The pictured ad keeps showing up in my local paper. Enough already.

Let me be clear: This critique is not of OHSU’s Knight Cancer Institute. I hold the Institute and its work in high regard. I lost my wife to breast cancer 30 years ago. I have been treated for cancer at an OSHU facility. Their work matters.

No, my critique is of this information–deprived, bravado–laden advertisement. It offers not one word about what the good people at OHSU’s Knight Cancer Institute are actually doing about cancer, how they’re doing it, or what kind of progress they’re making. Moreover, there is no call to action, no contact information, in fact, no useful information whatsoever.

As far as I can infer, the ad’s objective is pure bravado: to present the Institute as a valiant, anti–cancer martyr–crusader, possibly so Board members can puff their chests.

Now, I have always defined a “good” ad as an ad that meets its objective. If I have correctly inferred the objective, then in that regard this ad succeeds. My beef is with the objective. Abject bravado becomes no one.

At best, readers will mutter “Yeah, cancer sucks” and turn the page. Hardly a good use of the Institute’s advertising budget.

The author's lot is a hard one, and yet there are those who deliberately set out to make it harder for themselves. There are those who, in their pride and their innocence, dedicate their careers to writing humorous pieces. Poor dears, the world is stacked against them from the start, for everybody in it has the right to look at their work and say, “I don't think that's funny.” —Dorothy Parker

The first lumpy mail project I worked on (about five years before I launched my own agency, if you care) involved M&MS®.

“Lumpy mail” is informal–speak for “three–dimensional mail,” which contains some sort of object that illustrates a selling point. In this case, the point was that our client could deliver natural gas—same gas, same pipeline—to industrial users for about 25 percent less than the local utility charged.

To illustrate the point, we mailed pairs of half–pound bags of M&MS with a letter explaining that although the bags were identical, the bag on the left came from a discount grocery chain and sold for about 25 percent less than the bag on the right, which came from a convenience store.

The campaign helped our client sign up plenty of new customers, more than paying for itself, but that’s not what this post is about.

My boss felt it was important that our client be able to defend the M&MS price difference claim, just in case someone challenged it. So, off I went, visiting store after store until I found M&MS priced the way we needed. Remarkably, I succeeded. At a nearby convenience store, I found half–pound bags of M&MS priced exactly 25 percent higher than half–pound bags at a nearby grocery outlet. I asked for the manager and ordered several hundred bags. 

The manager said, “For that many, I can get you a discount.”

I replied, “Thank you, but if you don’t mind, I’d rather pay the higher price.”

My mind’s eye can still see his baffled expression. 

# # #

THE NIGHT AIR is perfect this time of year for sleeping with the bedroom windows open. But the other night, some neighborhood teens were having a great, noisy time of shooting hoops and using their outdoor voices a few hundred feet away. I thought they’d knock off by 9 pm. Nope. Maybe 10? 11? Nope.

I thought about but decided against going out there and asking them to wrap it up. Being a teen isn’t easy. Good for them, I felt, that instead of going out finding trouble, they were home, engaged in a wholesome activity. I wanted them to enjoy it. Were they being thoughtless? Sure. But thoughtlessness isn’t a crime. And maybe more than being thoughtless, they were being teens. That’s not a crime, either, and they won’t get to be teens for very long.

Besides, I had an alternative. 

​I closed my windows, turned on the AC, and fired up the CPAP. It pretty much blocked out their noise. I can’t speak for my other neighbors, but as for me, I slept quite well.

CONTRARY TO what Califorinia guv’s Gavin Newsom seems to think, the unhoused are not invaders. They are victims.

Here is Newsom’s latest on homelessness: “No more excuses. It is time to take back the streets. It’s time to take back the sidewalks. It’s time to take these encampments and provide alternatives.”

To be fair, Newsom announced over $3 billion in grants to treat homeless people who “struggle with mental health and substance use disorders.” Committing funds, along with “providing alternatives,” is laudable. But characterizing unhoused persons as products of “mental health and substance use disorders” only feeds the heinous narrative that would dismiss them as victims of their own doing.

The mischaracterization is as intellectually lazy as it is cruel and monumentally inaccurate. Homelessness is largely an economic outcome. Addressing it requires identifying and addressing myriad underlying economic — and social — causal factors.

Blaming the unhoused for being unhoused only serves those righteous souls who are looking for an excuse, any excuse, not to show a little compassion.

“You feel that way because you’re a liberal,” quoth a perturbed, conservative acquaintance.

​Actually, no. 

I don’t do anything because I’m a “liberal.” Nor do I know any other so–called “liberals” who do anything at all because they’re “liberals.” They may exist, but I haven’t met them.

I don’t think of myself as a “liberal.” It is not, for me, an identity.

“Liberal” is a term that some affix to me because of what I feel, do, and decide. It comes after the fact. What comes before the fact? In my case it’s fact–checking, reasoning, and engaging in empathy, all while remaining open to a change of mind and heart if and as I learn more. 

By contrast, “conservative” seems to be very much an identity for many. Not a few conservatives have out–and–out told me they take certain stands because, well, because they’re conservatives. Why do you feel that way? “Because I’m a conservative.” Why did you vote for that candidate? “Because I’m a conservative.” Why do you support / oppose this measure? “Because I’m a conservative.” That it’s circular reasoning doesn’t seem to give them pause.

For the record, here’s where my fact–checking, reasoning, and empathy have led me as of this writing:

• I believe humans are one family. No population is intrinsically inferior or superior, worthier or unworthier.
• I believe that empathy, humility, compassion, fairness, and equity matter, and that they matter a hell of a lot more than the economy, which also matters.
• I believe that acknowledging factors beyond one’s control, for the successful as well as the destitute and all in–between, helps breed empathy, humility, compassion, fairness, and equity.
• I believe that no one should be deprived of food, shelter, or medical care.
• I believe that racism is real, that anti-racism is imperative, and that the latter demands our ongoing vigilance.
• I believe that I have no say in anyone’s sexual orientation and / or gender.
• I believe that unbridled capitalism is a prescription for inequity and injustice.
• I believe that democracy is not without danger, especially without built–in protections for the rights of the minority.
• I believe in freedom of thought and of religion, and that such is possible only to the extent that government and religion stay out of one another’s business.
• I believe the environment is in danger and that we damn well better wake up.

​Because I believe these things, some people  call me a “liberal.” Like it’s a bad thing.

I STAND at a Minneapolis light rail ticket machine, looking stupid. ​

“You lost, bro?”

I look over to see a young woman and two young men, all in their late twenties, whose clothes, grooming, tattoos, manner, and—and oh, how I hate admitting this—hues suggest mugger stereotypes pulled straight from a movie. Two of them seem a little neurodivergent.  The one addressing me more than seems.

“I’m trying to figure out which train goes to the airport,” I answer.

The young man who addressed me shows me where to stand. 

The young woman says, “Do you want Terminal One or Two? It should say on your ticket.” I didn’t know there were separate stops. I check. Terminal One. I thank her for the tip.

I overhear them worry among themselves if transit enforcement will be checking for tickets. Their pooled change is enough only for one. A ticket costs a whopping dollar. I return to the machine and buy them two tickets.

The four of us huddle under a heater, chatting, a curious quartet in which I look utterly out of place. A train approaches. “Not that one, bro,” the second young man cautions me, “that’s the Green Line. You want the Blue Line.”

They are bound for a stop on the same route, so when the Blue Line arrives, we board together. Before I can take a seat, the train jerks to a start, sending me sprawling. Concerned, they ask if I’m ok. Yes, thank you, I am.

Their stop comes first. As they disembark, the young woman reminds me to watch for Terminal One.

They number among the most thoughtful and courteous locals I have encountered in my travels.

As I sit in the airport awaiting my flight, it occurs to me that, from their point of view, this 70–year–old white guy could have represented a negative stereotype in his own right. Perhaps privileged, disapproving, afraid, disinterested, racist, or uncaring. But, no. They saw someone who looked lost, and reached out to help him.

It’s hard to know when to damn first impressions. It’s not always safe to do so. All I can say is, I’m glad they took a chance on me, which gave me an opportunity to take one on them.

IN EIGHTH grade English, Mrs.* Antoniaza told us that the singular pronoun for a group of mixed or unknown gender was he–his–him. Always. Female students objected. Too bad, Mrs. Antoniaza replied. Rules were rules.

But language is dynamic. Grammatical rules do not dictate but reflect usage. Indeed, a little over ten years later, feminist sensibilities had rightly succeeded in overturning the he–his–him rule.

​I am all for the fairness underlying the change but not fond of the awkward he or she construction. Not to worry. A bit of finessing is all it takes to avoid the dread phrase and still honor the fairness. (I share a few tips here.)

In the 1980s, a colleague with a Ph.D. in English predicted that the already informally acceptable they–their–them would become standard. I wasn’t so sure, but today, not for reasons he or I could have anticipated, American usage indeed seems headed that way.

So, sorry, sticklers.** Even if the use of they–their–them as singular pronouns grates on your ears, it is no longer “incorrect.” Still, writers must take care to avoid confusion. Again, a bit of finessing can save you. That’s why some of us call writing “work.”
______________________
*No, not Ms., thank you very much, she told us.
​**Not really sorry.

* * *

ONE FINE DAY in Reno in 1975 as I sat in my German immigrant grandmother’s kitchen looking through the paper, I noted that the jazz–rock band Blood Sweat & Tears (BS&T) was to perform at a dinner show at a Lake Tahoe casino–resort. Before I could think better of it, I overheard myself say, “David Clayton–Thomas is back with them. I always said I’d go see them if they came to town. Oh well.”

“Well,” my grandmother said, “let’s go. I will pay.”

​Uh oh.

Here’s the thing. Everyone in our family knew not to go out to dinner with Gram. She  was wonderful and generous with her grandchildren, but in restaurants she was a snob and a complainer. Her family had servants when she was a child in Germany. Decades in America hadn’t broken her of treating servers like servants, which in her mind meant treating them with outright disdain. She was especially unkind to female servers. To her, respectable women didn’t work outside the home.

No restaurant could please her. If you made the mistake of saying your meal was good, she would spit out so other diners and the help could hear, “My dinner tastes like shoe leather.”

Moreover, a lot of people about my age would be at the show. Call me small, but this 21–year–old wasn’t eager to walk in with a 72–year–old woman clutching his arm.

But I had wished aloud, and Gram had heard. If I declined, she would know why, and it would hurt.

A split second was all I needed to decide. “Gee,” I managed, “that would be great.”

On the appointed night, we drove up the mountain to Lake Tahoe. As the host showed us to our seats, did everyone stare and assume I was a gigolo*, or did I only imagine it? No matter. It felt the same.

To my relief, Gram was not discourteous to the help. Nor was she impatient with being seated at a crowded table with other couples. Nor did she complain about the food. The night was young, but so far so good.

The meal was served and the show began. BS&T and David Clayton–Thomas delivered a stunning performance. I still thrill at the memory of the tuba solo Dave Bargeron belted out. 

Toward the end of the song “Hi De Ho,” Clayton–Thomas called out for the audience to sing along. Only one audience member did. It happened to be an audience member with a German accent, and she didn’t hold back on the volume. I sank a bit lower in my seat.

I loved the show. Unfortunately, the lights came back up after it was over. Once again I felt everyone staring at me. They most likely weren’t, but it was what I imagined. I slinked out of the place with Gram on my arm, loaded her into the car, and we headed down the mountain.

Once in the car, she began not to complain, but to exult. It was the first time in years she had forgotten all of her troubles. It was the first time in years anyone had taken her anywhere. (True enough.) It was the most fun she could recall having ever had. She’d had a wonderful time. All the way down the mountain, she brimmed with happiness. And gratitude. To me. Me. You know, the guy who—thank goodness she hadn’t been able tell—had been embarrassed to be seen with her.

I found myself thinking, That wasn’t so bad. I could do it again.

Three months later, it came time for me to leave Reno. Gram died about six months later.

I was 17, and Dad had given me 16 hours to move out. Suffice it to say that I was a good kid, and that Dad had his demons. My grandmother, his mother, sheltered me in her home for a few weeks while I looked for long-term digs. Dad refused ever to speak to Gram again.
​
Among the many life skills this then–17–year–old lacked were laundering and ironing. Gram willingly assumed those tasks for me, offering to continue once I found a new place to stay.

In time, the family of my best–friend–since–age–11 offered to take me in. My friend’s mom, Beverly, even offered to do my laundry with the rest of the family’s. She would hardly notice the extra, she assured me.

At the news, Gram went ballistic, conjuring up accusation after accusation directed at Beverly. That horrible woman was sure to ruin my clothes! Gram ranted on, refusing to let it rest. 

I am and have always been slow to anger, but after a half–hour the harangue was getting to me. A strong rebuke welled up. But suddenly, some remote corner of my brain spoke calm. It said, Gram needs to be needed. She’s afraid of being replaced. You’re the youngest, the only one left who relies on her. Instead of defending Beverly, how about you address the real issue?

I drew a breath and looked at my seething grandmother. “Anyone can do my laundry,” I said, “but nobody else can be my grandmother.”

She was instantly calmed. 

My mouth often blurts without bothering to consult the Inner Executive Committee. Here I am, better than 50 years later, ever grateful to said Committee for butting in and turning what could have been a regrettable memory into a tender one. 

I stayed with my friend’s family for 18 months—but I continued bringing my laundry to Gram. To be sure, she did me a big service. But, I had come to realize, I did her one by letting her do it for me.