An Eye for an Eye?

What shall I write about this week? A fluffy piece about watching language development, as the delightful Elizabeth Holiday strings words together in sentences, 90% of which I can’t understand? A column exploring the concept of truth, which I’ve written half a dozen times in my head as I’ve tried to determine the one “lie” in a list of ten concerts a Facebook friend has attended? Or should I pay attention to the nudge, the whisper of the Muse in my ear, whose persistence is likely to land me in hot water before the week is over?

Behind Door Number Three . . . It began with the purchase of a murder mystery at the recently opened Ashland Books, the fictional tale of the death of teen-age girls on the streets of New Orleans. I’ve been a mystery addict for as long as I can remember, getting hooked early on Nancy Drew and still relishing a good “who-dun-it” in lieu of more cerebral volumes. The book recounts the execution of a young African-American man for the murder of a white, female victim. Author Penelope Williamson paints a gruesome picture of the newfangled electric chair, with a blood-thirsty crowd, a gin-soaked mother, a praying grandmother, and a botched execution – of a man later determined to be not guilty.

Reading the description of the death chamber, my mind slipped back more than half a century to the afternoon when I somehow managed to watch a horrific movie showing the execution of a woman in the electric chair. I thought it might have been “I Want to Live!” with Susan Hayward, but Wikipedia tells me she got the gas chamber, not the chair. I don’t think I was older than seven or eight, and we only had one television, so I have no idea how I was able to watch the scene (maybe my mother was napping with my new baby sister)? But what I do know is that I was terribly shaken by it, but because I’d been forbidden to watch, I couldn’t admit the source of my on-going nightmares to my mother.

A fictional passage, a hazy memory – and then a repeated invitation to hear Shane Claiborne speak this week here in Ashland. His topic? The death penalty. I was present when he spoke on the topic of community development at the university a few years ago, and didn’t want to miss the opportunity to hear him again. But the death penalty? I’ve thrown my hat over the wall on social issues a time or two on these pages, getting labeled by some as Ashland’s own bleeding heart liberal, but even I know enough to stay clear of this topic to avoid being bludgeoned in the T-G’s on-line comments.

But here’s the issue as I see it. How do we engage in meaningful dialogue regarding the polarizing topics of our day? I’ve read of the rush to execution in Arkansas before the death-inducing drugs expire, and the postponement of execution orders here in Ohio. I grieve for the families of the victims, for the families of those languishing on death row. What about the technician who inserts the IV, the doctor who pronounces the time of death, the judges who say “yea” or “nay” on a last-minute request for a reprieve. What of the human beings who wait, day after day, year after year, for the sentence of death to be enacted?

Don’t touch this subject, JoAnn. They’re only fictional words on a page, reports from a state hundreds of miles away. Let it go. Yet this hits home. If Shawn Grate, alleged to have brutally killed women right here in Ashland, Ohio, is convicted of murder, what should his punishment be? Will twelve of us, you, me, our neighbors, be forced to decide? As Shane Claiborne says, “Ultimately, we are not talking about an issue. We are talking about people.”

An eye for an eye? A tooth for a tooth? “Let the one who is without sin cast the first stone”? How can we possibly talk about this? Not yet two, little Elizabeth Holiday doesn’t know enough words to even start the conversation. Do we?

Responsible for What I Say and Do

They’re tucked away in various nooks and crannies of our homes; the lock of hair and the baby’s first Nike sneaker in the nightstand drawer, the dried corsage and the stack of report cards in the plastic “memory bin” in the attic. I’ve even got my Girl Scout sash, with its rows of badges, signifying my early adolescent expertise in cooking, sewing, bird-watching and music. As I reflect on my days as a Brownie and Girl Scout, the words of our shared promise come easily to my lips. “On my honor, I will try to do my duty to God and my country, to help other people at all times, and to obey the Girl Scout laws.”

From the distance of half a century, I can still see the influence of that pledge and its encouragement to be courteous, service-minded, loyal, thrifty, friendly, and kind. Those values took root in my life as a child, giving guidance as to how to live in community. True confession, though: I did have a struggle with the “friend to animal” rule, as I was bitten by a dog as a young child and wasn’t too fond of the less-than-friendly canines in our neighborhood.

The Girl Scout laws have now been reframed to urge the girls to be honest and fair, friendly and helpful, considerate and caring, courageous and strong, and “responsible for what I say and do.” Yet how do we do that? How do we choose our words and actions wisely, taking responsibility for honesty and fairness? As children, we’re influenced by what we see at home, what we learn at school, through the tenets of our faith and the lessons of our scouting leader or our soccer coach. But for many of us, those lessons came more than a few years ago. How can we be “responsible for what I say and do” in our grown-up world?

Putting on my Ann Landers/Dear Abby hat, here are some possible tools. Rotary International calls their model the Rotary Four Way Test. “Of the things we think, say or do, is it the truth? Is it fair to all concerned? Will it build goodwill and better friendships? Will it be beneficial to all concerned? True, fair, building up instead of tearing down, of benefit to all. Think about your most recent pronouncement to your co-workers, or to the kids or grandkids. Do your words meet this test?

My friend Janice keeps it simple with the three-letter reminder: NEU. She asks: Is it nice, is it encouraging, is it uplifting? A practical measuring stick for sure. Personally, I prefer “kind” to “nice,” because I have experienced niceness with an “I really want to stab you in the back” flavor. Elizabeth Gilbert suggests that “niceness is a social construct – a mannered way of keeping things polite,” as you can be nice “through clenched teeth and strained nerves,” i.e., the waitress with the rude customer. Kindness, Gilbert says, runs deeper. “Kindness never patronizes, never puts on an act, never judges, never blames.” A lofty goal for sure, but if you can’t be kind, at least be nice. NEU or KEU, it’s an easy rule of thumb to test our words to each other.

It’s a struggle to be considerate and caring on a regular basis. I’ve had days when I think back to an interaction, in person or even on social media, with the reaction, “Boy, I really blew that response.” The rearview mirror is the place to start, as we get so bogged down in a pattern of communication we have trouble seeing our own lack of responsibility for our actions and words.

I’m glad when I catch myself in the act, feeling the twinge of guilt when I’ve said something unkind or discouraging to another, so I can take back my words. But at my best, I want to engage my mind before my mouth, resulting in kind, nice, encouraging and uplifting interactions.

I may not wear my Girl Scout sash in public any longer, but I strive to wear the character that began to form around the friendship circle and campfire. To uplift, to encourage, and to serve: that’s my motto and pledge for today.

Tax Day Rant

Disclaimer: the opinions expressed here are my own. Phone the friendly people at the IRS for tax advice.

Federal income tax was first imposed upon the citizens of the United States during the Civil War. Those earning between $600 and $10,000 were taxed at the rate of 3%; those above $10,000 ($272,800 in today’s dollars if I multiplied correctly) at a slightly higher rate. It wasn’t until the ratification of the sixteenth amendment in 1913 that this practice was fully authorized: “The Congress shall have power to lay and collect taxes on incomes, from whatever source derived, without apportionment among the several States, and without regard to any census or enumeration.” Did they foresee the day when “Americans will collectively spend more on taxes in 2017 than they will on food, clothing, and housing combined” (taxfoundation.org)?

Yes, I’ve been spending too much time on irs.gov in recent days. Here’s their explanation: “Numerous modifications have been made to the United States tax system over the years. This holds especially true with income tax, which is a relatively volatile tax. And although many changes are sure to affect tax laws in the future, it is safe to say that income tax is here to stay.” Oh, goodie!

The income tax is a volatile tax? As in “liable to change rapidly and unpredictably, especially for the worse,” or as in, “those trying to fill out the forms may become volatile”?

I’ve gone on Tax Day rants before, but does anyone else feel the pain? I know, I should bite the bullet and hire someone to professionally prepare my taxes, but it’s a matter of principle for me. Why should a middle class American, even one with a teeny-tiny small business, pay someone else (or a heartless computer program) so she can pay her taxes?

Yet when I get to the part when I write the check, I wonder: did I do this right? Did I miss a deduction? Turbo Tax lists ten strange but legitimate federal tax deductions, including boat repairs for whaling captains (outlawed unless you’re Native American), cosmetic surgery for adult entertainment business professionals, clarinet lessons if you have an overbite, and moving expenses for your pet. Good news for #45 if he brought a dog to the White House. With all those possibilities, why can’t I save a buck or two?

And then there’s city taxes. Initially, it appears simple. People living in Ashland pay 1.5% of their income (with some exceptions) to City Hall for 2016, going up to 2% in 2017. It’s a regressive tax, which if I remember high school economics correctly, means it doesn’t matter if you’re poor or rich, you pay the same rate. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy, right? Except if you work in another city, or in numerous cities, they want a piece of the pie too. So your employer withholds taxes based on the rate from your work city, which your residence city gives you credit for, but only a certain percentage of credit, and you have to do the math.

If, like our son and daughter-in-law, you live in Columbus, the rate is 2.5%, the privilege of getting stuck in traffic on I-71. But if you’re a non-resident employee who worked some days outside the city, you can attach a list of vacation days, holidays, and sick leave days, as well as your federal 2106 form and Schedule A, and they might cut you a break. I’m getting a migraine just thinking about it.

Here’s my beef: I have a doctorate, earned, not honorary. Granted, it’s not in tax preparation, but I should be able to complete our tax returns without resorting to caffeine drinks, cussing, or hair-pulling. Yet I shouldn’t complain. Our government sustains thousands if not millions of tax preparer jobs through its complicated tax structure, keeping the unemployment rate down at least through April.

Looking for good news? Tomorrow is Tax Freedom Day. On April 23, Americans as a whole have worked long enough to pay our taxes for 2017! Maybe I’ll splurge on a massage or tattoo, or a large Pepsi at the drive-through, throwing in a few more cents for the governor. It’s party time!