25/8/00

Civility, Civics and Silly Me

If my social-political behavior is not always perfectly genteel, my children always manage to let me know.

    I've been preaching civility and civics to my daughters since before they had freckles, and by now, I've learned a lot from them.
    Dutifully stopping at a stop sign recently, we were rammed from behind by a van. Mindful of the impressionable young 'uns in the back seat, I squelched the urge to run through my rich vocabulary of swear words and instead gurgled and snarled incoherently. But I was fast losing control. I jumped out of the car and took a few menacing steps toward the van driver, whereupon he got out and came toward me. He was a big guy. It didn't look good.
    Rather than stop a few inches from me, as I expected, he kept coming until we'd made body contact.
    He didn't hit me -- he hugged me!
    Smiling warmly, he said, "nothing terrible happened. Go in peace. Have a nice day." Then he kissed me on both cheeks while I stood there, jaw dropped, eyes popped. I staggered back into the car, where my girls were howling with glee.
    "Y'see? That's the right way to behave," I told them, humbled.  
    Then, a few weeks later, another incident. We were stopped at a traffic light, where several fellows in striped frocks were handing out photos of their rebbe gurus to idling motorists. When one of them came to my window, I gave him a piece of my mind. Actually, I gave him the finger. To my amazement -- and my girls' amusement -- he took a graceful step back, bowed, smiled ... and blew me a kiss.
    I was comeupped beautifully, and my kids knew it. "I was nasty, and he was nice," I told them after a few minutes of soul searching; "he behaved like a mensch and I didn't."

THE ISSUE of "us" and "them" was first introduced to the triplets when they were three years old, by a Lubavitch lady teaching them God-knows-what in a pre-nursery. One day, they came home and announced: "Arabs. Bad." We called the lady and questioned if perhaps it wasn't a bit premature to be teaching tykes to hate. She apologized profusely, explaining that it was a thoughtless slip of the tongue.
    I corraled the girls and drove down the hill from Gilo to the Arab town of Beit Safafa. We went into the makolet, which I then frequented frequently. Exchanging friendly greetings with the owner, I instructed him, quietly, to personally hand each of my girls a candy. They got the message.
    Of course, they got the opposite message during the spate of terror bombings, which necessitated a longwinded speech about many Arabs being bad but most are good, while some Jews are also bad, and the message they got this time was boy, Daddy sure does talk a lot.
    But sometimes, when I fail to speak up, they do the talking. We were walking through the shuk early one morning, and we passed a fellow stacking snack bags on his wooden stall. A bag of chips fell almost at our feet, and Odelia dutifully picked it up and placed it on the stack. We took another couple of steps and Donna said, "Hey! He didn't thank us!"
    I snorted derisively. "I don't think you're going to get a thank you."
    Oh yes we will, they decided, and as one, the triplets stopped and made a U-turn. "Hey! You didn't thank us!" Donna said indignantly. The man stared at the trio, blinked, then slowly broke into a wide grin. "You're right. Instead, I'd like to give you this --" and he handed each girl a Bisli. Beaming, they thanked him, of course, and we were on our way.
    They wasted no time in admonishing me for lacking faith in my fellow man. But sometimes, I think, there's a good lesson to be learned by Daddy not admitting he was wrong. "Oh yeah?" I harrumped, "in the end, did he actually say thank you?"

ON ELECTION Day, I took them with me to the polls, harping on and on about the lofty wonders of democracy in action.    Our voting station was on the other side of town, from where we had recently moved, and all the way there we drove past phalanxes of activists displaying the gamut of political slogans. I explained a bit about the different parties as we drove past, and the kids were worried that I might be swayed, that I might not vote for Barak, as I had promised them I would. Nonstop, they spoke of nothing but Barak, Barak, Barak.
    I reminded them of the previous election. They were in kindergarten, and then, too, I took them along to perform my civic duty. When I emerged from the polling booth, they asked who I voted for. Peres, I said, naturally assuming that a five-year-old understands nothing.
    But they were scandalized. They glared at their perfidious parents with disgust, despair, disillusionment. "Oh, no! How could you?! Peres will ruin the country! Only Bibi! Only Bibi!" And then my little Nomi looked at me shamefully, shook her head and said, "Daddy, why don't you believe in anyt'ing?" before popping her thumb in her mouth and brooding all the way home.
    Anyway, I had just voted (we're back in 1999 now), and immediately, my lecture on democratic values and behavior was put to the test. Some characters representing a party I would not vote for even under threat of torture swarmed around us. I waved them away, but like so many gnats, they didn't get the message. Fulminating, I opened up on them. Meanwhile, my kids had wandered behind enemy lines and got trapped in a political debate. But they are mere IITs (Israelis In Training), so they actually listened, and were immediately convinced. They were assured that eveything I had told them was wrong.
    "Daddy, they're from Shas," the girls said exuberantly, returning to me with more of the swarmers. "And they say Deri didn't do anything bad, and they only do good for people, and you should read this." They handed me the entire collection of Shas pamphlets, bumper stickers, guru photos and printed slogans -- all the stuff I had so valiantly been refusing to take from the first bunch. "And they want to give you a video: c'mon, Daddy, please, it's free!"
    So that afternoon I had three passionate Shasniks in my household; the day before they were Barak loyalists; and before that, they swooned for Bibi. But that's only because I failed to mention all the parties. I never got around to The Lady With The Long Blond Hair. I do believe she would have won them away from The Bearded Men In the Black Hats.
    If it had been tall, sultry models handing out free photos and videos to eight-year-old Israeli girls persuading their parents who to vote for, I think Pnina, and not Deri, would have won 17 mandates.