions for his own gain.

David Chapelle, a Black comedian, like Chris Rock, in the manner of Jackie Mason, has targeted different ethnic groups, his own included. In a recent gig, Chapelle remarked about Jussie Smollet’s strange behavior.  He stated: “African-Americans are oddly quiet because we understand that nigger was clearly lying.”  He went on to say that the racial slurs that Smollett had cited “sounded more like something I would say.” 

I believe that cracks, such as Chapelle’s, made in the context of a comedic performance take a certain amount of boldness.  As Blacks gain more agency in the United States, jokes of this nature, once considered taboo among Blacks, will add another layer of Black humor.  In essence, one joke in bad taste made by Chris Rock, and one very timely one made by David Chapelle, point to further progress in race relations.

Zelenskyy and Babi Yar

The heroism displayed by Mr, Zelenksyy, the Ukrainian President in the war against Mr. Putin’s Russia, reminds me of a situation that I confronted as a teen-ager.  While working at a summer job, I had been bullied by two older teens for no real reason except perhaps it had given them something to do while not working.  Although not harmful, their obnoxious behavior, such as spraying me with water, I found extremely humiliating.  I may have reinforced their ugly conduct by not responding to it with the wish that, somehow magically, it would cease.  Another guy that had little to do with them told me in the past they had done similar things to him but he would respond to them in kind and suggested I do the same.  My desire to appease, rather than risk what I thought might make things worse, steered me away from his advice.  Besides, I reasoned because he was a lot bigger than I and as big if not bigger than the others, that his reaction may have dissuaded them.  I thought if I put on a smile and greeted them with as much kindness as I could offer, this might cause them to treat me better.  But as you already might have surmised, whatever good cheer I may have sent their way had no effect in mitigating their actions.

It only got worse. Toward the end of one day, I noticed that the more obnoxious of the two bullies was looking at me along with some others as I took my lunch pail from the truck where I worked.  Because water was leaking out of it, I immediately understood why they were staring at me.  At this moment, I was irate and what ensued, happened very quickly.  Without contemplating the consequences, I hurled the water from the container at my agitator with some of it hitting him.  My action took everybody by surprise.  As he angrily dried off, a fellow that knew us both beckoned to me, unfurled a hose in the main station, where we would clock out at the end of the day, just in time as my nemesis entered the room.  Taking the hose from the other’s hand I aimed it directly at my assailant–while he ran toward me–drenching him.  We bear hugged for a moment, and then some of the full-time employees broke up the fight.  The staff in charge of our assignments placed us on different teams, and I never was picked on or harassed after that occurrence.

What I learned from this incident was that I had received the support of others only after I was willing to stand up for myself.  The remarkable and heroic gestures of Mr. Zelenskyy, the Jewish leader of the Ukraine, in summoning his people to resist the Russian attack on his country, has unified the West in assisting the Ukrainians in their struggle.  Similar to what had happened to me, I don’t think the world would have acted in the manner they did if the Ukrainians had given in to Putin’s forces without fighting back.  Mr. Zelenskyy has shown extraordinary courage and skill in remaining on the scene while rallying his troops.  Moreover, he has utilized technology to show the world how the Russians are bombing civilian sites such as hospitals and buildings.  These pictures send a message to the world of the ruthless and immoral actions of the Russian soldiers.

Putin’s call to his army to de-Nazify the Ukraine, as absurd as it is, brings up memories of Babi Yar, a ravine in Zelenskyy’s Kyiv where Jewish people suffered one of the worst massacres at the hands of the Nazis.  Before he seized power in 1933, Hitler believed the Jews operating from Moscow were responsible for the spread of a communist conspiracy that threatened the existence of Germany.  These were the underlying reasons why he invaded Russia in 1941, after signing the non-aggression pact with Stalin in 1939, and, subsequently, systematically oversaw the murder of 6 million Jews.  Stalin, in fact, was said to be in disbelief when Hitler attacked his country.  In Babi Yar, 33,771 Jews were killed in two days, September 29th to the 30th in 1941. 

Twenty years later the Russian poet, Yevtushenko, memorialized this spot in his poem Babi Yar.  In this famous poem, his concluding lines were the following:

                   There is no Jewish blood that’s blood of mine,

                   But, hated I a passion that’s corrosive

                   Am I by antisemites like a Jew

                   And that is why I call myself a Russian.

What the poet is saying is that although he is not Jewish by birth, he can only call himself a Russian if he is recognized as a Jew.  His poem conveys the need of the Russian people to drop any past hostilities (e.g. pogroms) toward Jews before they truly can call themselves Russian.

The idea behind these words, though beautiful, we know never came to fruition. Throughout his reign, Stalin believed, like Hitler, there was a Jewish conspiracy that stemmed from the “The Protocols of the Elders of Zion” a fabricated antisemitic text, first published in Russia in 1903.  It described a Jewish plan for global domination and was translated into many languages.  Later, according to the historian, Robert Wistrich, in place of the myth of Jewish Bolshevism, the Soviet Communists created the equally untruthful thesis of Jewish Nazism.  Mr. Putin, a commander in the former KGB, I am sure heard this.  Russian Jews that I have met all have told me how glad they were to emigrate to America.  I’m afraid the hope expressed by Yevtushenko is far removed from the reality of past and present-day Russia.

Let us hope and pray that Mr. Zelenskyy and the Ukraine somehow will prevail.  Many Russian soldiers have little idea what they are fighting about.  Ukrainians know only too well what this war is about:  Freedom and possession of their homeland.