August 8, 2014--Best Of Behind: Asiento Inodoro

This tongue-in-cheek piece is from September 29, 2011:

At the risk of alienating my progressive friends, I need to make a confession.

Yesterday, we went to Lowe's to buy a new toilet seat. This should have been routine enough, but what we were shopping for is not the subject of the confession.

What is is how much of everything in that huge barn of a store was in Spanish.

It made me understand the causes for some of the clamor on the part of the political right to pass a constitutional amendment to make English the "official" language of the United States.

Of course that's ridiculous--English already is our national language and doesn't need an amendment to affirm it.

But my confession is that I kind of understand the chauvinistic impulse.

All the signage was bilingual, from the welcome at the entrance, to the labels on all the aisles, to the product packaging itself. Everything in the store was equally in English and Spanish. Even directions to the water fountains. And this is up in Maine where few Latinos are in residence.

Following those parts of the signs that were in English, we found our way to the Bathroom/Baño aisle and then located the toilet seat/asiento del inodoro display. After careful consideration we were attracted to an American Standard HOMESTEAD toilet seat with something called an "EVERCLEAN surface." It was the most expensive available, nearly twice as much as the next-most-costly, and we assumed that might have to do with the EVERCLEANness since it was the only one that promised to be "permanently" clean and, we assumed, hygienic.

Rona, especially, is interested in everything that is or purports to be hygienic and so the price--$33.00--didn't deter us. But we did want to know more about this EVERCLEAN business--

For example, was the seat made and painted in China? We found that of course it was. Did this then perhaps mean there might be something toxic about the painted surface? Like so many toys and dishes made in China?

Hygiene is one thing; having a toxic tush another.

So we needed to know more. And we did, with the Spanish explanation more helpful than the English. I quote:

Exclusiva superficie antimicrobiana a base de plata EverClean. Inhibe en forma permanente el crecimiento de bacterias que causan manchas y malos olores, moho y hongos. La superficie EverClean no protege contra enfermedades provocadas por bacterias.

Excelente, no? Rona was very pleased about the moho y hongos part as she hates mold and mildew.
I confess to having been discombobulated by the whole thing and was becoming increasingly conflicted about my support for MoveOn.org.

What, I thought, will I say to my Delray Beach friend, Harvey, when I see him in a few months. When he reads this he'll think I've come over to the other side and take delight in exposing my confusion--read flip-flopping. My only counter will be that his candidates invented flip-flopping. Think Mitt Romney.
I suppose it wouldn't help to note that the HOMESTEAD EVERCLEAN box also includes French.

EverClean à base d'argent, antimicrobien, exclusif. Empêche, de maniere permanente . . .

This is not helpful. Politically helpful. It will only make Harvey crazier. Things French are not among his favorites.

February 18, 2014--Snowbirding--VOTA

"VOTA? VOTA 12 de Marzo? What you make of that?"

Our car needed a major service and, since we have just one, the mechanic, clearly agitated, had come to pick us up to retrieve it after he had completed the work.

Sputtering, he was pointing to a sign in the median on Federal Highway.

"I suppose," I said, "it's to remind people to vote March 12."

"But VOTA? Marzo?" He said with a heavy accent.

"Well," I said as if to myself, knowing where this was likely headed, "It also says VOTE March 12th."

"And," he bellowed toward Rona who was in the back seat, "It also say VOTE 12 Mas. What this Mas business?"

Our of the corner of my eye I saw her twist toward the window on the other side of the road away from the sign. To look as causal and unengaged as possible, as if she hadn't heard him.

I was sitting to his right and it wasn't possible for me to pretend we had been talking about the weather. Which we had been until he noticed the sign.

"If they can't reading English, because that's what is going on, why they allowed to vote? Isn't it enough we let them in country? And put them on welfare? And give food stamps? And health."  He looked over at me, wanting me to get involved. It was clear he intended this to be more than a rant. Still, I tried to ignore him.

"You have to be citizen to vote, no?" I tried not to look at him. "I assume still that's true. But considering what going on here, you never know. Maybe these days they get off the boat and they take them right to vote."

"Rona said, "Aren't those new condos?" She was pointing to a new building development well off to the right, hoping to deflect his line of thought.

"Some country we become. To vote you no longer need to speak English. Vota, Marzo, Mas. When I came from Russia no one give me nothing. Nothing. What I have," he gestured at his Mercedes SUV, "this car, everything, I work hard to get. Nobody gave me nothing."

"Maybe the opportunity?" I mumbled.

"Speak louder. I cannot hear. I deaf in this ear."

Not knowing what possessed me to get involved, I repeated, louder this time, "Maybe what America gave you was an opportunity?"

"To work hard. No handouts. No Russian signs to vote. I had to become citizen first. And to be citizen I had to take test. Test in English. What language is that Marzo in?" he asked, seemingly calmed down. Perhaps because I had responded.

"I think Spanish," Rona said from the back seat.

"So if Spanish," he said, "What Mas?"

"I'm not sure," she said, "Could be Haitian."

"Haitian! They let Haitians vote though they can't read sign in English?" He slammed his hands on the steering wheel. The car swayed side-to-side.

"First they let them sneak into country, then they take them to polling booth. Like in Russia."

"What do you mean?" I ventured.

"They have what they call elections there and then don't let half people run for president who want so what does vote mean? It's just like what is happening here. America is soon to be like Russia. Where I have to go next?"

"I think this is hardly a fair comparison," I said.

"You call that fair?" He pointed at another voting reminder sign as we approached Delray.

"I don't remember these kinds signs when I was first here six years ago."

"I seem to," I said, again under my breath. We still had about five minute to go before getting to his garage and felt we had already gotten into this deeply enough.

"It's because of him." I now knew for certain where this was headed. "Him." He pointed north as if to Washington and lapsed into a silent rage. Though, shaking his head, I thought I heard him mumbling something in Russian.

"Look at my hands. These" he took both hands off the steering wheel and held them toward me. The car, clearly perfectly maintained, did not waver. "You see grease." His finger nails and knuckles were in fact deeply stained. "From vorking, not voting." For the first time he smiled, which calmed me.

"That's my point," I tried. "How America gave you the opportunity to . . ."

"Vork like monkey." His smile broadened. "Look, I'm not bigot. I wish for these people same that I had. To vork hard, have a nice place to live, children, nice car just like mine." He gently stroked the steering wheel. "Become Americans. Like me. Real ones. Not with this Vota and Marzo. I do not grudge them voting if they are citizens, but signs like this we not need. Not need helping with everything you need. Food, health, house. Everything." He nodded his head, now grinning, as if he had made an unassailable case. "Need to vork for that."

"There is a point to what you're saying," I acknowledged. "That I'll grant you. But for me there has to be a balance between providing opportunities and making sure people who live here--especially if they are legally here or citizens--don't fall through the cracks and that the playing field is level."

"You're spouting clichés," Rona said leaning forward and sounding frustrated. "'Falling through the cracks.' 'Level playing fields.' "Liberals like us have to have better arguments than that. Just offering clichés is not persuasive or fair to people who are working as hard as Alex." I was impressed she remembered his name.  "Is it fair to say to him, who clearly has worked hard for everything he has, who probably never got anything for free, who maybe is having trouble paying for health insurance and his mortgage and . . ."

"That's me," Alex said. "My house, how you say, is underwater."

" . . . and wants to play by the rules, drives around with four-dollar-a-gallon gas in his car and sees signs in Creole reminding people to vote. We have to do better than responding to his frustrations by offering clichés about opportunity and fairness. Because I suspect to him, things are not looking all that fair. Why should they? Do you," she meant me, "Do you think things are fair? Even to you?"

"You're making my points better than me," Alex said, twisting toward Rona.

We rode the rest of the way in silence. Our car was indeed ready and immaculate.

Driving home, I asked Rona, "Does his asking to be paid in cash so he and we could save on paying tax qualify as leveling the playing field and playing by the rules?"

"He probably would say he wants to play by the same rules as the big boys on Wall Street.'

"Touché," I said. "I suppose in America these days equal opportunity also means everyone being able to look for every loophole they can find."

"Alex couldn't have said it better!"