BE NICE!

I watched it unfold with horror. The little girl – maybe five years old – wanted to climb up the slide like the bigger kids were doing, when a boy pushed her out of the way and she shoved him back.

“Be nice!” her mother scolded, pulling her out of the pack of kids, “You can’t do that. You can’t go up the slide. You have a dress on” – as if this little girl should learn early and often that the clothes she wears will limit her freedom – “Don’t shove people!”

The grown up was embarrassed that her little girl had asserted her place in the playground queue and didn’t understand the decorum involved in climbing up a slide. Mom didn’t address the boy bully behavior, of course, but panicked and went into girl default mode: Be nice – dear God, what is that? We continue to teach our little girls to be “nice” when we should be teaching them to be fierce.

All this hullaballoo about sexual harassment. I’m 61, and from the time I was an 18-year-old waitress I’ve had some guy in just about every environment try to push me around using sex. When I rebuffed the “advances” of the chef at the Jersey shore restaurant where I worked he ruined every order I put in, throwing the plates at me with burnt meat or watery vegetables. The customers yelled at me, my tips diminished and I quit. The pattern continued when I practiced law, from the time a male attorney grabbed my ass at the copier to the time a “rainmaker” state senator (who was a partner) asked me if he made me “wet.” The guy was notorious for talking dirty trash to every woman in the office but the big boys thought it was funny. I didn’t think it was funny. Who was I going to complain to? The male partners who loved the political power that brought them more money? Seriously?

I have a very deep advantage over that little girl on the playground. I grew up with three brothers in an Italian household. They taught me how to fight and Italians are not shy; the culture supports guts and moxie, so when this slimy politician cornered me in the library and asked that horrible question I turned to him, slowly, and said:

“You ever talk to me like that again, and I will be your Anita Hill. I will take you down.”

He stood there, frozen, and his face went pale. Anita Hill was testifying on television daily about Clarence Thomas, and his career was in shambles. That’s all this dude cared about – his political currency – and he never spoke to me again. Fortunately, the older I got the less aggressive men became about sexual bullying and one fabulous side effect of aging is that you become invisible and men leave you blissfully alone. No doubt, sexual harassment is geared toward younger women and no one would want to (or dare) mess with me now. Now all that happens when I sit in a meeting with men is they stare intently at each other, marginalize me completely, and talk about Important Things.

As an attorney, I litigated sexual harassment cases and they were brutal. Defendant/employers had several tactics for discrediting female complainants – everything from casting her as a crazy liar to subpoenaing gynecology records to look for other causes of “emotional distress.” The legal system is the worst place to address these behaviors. I love that social media is outing a lot of creeps and women and men now know there is safety in numbers when coming forward to expose gross and unconscionable actions. Public shaming is a fabulous and effective means for taking people down. And I’m happy that Kevin Spacey’s career is over, as is Louis C.K.’s, Weinstein’s, and the other salacious man-boys who think they can do whatever they want, wherever they want. Go down in flames, all of you.

But what about the secretary in the tiny office who may not have a band of sisters she can rely on? What about the nurse who needs her job badly and is too scared to go to HR? When a woman feels isolated and is trapped financially, what should she do? Be nice? Parents are not preparing their little girls at all for what they will face when they tamp down assertiveness, put them in dolly clothing that limits their options, and urge them to quietly conform. We should be teaching our girls to roar. To be fierce. To stand their ground and look bullies in the eyes and say, with confidence, “Do that again, and I will take you down.” Niceness gets you nowhere. We should be compassionate, collaborative and civil in our dialogue. But fuck “nice.”

In addition to ballet and cheerleading, how about we supplement our girl activities with jiu-jitsu classes where they can learn about using mental strength to support physical safety? Maybe we stop scolding girls who are “bossy” by nature – like I was – and cultivate the tendencies that would be considered “leadership” in boys: directness, assertiveness, strategic thinking, a desire to reach goals and get things done. I’d rather my granddaughters sit in meetings where their voices are heard and this doesn’t much happen if they are getting the smack-down to be “nice.” Although many people are not assertive by nature, these skills can certainly be taught.

Anyone who uses power to intimidate others deserves the kind of humiliation and fear Twitter and Facebook can offer so let’s keep on outing these asshats. But at the same time let’s change our language with girls and young women and stop asking for cuteness and conformity. Teach girls to find and use their voices so when that inevitable creep suggests that she’ll get what she wants if she complies with some sexual act or listens quietly to the disgusting and foul language of men without boundaries, she will not be “nice.” She will be clear and she will be fierce. Teach her to stand her ground, without violence or hate. Teach her she doesn’t have to have or use physical strength to take down a bully. It’s no wonder so many women who are taught to be nice are totally paralyzed when the boss rubs himself in front of her. We don’t need to be paralyzed; we can speak up.

There is always something that predatory man cares about more than using his power to bully you with sex. Threaten to call his wife, call the police, call a lawyer; find what he loves – power, status, fame, his fake marriage whatever – and threaten to blow it up. Silence that parental voice that taught you that “niceness” is important to survival in this world, because it’s not. Don’t cripple your daughter so that you feel comfy knowing she’s “socially appropriate.” Arm her with the self-esteem and certainty she will need when the bully moves toward the prey. Teach her that pushing back is often absolutely necessary, it’s good to draw clear lines, and she can stand her ground. Find a script that works and use it.

Here’s what I found that works, because people in power will always listen to this: Do that again, and I will take you down.

Yo Scaramucci. How Bout You Shut Up?

Hey Tony.  If I was sitting next to you at Sunday dinner I’d smack you so hard on the back of the head it would make your kids dizzy.  What a dumb ass you are.  You get a seat at the big boy table and what do you do? Put your Guido aviator shades on and act like you’re in waste management in the Bronx rather than the goddamn White House.  You better hope my Aunt Rita doesn’t run into you cause I’ll tell you what brother: we Italians are not happy with you and you know what happens when the family’s not happy.

            So, your narcissistic bully boss – from another ethnic background of some kind – pulls you in, you know,  close to the vest and Tony-Soprano-like “hey ho yo”, grabbing at your balls and being all tough guy. And Trump says Yo Tony kill the leaks, man! Make ‘em all shut the f—up”! and you swear some inane mafia-type oath about being loyal to him and firing people and you bring your stupid New York WOP act to DC.  Thanks a lot jack ass.

            Sit down and shut up and listen to me and I don’t give a rat’s ass if you don’t want to hear about my grandparents from Avellino in Italy who came to Philly and worked as bricklayers, tailors, and shop owners so that their kids – my parents – could go to college, and become, doctors (like my Dad and uncle) and nurses (my Mom) and make each generation better.  And yes, Italians were seen as louds, stupid, greasy, dirty people - the image you so readily portray, thanks very much.  Just when Italians could go quietly back to our raucous and happy family-centric lives, you show up and it’s right back to the stereotypical bombastic idiot Italian, a White House press secretary who doesn’t even know what “on the record” means.  Madonna Mia.  Italians have about fifty different words for stupid and you measure up to every one of them.

            I can appreciate the notion that you “want to be yourself” but don’t.  Your self sucks.  Your knucklehead boss is of the same ilk – oh, I’m just gonna be me.  Both your personalities are just terrible, dude.  Hide it.  Don’t be the strutting street corner thug you think you are.  Class it up, asshole.  Lots of immigrants have learned this:  dial it down when you’re around white people.  And the White House is full of those, so act like a grown up – you mameluke – and try to find a measure of dignity and smarts.  Not sure you have either, but on behalf of Italians everywhere, I’m telling you – not asking – to knock off the “made guy” routine.

            Somebody had to write about this.  The minute I saw your name and heard you open my mouth I was like “oh f--- me.  Here it goes. A Scarammuchi in the White House who thinks he’s all that.”  You’re not all that, Tony.  You know what you are?  A disgrace to every hard- working Italian-American who honors the hard-working ancestors that got us here.  You think surgeons, lawyers, teachers, business owners of Italian descent just act any way they want?  You think anybody does?  There are freaking rules of civility you stupidone.  Put the hair gel away and learn them. You want to be all mouthy schmooz boy?  Save that for your friends, you feckless braggart.  And don’t even think about Sunday dinner.  My little Aunt Rita would kick your ass.

            

DOES MY HOUSE STINK?

Remember that scene from the original Rocky when emotionally stunted Sylvester Stallone invites his equally stunted potential gal Adrienne up the aged steps of his South Philly row home?  She’s down on the sidewalk, kind of toeing at the ground trying to decide whether to ascend to this crazy man’s place (where he will eventually introduce her to his turtles, Cuff and Link).  He gets angry with her reluctance, slams the wall and says something like, Whatsa matter?  Does my house STINK?

            I worry about the same damn thing as Rocky.  How do you know if your own house stinks if no one else lives there?  When I was raising three boys I KNEW my house stunk, they knew it – hell, they were the reason for it – but it was all our own sweat and pizza stench so it was fine.  Probably others were bowled over when they walked in the door; we didn’t know, didn’t care.  But have you ever walked into the old-lady-with-the-newspapers-and-cat-house and just thought, Holy mother of God!.  That’s probably what Adrienne was worried about, and I’m sort of concerned for myself as well.

            Listen, I love my solitude. LOVE IT.  Growing up in a huge loud Italian household, peace and quiet was not optional and then I raised three boys which was akin to being a zookeeper.  Little boys, aside from being reckless and loud, are vaguely odiferous all the time.  I mean, you can scrub them in a bath and towel dry them and within seconds something’s marinating right away.  Also, I’ve been married a few times to grown-up men who also, well, were guys. At this point I treasure being alone in bed because sleeping with another human is tough, folks, at least for me.  Sex, snoring, sweat, hot flashes, restless legs, bad dreams – Geezus! I don’t think I had a full night’s sleep for decades, but I’m starting to worry that I spend too much time by myself and might start babbling in public or not washing my hair. I called a dear friend who has lived alone for a decade, to ask her whether too much solitude can be a bad thing.

            “Shut up a minute,” she said, which is a Jersey greeting for, Hey, how’s the family?, “I’m watching this giraffe in the Denver zoo have a baby.”

            And, there’s my answer.

            “No kidding, there’s like 75,000 people watching right now!” she was so happy, “But many are getting pretty pissed off that every time they sign on there’s no little giraffe feet coming out the mama’s hoo-ha.”

            She went on to tell me how people were fighting about this in the comments section.  Virtual fighting about a giraffe birth.  Is this being social? Or crazy?  Who’s crazy – me who sings really loud by myself all the time or “social” people who are angry at a pregnant giraffe?

I was sweating when I hung up the phone, but had no way to gauge how sweaty.  Was I smelly sweaty? Another friend of mine is a brilliant woman in the financial industry who’s an expert in all things olfactory because she was born with an acute sense of smell.  We went hiking once and she stopped dead at one point, shook her head and said,

            “Hey, did you smell that guy’s deodorant?”

            I didn’t of course but I was suddenly afraid that she had always been so kind to me because she pitied me.  There’s a rule among backpackers when they’re out in the wilderness together for long periods of time:  nobody gets clean, period.  If just one person “freshens up” it ruins everything for the rest of us, so the protocol on the trail is just stay smelly.  I did 17 days in the wilderness with Outward Bound and trust me, no one was clean but that’s a good thing.  It’s kind of like the really smart kid who ruins it for the lazy ones.

Aside from group rules around dirt, nobody thinks their own shit stinks and let’s face it we all must live with our own stench.  But if you live alone, how do you even know?  I guess Nature is crafty, protecting us from ourselves so that we turn a blind nose to our own odors. How could you stand being with yourself otherwise? The same is true for our own faults and character defects – you just don’t grasp them, especially when you live alone.  Will I become that old lady with the hot house who screams at the kids git off my grass!!!  Will I be Adrienne – Rocky’s mentally challenged girlfriend who works at a pet store for company?  Maybe I’ll be Rocky, the cranky fighter dude living alone with his turtles, Cuff and Link.

            Here’s the thing:  I am never lonely, not for a second.  Love surrounds me all the time and my cup overflows.  There’s nothing I lack and when I want to connect with a human I make a call or take a walk.  Meditation keeps me firmly grounded in the FACT that I’m not alone.  It’s a fact.  I don’t see boundaries between people (or animals, turtles, giraffes) and I know that I’m totally part of a big happy cosmic soup.  But honestly, I just wonder if too much solitude will make me weirder than I already am.                   

            So, I’m working out the difference between solitude and isolation, being a loner and being lonely, treasuring my privacy (unlike poor Alice, the mama giraffe in the Denver zoo) and building walls to keep other’s out.  Adrienne walked up those steps, remember, and went timidly into Rocky’s house, which apparently did NOT stink.  She met Cuff and Link and she and Rocky found love which is Hollywood adorable. But I know that love is everywhere, that like an aspen grove we are all connected at the root even though it looks like we live separately.  We don’t.  I think I’ll stay engaged enough in the world that I won’t spiral into isolation and bad hygiene. My house and my body will be fine, because Love is always in the air.  I can smell it.