My parents taught me values that would make Benjamin Franklin proud. They paid their taxes, voted, and saved for a rainy day. They were hardworking. They sacrificed leisure to get things done. Because I follow their teachings, I’m honest, trustworthy, frugal, and tidy.
Even though I’m heir to those American values — brought to our shores by sober Puritans — I’m more appreciative of other ways of being as I creep into old age. I can appreciate Americans who are different from me. Indeed, I like to be around people who color outside the lines, who change the narrative, who shock and criticize us.
Perhaps I enjoy those people because I can’t break any rules. I’ve rarely stepped over the line, or smoked pot, or driven too fast, or failed to appear when called. Back in the past, when couples at a summer party stripped and jumped naked into a swimming pool, I stood by, unable to unzip.
That’s who I am, the character who watches; the designated driver; the prude who doesn’t get in on the fun. It’s easy to blame my restraint on my parents with their noble principles, but at this advanced age I must take ownership of who I am. I enjoy writing about myself as I get to know me — the careful one, the map-reader, the observer.
Age has taught me to seek out people different from me, those who awaken me from conformity, those who inspire me and keep me from boredom. They are the laughter in our quiet, the excitement in the flat days, the spark in the bland air. In literature they are conniving servants, funny criminals, wise wanderers, models of mischief. Like Mary Poppins, they come into our lives bringing magic.
If we’re lucky, we’ve some friends like Poppins, ready to lift our spirits. At just the right time, they come with flowers, chocolate, or dumb jokes. When I was hospitalized, Mary Poppins came with toffee and a book. Wearing her wooly cap, she walked (or descended) into the room with light and sweets. In another form, a Poppins friend came lumbering in with jokes. He made the overworked staff look up and smile.
While I’m part of the tradition of the Puritans,whose values have made us a decent, successful, prosperous country, the Poppins people represent another sort of American — the entertainer, the giver, the adventurer who jumps naked into any water that beckons. We’d still be wearing gray, burning witches and preaching for hours if it weren’t for this other, more creative, part of our culture. I’m a fan of Dave Barry, a funny writer who shakes our complacency with humor. He defines a sense of humor as “a measurement of the extent to which we realize that we are trapped in a world almost totally devoid of reason. Laughter is how we express the anxiety we feel at this knowledge.”
Critics, like Barry, make fun of us. We need their critiques. I’m thinking of the satirists, like the one who mocked our Cold War with Doctor Strangelove, and the television hosts who make fun of our politicians. Jon Stewart is a master. Their satire serves us.
Another American spirit that awakens me has come to us through our borders, back when immigration was possible for many. We’ve been blessed by them. They’ve brought us gifts of nourishment and ease in the world, their music, their energy and enormous talents. They make movies; write wonderful books, cook new foods, teach our kids and lift our heavy loads. We would be poorer without their strength and infusion of color.
As I write this morning, I’d no idea that my thoughts would take me to a political place, but I see they have. Because I enjoy our diversity, I support efforts to make immigration easier, and hope we can resolve the arguments and calm the rancor. It’s not just that we need the infusion of other cultures, which we do to thrive, but we have to offer sanctuary to suffering. Turning our backs on those at our gates is a rejection of all I know of compassion and goodness.
My parents came here as immigrants from privation and adjusted to a new language, a new climate, and some resistance. But they were so grateful to be free to farm and go to school that they became obedient, model citizens. I have complete faith in those who clamor now for admission. They will enrich us, teach us what we need to learn, and we’ll be renewed.
I’d be gloomy, quiet, and orderly without the inspiration and beauty of the newcomers, the Poppins people, and those prickly satirists. I’d be eating boring food, watching boring television, and living in Massachusetts.
Elaine Jordan, author of Mrs. Ogg Played the Harp, is a local editor who’s lived in Prescott for thirty years.
