All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten (15 page)

T
ERM
L
IMITS

“NOTICE: YOUR CITIZENSHIP HAS EXPIRED.”

What? Yes! Term limits for citizens. Why not? This term-limits thing is still a good idea. If it is true that elected officials get corrupted if they stay in office too long, maybe it’s the same for us who hold the political office of citizen. Let’s at least set tough standards for all incumbents, citizens included.

Suppose that every twelve years our terms expired. Before we could requalify as citizens, our records in office would be judged. Remember, most of us got something for nothing the first time just by showing up here at birth. Now we have to qualify.

It’s put up or shut up.

Let’s use the same standards already set for any alien who wishes to become a citizen of the United States. As I write, in early 2003, the standards are being rewritten and raised, but in a nutshell, here are the basic qualifications:

First, you have to demonstrate competency in reading, writing, speaking, and understanding the English language.

Already a bunch of us are in trouble, ain’t we?

The government also wants a recent photograph. Most of my friends are old, ugly and irritable. If looks count, they’re out.

(I pause here, realizing I’m being both literal and sarcastic. I trust you can tell the difference. But having recently worked through the citizenship process with a by-marriage relative, I can tell you that many of the most disconcerting questions are taken from actual government documents.)

You have to pass a physical exam—no TB, HIV, STD or mental illness.

And all this qualifying costs money—application fees and lawyer fees and doctor fees and notary fees. Proving financial support is essential. Somebody must be able to support you. The government wants to be able to seize somebody’s bank account for nonpayment of obligations. True. It seems that we no longer fling wide our doors to the tired, the poor, or the huddled masses.

Next, there are some “Additional Eligibility Factors.”

Ever been a communist? A Nazi? A terrorist? Persecuted anyone because of race, religion, national origin, or political opinion? Ever failed to pay your taxes? Been a habitual drunkard? Advocated or participated in illegal gambling? Got a criminal record? If you answer yes to any of these questions, we don’t want you. True.

Next, you must appear in person at the office of the INS and take written and oral tests to demonstrate your working knowledge of the history, principles, and form of government of the United States. I haven’t taken the actual test, but here’s the flavor of what might be asked:

Explain capitalism. Distinguish between the Democrats and Republicans. Define
liberal
. Define
conservative
. Did Betsy Ross really make the first flag? Who coined the slogan, “America—love it or leave it”? What rights are in the Bill of Rights? Whose rights are they? Is there a Bill of Responsibilities?

Add questions about current world affairs, local and state issues and economics. Name those who represent you in local and state government. Bad news. Most of us wouldn’t pass without six more weeks in a high school civics class.

Finally, we’re required to take an oath of allegiance in court. We must declare that we will support and defend the Constitution and laws of the United States of America against all enemies; fight if called on to fight, and work for the common good. Everybody—not just those who volunteer for military service.

What? I thought citizens in a democracy did or didn’t do what they damned well pleased. It’s a free country, right? Wrong.

About half the Americans I know wouldn’t qualify for citizenship.

Besides not getting passing scores on the exam, some haven’t participated in elections for a long time except to bark and bleed and moan a little louder just before the second Tuesday in November every year.

As for taking oaths, however, most of the people I know would swear to Almighty God that the problem with this country is all those lazy, stupid, double-talking, chowderheads who are running the government.

It’s all the rage. “Term limits? Damn right! Throw the rascals out!”

But are we any better than the rascals we throw in? I say, let’s find out.

I say: Tough standards for all elected and non-elected officials of government.

Suppose that every twelve years we lose our perks and privileges of office. We reapply, submit our record as citizens, get examined, tested, and checked out for competency, and pay our fees. If we pass, we get a citizen’s license, stamped with big red letters saying: “USE IT OR LOSE IT.”

If we flunk, we’ll be given mercy and sent back for retraining in history, law, and civic responsibility. We’ll be allowed two more chances to pass muster.

However. Recall our latest standards: Three strikes, and you’re out.

C
RAYOLAS

G
OOD FRIENDS FINALLY PUT
their resources together and made themselves a child. A son. Me, I’m the godfather in the deal. I take my job seriously.

So far I’ve introduced the kid to the good things in life—chocolate, beer, cigars, Beethoven, and dirty jokes. I don’t think the kid cares much for Beethoven. But he’s only a year and a half old. Which is why beer, cigars, and dirty jokes don’t cut much ice with him, either. Yes on chocolate, though. I haven’t told him about sex yet, but he’s got some ideas of his own already. I won’t go into details here, but if you have ever had a little kid or have ever been a little kid, then you know what I mean. We seem to figure out right away where certain parts are.

Also, I introduced him to crayons. Bought the Crayola beginner set—the short, fat, thick ones with training wheels. Every few weeks I would put one in his hand and show him how to make a mark with it. Mostly he just held it and stared at me. Then we went through the orifice-stuffing phase, where the Crayola went in his mouth and ears and nose. Finally, last week, I held his hand and made a big red mark with the Crayola on a sheet of newsprint. And
WHAM!
He got the picture. A light bulb went off in a new room in his head.
YES!
And he did it again on his own. And again. And again. Now, reports his mother, with a mixture of pleasure and pain, there is no stopping him from making his mark on the walls of his existence—wherever and whenever he feels like it.

Crayolas plus imagination (the ability to create images)—these make for happiness if you are a child. Amazing things, Crayolas. Some petroleum-based wax, some dye, a little binder—not much to them. Until you add the imagination. The Binney Company in Pennsylvania makes about two billion of these oleaginous sticks of pleasure every year and exports them to every country in the United Nations. Crayolas are one of the few things the human race has in common. That green-and-yellow box hasn’t changed since 1937. In fact, the only change has been to rename the “flesh” color “peach.” That’s a sign of progress.

When I bought my godson his trainer set, I indulged myself. Bought my very own set of sixty-four. In the big four-section box with the sharpener built right in. Never had my own set before. Seems like I was always too young or too old to have one. While I was at it, I bought several sets. Got one for the kid’s mother and father and explained it was theirs, not his. Fine gift.

What I notice is that every adult or child I give a new set of Crayolas to goes a little funny. The kids smile, get a glazed look on their faces, pour the crayons out, and just look at them for a while. Then they go to work on the nearest flat surface and will draw anything you ask, just name it. The adults always get the most wonderful kind of sheepish smile on their faces—a mixture of delight and nostalgia and silliness. And they immediately start telling you about all their experiences with Crayolas. Their first box, using every color, breaking them, trying to get them in the box in order again, trying to use them in a bundle, putting them on hot things to see them melt, shaving them onto waxed paper and ironing them into stained glass windows, eating them, and on and on. If you want an interesting adult party sometime, combine cocktails and a fresh box of Crayolas for everybody.

When you think about it, for sheer bulk there’s more art done with Crayolas than with anything else. There must be billions of sheets of paper in every country in the world, in billions of boxes and closets and attics and cupboards, covered with billions of pictures in crayon. The imagination of the human race poured out like a river in low and high places. Even presidents and prime ministers and generals all used Crayolas sometime in their lives.

Maybe we should develop a Crayola bomb as our next secret weapon. A happiness weapon. A Beauty Bomb. And every time a crisis developed, we would launch one first—before we tried anything else. It would explode high in the air—explode softly—and send thousands, millions, of little parachutes into the air. Floating down to earth—boxes of Crayolas. And we wouldn’t go cheap, either—not little boxes of eight. Boxes of sixty-four, with the sharpener built right in. With silver and gold and copper, magenta and peach and lime, amber and umber and all the rest. And people would smile and get a little funny look on their faces and cover the world with imagination instead of death. A child who touched one wouldn’t have his hand blown off.

Guess that sounds absurd, doesn’t it? A bit dumb. Crazy and silly and weird.

Let me be clear about this. When I consider the horrible things we have developed at horrifying expense to drop out of the sky, and when I think about what those weapons will do—well, then, I’m not confused about what’s weird and crazy and absurd. And I’m not confused about the lack of, or the need for, imagination in low or high places. We
could
do better. We
must
do better.

There are far worse things to drop on people than Crayolas.

M
IDWINTER

T
HESE NEXT TALES
are about a real season as well as a season of my mind—midwinter—from about Thanksgiving to Valentine’s Day. Midwinter has a lot of stress in it. Darkness, cold, family tension, hope, despair, religious beliefs wrapped in the confusion of social obligation and economic necessity. Christmas just happens to come in the middle of all this. Sometimes Christmas seems more like Halloween to me—all the ghosts and goblins that appear out of season.

The contradictions of midwinter drive me crazy. Some years I have wanted to hide in a hole, while in other years I wanted to organize extravaganzas, and some years I wanted to do both at the same time. One cannot live and be free of contradictions. Maybe I’ll get used to that someday.

Several years ago I gave away my substantial collection of Christmas decorations, including many boxes of wind-up toys and a fine selection of wooden things made in Bavaria and Austria—the kind that go round and round driven by the heat from candles. An era was over—pass the stuff on to the next generation—no fuss or muss in my house for Christmas. My kids stored these boxes in their basements and attics.

This year I missed my Christmas stuff. Took it all back. Put it all up. Had a fine time. Next, year? Who knows?