Fog Horn Syndrome and Saipan

Earlier this week I had the dubious honor of having lunch with one of the world’s reigning loud mouths. There were about eight folks at the table (all of us colleagues but strangers), and the center of attention (and irritation) was this loud-mouthed idiot who fog-horned his “wisdom” and criticism on every conceivable subject under the sun. This luncheon was for a group of professionals who hailed from several countries, and I felt like hiding under the table as Mr. Fog Horn became a tangible, 220-lbs living example of the worst stereotypes of the “Ugly American.”

Of course, Fog Horn Syndrome afflicts folks from all over the world, not just Americans, but maybe I’m more sensitive to the Americans who have the disease since it seems to implicate me by mere dint of associative stereotype. I suspect that the roots of this run to the old country: I’ve had British visitors who had chronic FHS, so maybe it’s endemic to the genetics or something.

Anyway, finally getting to the point, here we go: Saipan has always been inflicted with a vociferous minority of FHS carriers. There are always a few gadflies and know-nothings who insist on lecturing islanders on how all aspects of life “should” be done. They insist on trying to build their cockeyed versions of utopia right in the middle of Saipan, so they can smother the island under a wet blanket of carping, neurotic, Puritan boredom.

That’s a curse, but I count my blessings since I am a rolling stone and I don’t usually have to rub up against the FHS gadflies. They tend to home in on feeble prey, which sure as heck isn’t me.

But kids, on the other hand, often get cornered without a polite way to egress. Why does every Americano with a mouth and vocal chords insist on lecturing Chamorro kids on how they should live their lives? I’ve seen a lot of kids stand still for pompous lectures from the fog-horn crowd that nobody should have to endure.

The fact is that anyone who is fulfilled in their own life doesn’t have to distract themselves by trying to meddle in other peoples’ affairs. This is, I will note, separate and distinct than taking a mischievous delight in humanity’s folly, which is an avocation that all sane men and women indulge. A clever curmudgeon like H.L. Mencken is one thing; a carping and sour-faced poke-nose is quite another.

And the way I’ve got it figured is this: The armchair critics and poke-noses of the world are miserable and bored, and they want to infect others with the same sad fate. See? It really is some kind of disease. Kids seem like the most receptive and, therefore, vulnerable victims for this scheme. And kids with a modicum of manners are really targets of opportunity, since they hold the promise of actually standing still for an unsolicited lecture, portentous advice, and unwanted opinions.

Ah, the halcyon days of youth…I was a choirboy, and most of the adults at church were great folks whom I admired a lot. Northwestern University was just a few blocks away, and many of the grown-ups in choir were graduate students. We had a reading group, Sunday school, vacation Bible school, and the usual array of stuff like that, and you are sure blessed as a kid when your tutors in such things are also working on Ph.Ds in math or finance from the mighty N.U. These were fun grown- ups to be around.

But outside of church—yikes, watch out. A polite kid is like some kind of magnet for neighbors and minions of various types who are overflowing with worthless “free” advice. They’d try to bait me into their lectures by hooking me with an innocent sounding “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

Ha! I was too shrewd to take that bait.

My inner voice always answered: “Not a loser like you, you blowhard bore.”

My outer voice always answered: “I want to be like Dad.” This didn’t give the blowhards and gadflies a conceptual opening to jam their foot into, and off I’d go.

The worst fate of all would be to grow up with a case of Fog Horn Syndrome. When an FHS carrier is in earshot, I reflexively reach for my best machete. It’s from Batangas, a real beauty, and I just might start taking it with me to lunch.

(Ed Stephens, Jr. is an economist and columnist for the Saipan Tribune. Ed4Saipan@yahoo.com)