North Star Writers Group

Can you remember middle school or even elementary school? I can. It was before I got this disease - a disease that is steeped in the toxic partisan culture of our times. It is a culture that some might compare to the mentality of middle school, or even elementary school, students. Then again, maybe the kids are the ones with the cure.

I remember my first girlfriend in sixth grade. Her name was Jessica. We held hands in the hallway and she had shoulder-length, brown, curly hair that was actually more frizzy than curly. Our impassioned romance ended when she moved to Virginia, after which I pined for about as long as it took to get picked in gym class.

I also remember Joe Swope. He had a very serious burn on the side of his face and neck and he was a bully. He had blonde hair and was much taller than I, just like everyone else in my grade. One time during health class, he was gently blowing on the back of my neck, and after I had quite enough, I whirled around and whapped him on the side of the face. It was rather shocking for both of us. I didn’t know what to say. He didn’t either, until after class when he warned me that if it left a mark, he’d beat me up.

I remember this kid, Mike Marazzo, who was what you might call “weird.” My most distinct memory of him is when he was determinedly shoving a giant hot dog into his mouth, and this girl, whose name I cannot remember, asked him if he’d washed his hands after the last time he went to the bathroom. I’ll never forget his honesty. “No,” he said, to which she responded with a scrunched up face, “Gross!”

I remember each of my teachers since kindergarten. My favorite was my second grade teacher, Mrs. Straub. We were very close. She once gave me a red, plastic Phillies helmet, which doubled as an ice cream bowl. There was also my bald, bearded, hefty, history teacher from seventh grade who was obsessed with Star Trek and who taught me how to say hello in Arabic. He always wore neckties and I now look back with appreciation. There was Mrs. York, my sixth grade history teacher, who insisted we all go home and say “Mesopotamia” in front of the mirror until we got it right. There was Mrs. Watson, my fourth grade teacher, who also happened to have taught my older sister and called her Dorothy from Never-Neverland. Mrs. Watson liked to talk about her love of walking and I never gave it much thought until I was driving to my friend’s house about eight years later and saw her strolling along the street. She remembered me and my older sister.

Reminiscing reminds me that, as a child, my opinions about the people I knew were quite simply explained. I knew that Joe Swope teased me and so I did not like him. I knew that Mrs. York scared me because she always seemed to be yelling and gave out ridiculous homework assignments so I did not like her either.

But now, because of my disease, I find myself attaching a political affiliation to almost everyone I know, including a bunch of Hollywood celebrities, pop musicians and even a handful of athletes. I can assure you that it affects my sentiments about them. For some reason, those things that ought to define people, and consequently our opinions of them – things like, is she nice to me? or, did he compliment my hard work? or, does he surreptitiously breathe on the back of my neck? – they seem irrelevant. We’ve forgotten that people are most truly defined by their actions, not impressive-sounding political opinions. I’m not sure how we got here, but thankfully, there is plenty of blame to go around.

I blame everyone who can’t make it three sentences without reminding their audience about how stupid our president is; everyone who can’t talk about the middle of our country without using the words “hick,” or “redneck”; everyone who describes all liberals as irresponsible, brainless hippies; every college professor whose world consists of books and not people and yet decides to indoctrinate millions of students with experience-less “wisdom”; everyone below the age of 25 who thinks they understand the Middle East; everyone who describes Islam as a religion of death and has never read the Koran; everyone who tolerates everyone except those with beliefs; everyone whose friends use the same exact political rhetoric as themselves; everyone who believes the other half of the country is stupid. For my disease, I blame myself and every other person over the age of 12 who can’t shut up about their God-forsaken opinions, which will completely change in a few years, for, as we should know, the only way to ensure a dormant opinion is to stop using one’s brain.

I taught elementary music in the Seattle school district. You would be astounded at the number of students who came in with political pins and stickers attached to clothing and backpacks. Instead of using the phrase, “Good Boys Deserve Fudge Always,” in order to remember the lines on a bass clef, one of my second graders innocently suggested, “George Bush Died Friday Afternoon” – somewhat funny, somewhat sick. The age of political innocence seems to be falling, and with it, our country’s beautiful humanity.

The world is more complicated than elementary school, but if we want to uncomplicate it, we need to start thinking more like elementary school students. My advice: Try to remember the bully you hated the most, the teacher you liked most, and why. Chances are you were thinking more clearly as a child than you are as a grown-up member of a political party.

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This is Column # NS17. Request permission to publish here.