Also this issue:

Introducing CitySpace
New feature debuts offering a critical, informed look at design, architecture and the hows and whys of growth.
-William P. Becker

Unjust Justice
Why Commonwealth Court's decision is flawed and outrageous.
-Angel L. Ortiz

Pipeline Dreams

Letters to the Editor

September 19-25, 2002

loose canon

The Kvetch Games

by Bruce Schimmel

The imminent occasion of my sister’s kid’s bat mitzvah, specifically the prospect of encountering all kinds of kin in close proximity, provoked a discussion with my wife (a.k.a. Spousal Unit, or SU) about kvetching. You might also find it useful.

SU did not grow up in a family that kvetched. Hers is a family with Midwestern values, if not manners. For them, the dinner table was a place where people ate, not the site of pitched battles. Beyond that, my SU's people are primarily of the Catholic persuasion, who, if suffering, generally do so in silence. Complaining -- in all its glorious, myriad forms, from flagrant breast-beating to delicate snipping -- is considered rude. Imagine that!

Whereas in my family the carping, grousing and nagging that come with kvetching are ordinary forms of civil discourse. One might go further to assert that the practice of these energetic forms of conversation is even civilizing, given the alternative ways of presenting disparate views at the dinner table, which might include the use of cutlery.

Knives and forks aside, none of the discussions in my family have become animated enough to cause physical injury. Far from it. That's because complaining -- as practiced by some -- is a social sport, not a blood sport. Its wounds may occasionally probe deeply, but are usually invisible. And besides, they're often not felt for years.

All this did not sit well with SU, until I assured her that as a sport, complaining has a place for spectators. A safe place. Think of it as ice hockey as viewed by a native of a tropical island. He knows there's a fight going on, and can view the events on the playing field with concern, even horror. But ultimately, since he's not to these manners born, it's hard for him to become engaged in the struggle, much less take sides.

As things begin to look grim, a spectator's look of confusion -- especially when genuine -- can serve as a personal Plexiglas shield, useful for keeping the puck out of one's face.

And always, always remember this is sport. It may sound like Arthur Miller, but be assured it's all good, clean family entertainment. It's just kvetching.

My wife was reassured. Relieved even. Because she then asked me if I, in all my peevishness, grousing, needling, moaning, nudging and nagging, was merely kvetching.

Sure, I said. After 17 years of marriage, I asked, you don't take me seriously.

A look of confusion passed over her face, followed by her usual peaceful demeanor.

Oh, no, she replied, as she picked up the cat, who was whining at nothing in particular.