The Debate: Arguing Semantics

There are two kinds of people: those who think words matter, and those who don't. If you guessed that this blogger/grammar nerd believes in the power of words, you'd be right. Let's start with a disclaimer: I'm not really interested in having a political debate here. If you know me at all or read on, you'll probably be able to predict my vote today (please vote), but I'm not looking to stand on a political soap box or to incite a comment war—there are plenty of people doing that already.

While watching the debates this year, I also followed along on Twitter—at once an enlightening, inspiring, disheartening, and exhilarating experience. Among my favorite debate twitter feeds came Dictonary.com, which posted about the trending word lookups during the debate. (Bestill my beating heart, people were looking up words in the dictionary! So proud.) Here's a sample (click the image to read more):

So, let's start with the word debate. There are many definitions, the two most common being:

(noun) a discussion in which people or groups state different opinions about a subject.
(verb) to argue about (a subject), especially in a formal manner.

My favorite, however, is this: "to consider an action or situation carefully before you decide what to do." That's what our presidential debates should help us do. They should be part of what has been called civil discourse—the notion 

"that people can have very different values and political preferences, but can still discuss these differences in a civil manner (from the National Institute for Civil Discourse). Sadly, as I've said before, our public discourse is rarely civil these days. 

Earlier in the election cycle, I read a great article by the novelist Nicholas Delbanco who argues eloquently for the the importance of the liberal arts, particularly language and literary arts:

"I believe a culture does itself no damage by attending to its language, and the idea that every phrase should and must be scrutinized is central to democracy."

I feel that virtually all of our political discourse has mutated from civil to vitriolic, and that the language we use has sunk to the level of playground bullying. I don't like to engage in that kind of conversation—in virtual shouting matches where no one listens and everyone is angry. Frankly, it gives me a headache.

Not everyone is facile with words, or uses them precisely and with ease. My husband has often said: "English is my second language. I don't have a first." Funny, yes. But is it an explanation or an excuse. Early on, we had one of the marital "discussions" (read fights) that has defined virtually all discussions going forward. Somewhere along the line, he said something to this effect: "I'm not as good as you are with words. What I say and how I say it aren't important. You should know what I mean."

I disagreed. Vehemently. I said that it felt like I'm being made responsible for both sides of the conversation. I hear: "It doesn't matter what I say or how I say it, it's your responsibility to reinterpret it so that I sound good."

I, on the other hand, pride myself on my use of language. I have a strong vocabulary and try think about what I say before I say it. Which means, that when I say something rude or angry or mean, well, I probably mean it. At least at the time. I take no pride in that. Lately, some of my personal discourse has been less than civil, and it's something that concerns me. That's the main reason why I have avoided political discussion this election cycle. But it turns out, I do have just a few words to say about it.

One of our candidates for president doesn't believe in the power of words—"It's just words, folks." In fact, that entire campaign dismissed even its own candidate's words as inconsequential.

But as a writer, I believe that words do matter—that thinking about your words, practicing them, and stating them with passion and compassion, is vitally important.

"Words matter, my friends. And if you are running to be president, or are president of the United States, words can have a tremendous influence." — Hillary Rodham Clinton

 I've only got two more words to say about this election:

Please Vote

We Didn't Start the Fire

Education is the ability to listen to almost anything without losing your temper or your self-confidence. — Robert Frost

There are two kinds of people in the world: firefighters and arsonists. I won't bother to point out the inciting incident that fueled this essay. Regular readers will know what it was, and the flamers who ignited it won't be back to read this post.

Let me acknowledge from the outset that this post could land me firmly in the old fuddy-duddy category, someone longing for the "good old days" when people were kind and respectful to one another. I won't cop to full-fledged curmudgeon, but I will admit that I'm tired—tired of the endless shouting, impatience, and boorish behavior that I see almost everywhere I look.

Civil discourse is neither civil (polite or courteous) nor discourse (verbal communication; conversation). We're  too busy shouting and calling each other names that we can't even hear each other, let alone take the time to imagine what it might be like to walk in another's shoes. Does anyone else remember learning "Robert's Rules of Debate" in school, like rule #43, Decorum in Debate:

"In debate a member must confine himself to the question before the assembly, and avoid personalities."

Can't say the I've seen much evidence of this rule in the recent GOP primary-related conflagrations.

And extreme expression isn't limited to public debate. Yesterday, I was waiting at an intersection as an elderly woman crossed the street, slowly, using a walker. The woman in the car behind me found this to be an intolerable delay and proceeded to lean on her horn until I was finally able to move. I wish I could say that I held my tongue (and middle finger) in check, that I had smiled at the lady in the crosswalk and ignored the woman in the other car. But I knew I was right, and that the car lady was wrong.

James Thurber said: "It is better to know some of the questions than all of the answers."

So, here a couple of questions I have about yesterday's incident.

• What could possibly have been so important that the woman in the car behind me needed to honk such a tantrum? 
• And did my futile tantrum of epithets and hand gestures do anyone any good?

I looked to psychology to help me understand the nature of temper tantrums only to discover a raging controversy about whether tantrums should be medicalized into something called "disruptive mood dysregulation disorder" or DMDD (I'm not making this up).

Instead of blowing my top over another abandonment of common sense in favor of excusing bad behavior, I decided to do what writers should be able to do best. I decided to tell you a story (and a half).

I may have mentioned here how fond I am of words. I'm afraid I have become overfond of a few particular words that don't belong in civil discourse. But there are two "swears" that we forbid in our home (if you have delicate sensibilities, avert your eyes, as I am about to print them here): "shut up" and "stupid".

When my youngest son was little, he threw excellent temper tantrums—full-blown, rolling-on-the-floor, fist-flaying, ear-piercing tantrums. Even better, he had the uncanny ability to read my mood and throw his tantrums at precisely the most inconvenient moment, usually in public when I was running late for picking up one of his siblings. 

One day, I committed some unspeakable sin (probably suggesting that it was bedtime or that he should pick up his Legos). His face turned fire-engine red and, spit flying, he screamed at me: "Shut up, stupid, stupid, stupid."

His brothers and sister froze in horror, absolutely sure he would be struck by lightning at any moment. In a rare moment of self control, I did not lose my own temper (or crack up, which was what I really wanted to do). I simply walked out of the silent room, locked myself into my bathroom and laughed myself silly.

Around 2:00 a.m., he woke me. "I'm sorry I called you those very bad words," he sobbed.

I resisted the urge to comfort him and said calmly: "Those were very bad things you said, and I'm sure next time you feel that angry, you'll do better."

I wish I could say that was the last tantrum. It wasn't.

A few days later, he made the mistake of throwing his fit at home when I had the luxury of time to wait him out. I was making the beds up in his room when he let loose. I made few feeble attempts to disarm the explosive device, but it was futile. When I finished the beds, I stepped over him and moved on to another room. After a few minutes, the shrieking and banging stopped suddenly and I heard the patter of his little, angry feet as he tramped through the house looking for me.

He ricocheted from room to room, finally finding me folding clothes in my bedroom. After glaring at me for a full 10 seconds, he threw himself on the floor and picked up his tantrum where it had left off. This time, I couldn't control myself, and burst out laughing. I laughed till tears rolled down my face. His tantrum finally lost its steam and he rushed to me, throwing his arms around my neck: "Don't cry, Mama," he said.

As he has matured, he has learned that the surest way to diffuse my anger is to make me laugh. And I have learned that the best way to extinguish a temper tantrum is to ignore it.

So, has the youthful fire in my belly petered down to a mere smoldering heap of curmudgeonly ashes? And if so, can I at least request that we raise the level of our insults from tedious "F yous" to something more interesting, say along the lines of Shakespeare? At a loss? Try this handy-dandy Shakespearian insult generator. Feel free to hurl them in the comments.