Page 2/The Battalion/Wednesday, July 29, 1987
Opinion
Public opinion is a poor reason for anything
In addition to
being a boon for
lawyers, the Iran-
contra af f air has
provided an
unexpected
demand for
pollsters and
statisticians.
With the
Reagan
administration
pitted against the
Congress, Republicans against
Democrats, Ollie North against the
Constitution, each side is eager to learn
who is winning the war for the hearts
and minds of the American public.
A few recent polls indicate that the
majority of Americans think that North
was telling the truth during his
testimony and that Reagan is not telling
all he knew. Another recent poll shows
that the percentage of Americans who
favor aid to the contras now equals the
percentage who oppose it.
Left alone, statistics are innocuous.
It’s only when they are the basis for
some generalization do they become
evil, hated things — the objects of Mark
Twain’s cynicism. After all, you can
argue with people, but you can’t argue
with numbers.
It’s fair to say that more than a few
people realize this and use any favorable
public opinion to justify their cause.
It’s also fair to say that more than a
few people in the United States
sincerely believe in democracy.
Consequently, they believe that the
attitudes and actions of our elected
representatives should reflect those of
the majority of Americans — or at least
the majority in that representative’s
home district or state.
But this belief rests on the
assumption that the public is informed
enough to make the right decision. It
doesn’t take into account that a situation
might be too complex for average
Dumb, learning disabled
are not the same thing
Back when I
investigative
reporter, Vice
President Spiro T.
Agnew
subpoenaed my
notes. Agnew,
under
investigation for
bribery and tax
evasion, alleged
In my case, a typewriter did the trick.
I took a typing course in high school,
and it changed my life. Words and
phrases that once I could not get down
on paper burst from the typewriter. I
suddenly found that I could do the
writing I always wanted to do. The
phrase “neatness counts” no longer
chilled, and I wrote and wrote and
Richard
Cohen
wrote.
the Justice Department was trying to
drive him from office by leaking false
information to the press.
Like other reporters subpoenaed, I
handed my notes over to my lawyer.
Unlike the others, though, I was
confident no one would ever read them.
That’s because not even I could read my
notes. I was — I am — learning
disabled.
When I was a kid, there was no such
thing as learning disabled. There was
dumb or its middle-class variant, under
achiever. (Poor kids are never under
achievers, since they are not expected to
achieve much to begin with.) I arrived at
my diagnosis after finding out a bit
about learning disabilities, especially
those that, for some reason, affect boys
more often than they do girls. Mine has
to do with small-moter coordination. I
can’t write.
Years later, a psychologist told me I
had — have! — a learning disability. He
told me things about myself I had not
quite realized. (For instance, if while I’m
interviewing someone, I concentrate on
my handwriting, I’ll lose my train of
thought; if I concentrate on what’s
being said, my hand skates all over the
page.) At first I was stunned: Me?
Learning disabled.? Then my shock
turned to anger — huger at all the
teachers who never recognized my
problem, who insisted I do things their
way, who thought all kids should have
neat handwriting and those who didn’t,
well, it was their own fault.
Of course, writing is what I do for a
living. But that writing has always been
on a typewriter and, now, a word
processer. It is writing with a pencil or
pen I am talking about. Even under the
best circumstances, I can’t do it well. My
handwriting is illegible. I write slowly,
painfully and always sloppily. I cannot
write a simple thank-you note, and it’s
been years since I’ve even attempted
one. I type everything.
As learning disabilities go, mine is not
catastrophic. It did mean that in school I
had a hard time with essays. The ideas
in my head could not find their way
onto paper. I was slow where others
were fast. And where neatness counted,
as it almost always did, I was judged
lacking and told it was my own fault. No
phrase chilled like the one teachers
invariably uttered before a test:
Neatness counts. I simply could not
write neatly. I was told I was not trying.
In other words, I was under-achieving.
The field of education is resplendent
with jargon. But learning disabled is not
one of them. It means that
accommodations must be made, that
rules or procedures must be waived,
that a child or adult must be treated as
an individual. If he or she cannot learn
in the standard way, then new ways
must be found.
And then I got angry abut all those
other kids — those with more severe
learning disabilities, those who were
told they were dumb or lazy when they
were in fact learning disabled. In some
cases, they were asked to do what they
simply could not do. In my case, no
teacher noticed that some of my
difficulty with math stemmed from an
inability to keep columns of numbers
straight. In subtraction, addition or long
division, I sometimes arrived at an
incorrect answer because I added up the
wrong numbers.
It is certain that some handicapped
kids were made to feel dumb. Call a kid
dumb and he’ll oblige. Call him an
.under-achiever and he won’t achieve.
We often do what’s expected of us —
kids especially, and maybe poor kids
most of all. Their self-confidence is low
enough to begin with. Treat them as
dumb and they’ll think of themselves as
dumb. You can learn much from a
teacher.
I’ve written this column for a reason.
The other night, I heard two teen-agers
refer to a girl as an LD. In their mouths,
the term was descriptive, not at all
pejorative, and I was pleased that, at
least with kids, the concept of learning
disabilities has gained acceptance.
Naturally, I thought of myself and also
thought about how, once before, I had
written on this subject. The mother of a
learning-disabled boy called to thank
me. She had given the column to her
son to read and it lifted his spirits.
There are prizes galore in this
business, but none better than that.
Copyright 1987, Washington Post Writers Group
The Battalion
(USPS 045 360)
Member of
Texas Press Association
Southwest Journalism Conference
The Battalion Editorial Board
Sondra Pickard, Editor
Jerry Oslin, Opinion Page Editor
Rodney Rather, City Editor
John Jarvis, Robbyn L. Lister, News Editors
Homer Jacobs, Sports Editor
Tracy Staton, Photo Editor
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citizens to understand. It doesn’t take
into account that average citizens might
not be privy to information possessed by
their representatives. It doesn’t take
into account that average citizens might
not have the time, energy or desire to
make an informed decision,
This belief also does not take into
account that people are moved by
emotion and sentimentality, two things
that often replace logic and reason in
the decision-making process. Neither
does it take into account the herd
mentality of people who would rather
take on their friends’ opinions than
form one of their own.
So, supporters of North might find
solace that the majority of Americans
polled believe he is telling the truth, but
to argue that what he did was right in
the eyes of Americans just because they
liked his performance is to assume way
too much.
Politicians might feel better knowing
that their vote coincided with the wishes
of their constituents, but to cast a vote or
form an attitude based solely on which
way the wind is blowing is cowardly.
Unfortunately, governments on
every level contain representatives who
vote their constituents’ wishes
everytime, whether or not they are in
the best interests of the district or
country. By carefully avoiding a
confrontation with the home folks, they
are almost assured of re-election. If
voters were smart, they would get rid of
these types and phone in their votes.
Just think how much money they would
save.
But there is one type of politician
worse than the public opinion voter,
that’s the party-line voter. It doesn’t
matter if the vote benefits the district or
not, the party puppet will dance to the
leadership’s tune. To eliminate the
expense incurred by this type, voters
need only declare, by majority vote of
course, which party their district is.
Columnist George Will called public
opinion a shifting sand, which is not
very good ground on which tobasea
decision. Our founding fathers were
well aware of this. A Constitutionandl
court system are just two of the
outcomes of this realization.
When it comes right down to it,
public opinion is a terrible reason too |
anything. And to expect our
representatives to make decisionsbas
solely on public opinion would beto
defeat the whole purpose of
representative government. Itwoult
also put the future of this countryat;
whim of anybody who came acrosskz
on television, which is somethingtht
past six years have taught us weshou:
avoid.
Jerry Oslin is a journalism graduait
and opinion page editor for The
Battalion.
Living with a chili dog addictiot
If you’re addicted
to drugs or alcohol,
you can go
someplace like the
Betty Ford Clinic
and get help.
But where do you
go if you’re addicted
to chili dogs?
Yes, chili dogs.
Those wonderful
hot dogs with lots of
chili on them and
mustard and onions
“And would you mind,” I would ask,
“stopping by the Varsity on your way to the
airport and bringing me 14 dozen chili
dogs.”
Later, it became clearly evident to the
young lady that I looked forward to the chili
dogs more than 1 looked forward to seeing
her.
“It’s me or the chili dogs,” she eventually
said.
The other night, for instance, I went
the Varsity and had three chili dogswitl
mustard and raw onions.
1 also had an order of french fries and
topped that off with a Varsity fried applf?
with ice cream on it.
Lewis
Grizzard
I often wonder what ever happened to
her.
on the chili that the mere mention of which
makes my mouth water, my heart rate speed
up and my stomach literally beg to be fed as
many of these delights as it can hold.
I had my first chili dog when I was 12. My
father took me to Atlanta’s legendary
Varsity, the world’s largest outdoor drive-in.
My father ordered me a chili dog. I took
the first bite of it and I was hooked.
During my three years in exile in Chicago,
I formulated a scheme to get chili dogs from
the Varsity delivered to me.
I started dating a girl I met on a trip back
home to Atlanta. Every other week I would
fly her to Chicago.
I had heart surgery in 1982. The doctors
said I could have anything I wanted to eat
for my pre-operation dinner.
I sent for Varsity chili dogs. Had I died
under the knife the next day, at least I would
have had a satisfying last meal.
For years I’ve tried to decide why Varsity
chili dogs remain the best I’ve ever eaten.
The hot dogs are good and so is the chili,
but it’s the buns that really do it. The
Varsity, somebody was telling me, steams its
buns. There’s nothing better than a steamy
bun.
But I must admit my chili dog addiciton is
becoming a problem.
I can’t eat them like 1 used to and not pay
a painful price.
My stomach and I simply will haveio
learn to live with a certain fact.
That is, chili dogs always barkatnigl 1
Copyright 1987, Cowles Syndicate
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I went to bed at 11. The chili dogshiti
about 2.
My stomach felt like 1 had eatenalarf
box of nails. It made strange soundslift
“goooorp” and “brriiip!”
I got out of bed, took six Rolaids.two
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Maalox. Nothing helped.
I’ll never eat another chili dog, Isakh
myself.
Those addicted to any substanceote' :
things like that but they rarely stick toil
I know I’ll be back at the Varsity soon
woofing down chili dogs. And, later,tk
agony and the “goooorfs” and “brriips
be back.
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