Cloudy with a chance of lost perspective.

Well, hello again.  It seems I may actually blog on days that aren't major holidays, too.  Today's topic is the oldest question in the world: which came first, the chicken or the egg?

Okay, fine, I'm not really interested in chickens or eggs.  I'm interested in people.  Sometimes, when someone behaves in some way in a social situation, it sticks in your mind, because you would never do it.  You would never even think to do it, either because you'd be afraid to, or because it's just rude, or immature, or some other negative brush with which you'd never want to be painted.  This colors your impression of the person who did do it, as if it were a natural thing to do.  Maybe not forever, but at least for a while, until you get to know him/her better...if you get to know him/her better.  You might not.  You might be too repulsed, or unnerved, or intimidated to take such initiative.

But when you stop to think about it, do you refuse to do this thing because you think it's rude, or do you think it's rude because you refuse to do it?  Which came first, the etiquette rule or your adherence to it?

For me, one example would be making fun of someone I've either just met, or maybe met a few times, but never outside of a group setting (that's to say, we have never done any one-to-one bonding), even lightly.  Okay, fine, I might do this unconsciously, because I am pretty terrible in social situations, and feel guilty afterward.  But I do my best not to ever be the first to point a finger, even for just a gentle poke.  To me, making fun of someone is either mean, or, if not really all that mean, still taking a liberty that may be unearned.  If I find myself being teased or insulted by someone I don't know very well, I remember it, and not fondly.

Obviously, we all say stupid things from time to time, and we've probably all got a secret or not-so-secret love of something embarrassing by which we'd rather not be judged.  If I say or do something stupid, I don't mind--indeed, I expect--a dose of mockery from people who are already established friends.  Why?  Because they know I'm not actually stupid.  Simply put, they understand the context.  If I say or do something stupid, and someone with whom I've exchanged maybe ten words total jumps at the chance to show off his/her creative put-downs, I'll remember that...and while I won't say anything in the moment, I'll be quietly seething.  To me, that isn't gentle ribbing.  It's regulation insults, with prejudice.  So, to me, this is very rude.

But would others agree?  I have seen others give and receive this treatment without batting an eye.  Considering that I have, as mentioned, fairly terrible social skills, and I was bullied a lot as a child, could it be that I am just especially sensitive to being teased, or being made to feel like I don't fit in and never will?  I mean, I will readily admit that I am sensitive to these things.  I don't like watching movies where the awkward character is punished horribly for his/her terrible crime of being awkward.  It makes me angry.  Every time I make a social mistake, even just as the result of a perfectly human ditz moment, I kick myself for it all the way home.  Having someone who doesn't know me, and therefore might not be joking, hold me up as an acceptable target for public ridicule in response is like ripping a band-aid off.  Must we really be harsh with people who haven't had the chance to show their real selves?  Must we decide so immediately that not only are they dumb, they deserve to be mocked for it?  Even if they are dumb, do they deserve to be mocked?  Can't we save our savage snark for people who are actually hurting us, or at the very least, for friends who know we're kidding, we love them, and we're sorry, but it was just hilarious?  How many of these questions would occur to people who did not go through what I did?

I have a habit of, when annoyed or upset, telling the story of what happened to a third party, partly just because I need a sympathetic ear, but partly out of a desire for some perspective.  Would you be peeved, Third Party, if this had happened to you?  Am I, in all my still-thinking-about-this-when-I-shouldn't-be shame, sitting pretty on top of Objectively Justified Mountain, or am I just digging my grudge-weighted heels into Only You Would Care Molehill?  Did this person really break a hard-and-fast rule, or was I just hurt by his/her words because of who I am and where I've been?  Should I take the silence of others as an indicator that I'm overreacting, or just as an indicator that nobody wants to ruin the evening by putting on his/her "Stop having fun, guys!" hat?

I'm less interested in answering the question, I suppose, than I am in hearing other examples.  What sticks in your craw, readers, that may say as much about your craw as it does about its source?

Our flag was still there.

First and foremost, happy Fourth of July, fellow Americans! Now, just for a minute, put down the watermelon and illegal fireworks, and imagine that you are at war. Not in the Middle East, but on your own soil. Or rather, on what you hope is your own soil. At the moment, you're behind enemy lines, forced to watch helplessly as an American city is bombarded throughout the night. Then, at dawn, to your amazement, you see it: an American flag. The land you're looking at is still your country.

As I'm sure you've figured out by now, the above scenario places you in the position of Francis Scott Key, the lawyer and poet whose attempt to negotiate a prisoner exchange with the British during the War of 1812 was interrupted by their bombardment of Baltimore, which he witnessed from a British ship. The sight of an American flag still waving across the water inspired him to write "Defense of Fort McHenry," which, when set to music, became "The Star-Spangled Banner."

"And the rockets' red glare," Key wrote, "the bombs bursting in air, gave proof through the night that our flag was still there." We all know these lines, but can you imagine how Key must have felt? Can you imagine, as citizens of what is now the world's only superpower, the profound relief that spurred him to write those words? He concludes the first verse in wonder: "O say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave o'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?" Many, if not most, present-day singers treat those lines as a triumphant declaration, but they actually form a question. Can it be true? Can Fort McHenry really have survived that? Though the poem becomes more confident as it goes on, ending with a borderline jingoistic fourth verse, it begins with disbelief.

Can you imagine that disbelief?

The last war to be fought on American soil was the American Civil War. As a nation, we've had almost 150 years to forget the experience of playing host to those horrors. Since surviving it, we've risen to world hegemony. History textbooks encourage us to remember World War II and the Cold War as great American victories, won by might and right.

That view doesn't go over well outside the United States, nor should it. The Cold War was quite hot for unfortunate proxies in the Third World, and Europeans see nothing in the memory of World War II to celebrate. The full military and civilian death toll was well over 60 million worldwide, and survivors were left with the harsh lesson that the continent had to learn to be at peace, or else. (Also, for what it's worth, Winston Churchill's assessment of the American contribution was that he didn't know if his country would have survived without it or not, but he did know that the UK would not have survived without the Soviets.)

So this Independence Day, as "The Star-Spangled Banner" rings in your ears, take a moment to think of Francis Scott Key. Today, Americans don't have to wonder if our flag is still there, but for others, it is not such a distant memory.