Poosey Digest: Intolerance

Mrs. Cory was big on the word “Tolerate.” She used it nearly every hour when I was in sixth-grade. “I will not tolerate idle talking in class!” (I always assumed that my own personal chatting was not idle. She disagreed.) “I will not tolerate chewing gum!” (A sixth-grader can easily keep two sticks hidden under his tongue through an entire filmstrip on Brazil.) “I will not tolerate sloppy handwriting!” (Okay, I was sunk on this one. You can’t fake neatness. Either you got it or don’t.)

After a few weeks in her class we all learned that there was a huge list of things that Mrs. Cory would not tolerate. In fact, the list of things she would tolerate was much shorter. I always wanted to ask her if there were things that we students weren’t allowed to tolerate, but I don’t think she’d have tolerated that question.

For some folks, toleration is a dirty word. If you tolerate things too much then society will crumble, our moral fabric will become frayed and we’ll all be headed for hell in a hat basket. Toleration poisoning.

Many of us spend a good deal of time looking for signs that we’re growing old. A hitch in our knee sends up visions of orthopedic surgeons, and momentarily forgetting where we parked the car at Wal-Mart causes us to be seized with a fear of dementia. But I’ve found that the most dangerous signals of age are the moments when I’m grabbed around the throat by the bony fingers of intolerance. And, like all faults, I see it most plainly in other folks.

We’ll be sitting for coffee at the Jiffy Stop and a young man will enter with so many piercing that you assume he leaks. A young gal will walk into the store with what looks like a weed-induced art gallery tattooed onto her back. The old codgers around me will stiffen. From five seconds of observation we assume that the vagabond customer is on drugs, has a prison record, sired 15 illegitimate children last summer, and probably beats his dog. If we had the nerve of Mrs. Cory we’d stand and shout, “I will not tolerate that!”

And of course we’re usually wrong. “I will not tolerate” can easily be translated to mean, “I will not accept!” “I will not adapt!” “I will not compromise!” and most dangerously, “I will not try to understand!” And in saying that, mankind takes another wide step apart, the country becomes fragmented even further, and (I’m just guessing here) God frowns.

Yep, change is scary, but I’m sure at one time our ancestors screamed, “I will not tolerate electricity in my house!” or “I will not tolerate those confounded automobiles in my town!” and even, “Indoor plumbing? I won’t tolerate it!”

I’ll call her Lana and she’s by far one of the happiest residents in her retirement facility. While the other gals at breakfast complain about the way their grandchildren spend too much time on their cell phones, Lana is glad they have a convenient way of calling her. When the other inhabitants of her lunch crowd grouse about a boy’s pants drooping below the danger line, Lana thinks back to the days when her mother had a fit at Lana’s new “bobbed” hairstyle. Is it just a coincidence that Lana, the most tolerant of the group is also the happiest?

I once asked her how she was able to keep a sunny outlook toward a world that she didn’t really understand anymore. “Oh heck,” she said, “It was wearing me out trying straighten out the rest of the world. Once I started concentrating on making my own self better instead of fixing everybody else… well… life just got a whole lot easier.” (She added that then the pants-drooper or the tattooed girl becomes your nephew or granddaughter, then your outlook tends to change.)

Many of us spend a good many hours praying, “Oh Lord, let me not become feeble. Let me not become senile. Let me be able to tie my shoes tomorrow morning,” when perhaps the real secret to staying young and happy is simply, “Oh Lord, teach me to tolerate!”

Mrs. Cory was a good teacher, I suppose. At least she taught us some much-needed discipline. But to look at her she was never a terribly happy teacher. She just wouldn’t tolerate it.

You ever in Poosey, stop by. We may not answer the door but you’ll enjoy the trip.