I’m mostly glad that the rick-man and I decided to skip
this summer’s travel season. The travel
news from multiple friends bemoans the high temperatures gripping much of the
nation, the wildfires that are creating so much destruction in the west, the
severe storms and flooding in both the expected and unexpected locales, and the
onslaught of mosquitoes that are a byproduct of an unusually warm winter past. Not to mention the impact of travel
destinations packed with summer crowds that I casually stereotype as screaming
that campy song: “Schools out for
summer!”
But regardless the weather, I get a wee bit “difficult”
if I don’t get at least an hour of outdoor time each day. Early morning and late afternoon walks are my
fallback baseline, but they forfeit the possibility of an afternoon breeze and
encourage the accompaniment of mosquitoes. And so I’ve spent most mornings on
my bicycle, with two hours of riding through the connecting neighborhoods of
this corner of suburbia. Neighborhoods
can provide an interesting backdrop to watch Mother Nature doing what Mother
Nature does.
I ride my bike and watch a juvenile Red-shouldered hawk,
perched on the wrought-iron gated driveway of a mini-mansion. Two mockers swoop in and give chase. Mockers can be viewed as the bullies or the
security guards of the neighborhood—it depends on your view as a witness, or as
a victim, of their behavior. But you
have to love their consistent “This is mine!” attitude, especially when they give
chase to a predator multiple times their size.
And like most of Mother Nature’s creation, their species behavior is
based on objective instinct for survival, as compared to a few of Mother Nature’s
creation, whose species behavior may add subjective opinion into the mix. Or at
least that’s what I think.
I ride my bike and watch small groups of American
Robins that made the decision to spend this summer homesteading the wooded edge
of a golf course community. I wonder their choice not to migrate to the cooler locales that Sibley
points them toward for summer residency.
I ride through the older neighborhoods, with less
material wealth and more of the grand old Live Oak trees, with gnarled and bent
limbs sweeping to the ground. Why do we
view trees as beautiful when they are old and gnarled and bent—and view humans
as not? These oaks are alive with Blue Jays
and squirrels, openly bickering over fallen nuts, homestead rights and HOA
regulations.
And the common theme that unifies all of these
neighborhoods? The smell of Bounce
escaping from dryer vents. The smell of
Bounce seems to be a uniting characteristic of middle-class American
neighborhoods.
My bike ride weaves through the connecting neighborhoods that
represent the stylized categories of suburban living, and I note the
commonality and uniqueness of what could be categorized as lower middle-income,
average-middle income and upper middle-income neighborhoods (to the point of
what appears wealthy). And yes, both the
easy access by bicycle and the apparent income categories reinforce the understood
(but rarely discussed) architecture of suburbia: low income neighborhoods are not directly
connected by street routes that are easily traversed by bicycle.
I can readily oversimplify the differences in lower-,
average- and upper-middle income neighborhoods by noting the numbers of
commercial lawn companies frequenting each neighborhood. My observations would propose a direct
correlation between the wealth of a neighborhood and the number of diesel
trucks pulling trailer-beds of mowing and lawn equipment. Simply observed: the wealthier the neighborhood, the greater the
number of lawn service trucks I must avoid.
The economics and environmental impact of residential commercial lawn
services would make an interesting discussion--but not here.
I pause for a drink of water, an hour’s ride away from
my corner of suburbia where small townhomes and shared green space are the norm. I gaze upon the manicured lawns and gardens
of one of the area’s wealthiest of neighborhoods:
I won’t be a hypocrite.
I like riding my bike through the wealthier neighborhoods. The streets are smooth and wide, and the
yards and gardens are lovely. And riding
my bike through the wealthier neighborhoods provides the added benefit of
helping me increase my lung capacity, due to the number of times I hold my
breath.
I hold my breath (and pedal faster) each time I ride
past a commercial work crew pushing mega-lawn mowers and backpacking mega-leaf
blowers across those well-maintained yards.
The lawn equipment expels the smells of combusted gasoline and oil fumes,
and throws the smells of freshly mowed St. Augustine grass clippings (until the
clippings seemingly disappear further down the street or into storm drains). I hold my breath as I quickly pedal past the
hard work at hand, avoiding the smells of expelled carcinogens and thrown allergens,
exhaling and sucking air as soon as I’ve ridden past a smell’s throw from the
yard. And just as suddenly as I catch my
breath, pondering the health of the lawn crew, I again suddenly suck in a gulp
of air and hold my breath, this time pedaling slower, yielding the street to yet
another mowing company’s diesel exhaust-fumed truck as it pulls its trailer-bed
of mowing equipment past me, on way to a next customer’s yard.
Yes, these wealthy neighborhoods give my lung capacity
good exercise. And almost always the diesel
trucks are carrying a work crew that shares a friendly wave as they go by. The economics, environmental impact and employee
medical benefits of residential commercial lawn service companies would make an
interesting discussion--but not here.
But this week I’ve most wondered about two separate
sightings of the same bumper sticker.
The second sighting afforded me a quick photograph:
I’ve pondered this bumper sticker more times this week
than I should probably admit. And I’ve
come to one conclusion: this expression,
albeit crudely phrased, may be one of the few universal truths that most
people, regardless of their country of citizenship, their race, or religion (or
other categories of people-grouping labels), might all agree with, in
principle, if not in phrasing. I’d love
to watch an international news reporter poll people from around the world and
get their vote as to the likelihood of agreement for “Mean People Suck” as
being a universal truth.
Not only do I believe that most people would readily
understand this three-word meaning (when translated as required), but I also
believe they would agree with the expression’s intended meaning. And if we are honest and transparent, I think
most of us would also admit to an occasional (or frequent) bout of meanness of
manner. I can understand this behavior
because I can demonstrate this behavior.
“Mean” is a fascinating English word. It has so many different meanings (pun is
intended). As a verb, it can express
intent or purpose, such as “I mean to write shorter blog posts.” As a noun it can express several different
intents, including the middle position of a group of objects or numbers. (Standardized testing will certainly expect a
mastered differentiation between the mathematical mean and the statistical average.)
But this bumper sticker means to express a
well-understood adjective for a people-type:
the mean people among us (including ourselves). And I don’t mean the often complementary use of the word to express excellence
or effective behavior, as in “She plays a mean banjo.” Nor would the bumper sticker be mistaken as expressing
an action worthy of little regard (and most often used negatively). An apolitical ready example would be “Whether in agreement or not, that
was no mean feat of Chief Justice Roberts.”
I think almost all people groups would recognize this bumper
sticker as expressing the impact of that ever so common human behavior that
causes trouble or bothers; behavior characterized by selfishness or malice;
behavior that is sharply unpleasant and frequently caustic; behavior that at
best can emotionally wound, and at worst can result in physical violence. I believe Tom Hanks expressed it well in “You’ve
Got Mail” as he anonymously referred to someone (himself) as Mr. Nasty.
I know I can be mean, as mostly demonstrated as a
verbal act of behaving badly. But
sometimes I can be mean as an act of intended omission. Either way, I know I’ve just crossed the line
into the world of the meanies—and it never feels good. And it is never a pretty site.
I’ve been in the presence of other people being mean,
sometimes as a behavior directed toward me, or toward a friend, a co-worker, a
family member. And I’ve observed, from a
distance, the meanness of people as individuals and as groups. It is never a pretty site.
The older I get the less universal truths I easily
grasp, or accept. But one is for sure: “Mean People Suck”
