Trump’s tweets hurt his support in the Heartland

trump-tweets

Image courtesy of Vocativ.

My aunt’s glittering Christmas tree remained up and surrounded by presents well past New Year’s. Outdoors, Trump-Pence campaign signs posted around her rolling rural Missouri community did, too – for much the same reason.

“It’s too cold to do anything,” one of my cousins said. “Door froze shut on the car yesterday.”

Across America’s Heartland, one southward bending jet steam after another pulled down bitter cold from Canada since the week after Thanksgiving. Feels-like temperatures had minus signs in front of them, turning county and backroads into strips of ice and freezing my family’s travel plans to my aunt’s house.

Before that, stretching to Election Day, dripping skies turned the rich, dark soil to mud around this mid-Missouri farming landscape, literally and figuratively freezing it in place since Nov. 8.

But when the thaw comes, I wonder if the Trump signs are pulled down before the Christmas decorations.

The hint that they might came during a TV news break between playoff football games. My aunt, whose prayers for clear roads and a big family Christmas were answered, was picking up bits of wrapping paper left after a 90-minute cacophony of gift-giving and food consumption in her broad living room. Recovery victims slouched in every chair and nook between them. About half the sets of eyes aimed at the TV were half open.

Then the news announcer reminded viewers of Donald Trump’s pointed and petty Twitter exchange with Arnold Schwarzenegger two days earlier. A low grunt oozed out on either side of me from a couple of people I knew to be Trump supporters.

“God, I wish he would just shut the hell up,” one of them muttered at the screen.

My ears tingled. The rest of the audience remained quiet. The news announcer was in mid-sentence when some smaller members of our brood returned from playing upstairs. So, later, as the mutterer and I were in the corner of the kitchen nudging second helpings of pecan pie onto fresh paper plates, I leaned in to whisper an inquiry.

“So, eh, not happy with Trump?” I ventured delicately.

This violated protocol on this side of my family, which keeps its ties to one another closer than to politics. In a house brimming with contrasting and conflicting viewpoints on virtually every topic, conversations hew eagerly to health and happiness, weekday labor and weekend relaxation, the severe weather and the cheerful coos from the newest great-grandchild experiencing her first Christmas. Political discussions remain stored with the lawn chairs awaiting the warm-weather days when they can drift harmlessly on sultry breezes.

The mutterer, another of my cousins, applied two dollops of whipped cream to his slice of pie and also whispered.

“Yeah, well, yeah. It’s just … you know …”

He paused.

“I mean, he keeps saying all this stuff that doesn’t really matter and makes him look silly.”

“Hmm.”

“Stuff that makes it look like he’s not paying attention or doesn’t want to.”

“You mean, on Twitter? That Schwarzenegger thing?”

“Yeah. That stuff doesn’t matter to anybody.”

It is safe to say my relatives around here know what does. They work on farms and at schools, in construction and manufacturing. They have watched generations of prosperity devolve into desperation. They see jobs continue to disappear and livelihoods diminish, and they know the reasons are multiple, varied, and complex. When my aunt hosts Christmas, they know it is not just a celebration of togetherness, but also her valiant effort to ward off the same creeping desperation, if only for a few hours.

When my family went to cast their ballots Nov. 8, they did it for the sake of change – the sake of their community – not for a celebrity.

“So many people I know are out there looking for work. Still looking,” my cousin said. “(Trump) says he’s bringing back jobs. Man, I am hoping.”

“But it won’t happen right away,” I said. “It’ll take time. You know that, right?”

“Yeah,” said my cousin, extending the syllable and staring down at the whipped cream. “Yeah, it will. And I’d like to hear him say what he’s got in mind to do it. But … this.” He glanced back at the television, which was showing the kickoff for the second game. “This is what he talks about.”

“You think maybe the news should ignore it?”

My cousin sighed. “Nah, nah, that’s not it. They’re going to say things. Everyone will believe what they believe. I think it’s him being on Twitter all the time complaining about things that don’t matter to anyone.”

He moved to leave. I touched his elbow to stop him. “So, you still going to give him a chance?”

He shrugged. “Got no choice. He’s ours now.”

“But if you thought he might keep tweeting like this, would you have supported him?”

Another shrug. “Man, I don’t know. Maybe. I really didn’t like that Hillary Clinton – didn’t like her one bit. But all this tweeting … man … makes me wonder why I voted for anyone at all …”

An arm attached to one of the grandchildren, then the rest of the grandchild, squeezed between us for the pie. My cousin and I ended the discussion and worked through the growing kitchen crowd back to our places in the living room. We settled back into the joy of the occasion. (Trump used Twitter again two days later to slam another star, Meryl Streep, who criticized him at the Golden Globe Awards.)

Later, as everyone said their farewells and packed to leave, I commiserated.

“My best to your friends,” I told my cousin. “I really do hope for their sake that Trump delivers.”

“Thanks, man,” he said and patted my shoulder. “But I think this is all we’re going to get from him.”

The greatest man from the Greatest Generation

Eugene Eisenhauer, 1924-2016

Eugene Eisenhauer, 1924-2016

On paper, Eugene Walter Eisenhauer was listed among the Greatest Generation. His country spent decades deciding whether he belonged on that list, and when recognition finally came he mostly ignored it.

Other things mattered more by then: his six grown children and their offspring, and thoughts of retirement. The southern Illinois economy central to his life was poor and getting poorer, and the lumber yard he owned was whittling down his peace of mind.

But in 1988, the federal government agreed that the risks Eugene and thousands of others took during World War II in service with the U.S. Merchant Marine qualified him for wartime veterans benefits. He submitted the qualifying documents behind a wave of nagging from his family.

I asked my father-in-law to tell me about his wartime life, about how he crisscrossed two oceans aboard creaking cargo ships to help supply the Allied war effort. Usually, he demurred. The few stories he relinquished oozed forth slowly, like tar dripping from a hot metal bucket. Each drip landed hard.

Like the one about a convoy crossing fast and alone across the North Atlantic late in the war. The Navy was too busy fighting elsewhere. So, the convoy’s only protection against enemy submarines was speed. But subs found them – as they often did – and Eugene watched from the center of the convoy as ships on the fringe erupted into brief towers of orange flame, then vanished into the inky black water.

Or the one about Eugene crawling hand over hand the length of the ship, a metal cable tied to his waist, so he could reach his watch station at the bow during a ship-tossing storm.

Or the one about an argument he overheard between his ship’s captain and a petulant Dutch harbor master who demanded that the vessel, loaded with highly volatile fuel oil, ignore safety protocols and weave through a line of floating mines to reach port.

It is difficult for us to understand now, at a time we equate self-promotion with personal and public validation, why anyone would keep stories like these to themselves. That ignorance spans a wide gap in our understanding of the timing and purpose of true patriotism.

In the 1940s, the threat of a dark future pushed in on America. In cities, towns, and farms everywhere, young men felt compelled to push back. They considered enlistment a necessity, not an option. But the Army and Navy were reluctant to take a man too scrawny to wear their smallest uniform size. In the Merchant Marine, however, Eugene’s slight build was a bonus inside the cramped cargo ships that raced to avoid the enemy.

During his service, Eugene passed through the Panama Canal half a dozen times and sometimes saw the coasts of Europe and Asia on the same trip. He rode in convoys and on ships traveling alone, and he watched the wake of torpedoes pass his ship to hit others. Until then, he never knew the world beyond a few farms surrounding his tiny hometown of Vergennes, Illinois.

When he returned, he settled in nearby Du Quoin, shelved his service medals and sharpened the same sense of purpose that had shaped his patriotism. He raised his six children on the hard fruit of driving milk trucks at dawn along winding country roads, and he hammered together homes from scratch as a construction worker. He also patched neighbors’ broken roofs during summer storms, cinched leaky pipes, and restored light to darkened homes – often at a moment’s notice and without pay – out of compassion, not out of obligation.

Eventually, Eugene partnered with other builders to open a lumber yard, then took it over as the partners trickled out. Along with more homes, he built friendships, respect, and a community-wide appreciation as solid as his service to the country.

All of those enviable qualities were reflected in the long line of mourners who streamed through Sacred Heart Catholic Church in Du Quoin to say farewell at his funeral. He was 92, and though he outlived many friends, and his wife by 18 years, the grieving included the sons and daughters and grandsons and granddaughters of those friends. In small, profound ways stretching across decades, their lives were enriched by this quiet hero of the war who returned to provide a much more heroic and lasting measure of service to his community.

To the federal government, Eugene Walter Eisenhauer symbolized the Greatest Generation. But to the people who revered him, that praise was far too small to describe his true influence.

Remember Mike Brown – and William and Angela

Melted wax still stains the street and sidewalk on Park Avenue at 11th Street in south St. Louis where two people were killed in a drive-by shooting in March. The stains appeared during a candlelight vigil for the victims two days after the shooting.

Melted wax still stains the street and sidewalk on Park Avenue at 11th Street in south St. Louis where two people were killed in a drive-by shooting in March. The stains appeared during a candlelight vigil for the victims two days after the shooting. (Photo by David Sheets)

In Ferguson, Mo., at least three permanent monuments recall Mike Brown.

In south St. Louis, there are only stains on the street where William Crume and Angela Wysinger perished.

In Ferguson, a brass plaque bearing Brown’s likeness and another plate shaped like a dove flank where he was shot dead in the street at Canfield Green apartments a year ago. On the spot where the teenager’s body lay in the summer sun for four hours is a rectangle of new asphalt; Brown’s family had the old asphalt scooped up as a keepsake.

In south St. Louis, dark, greasy stains from candle wax remain on the pavement and sidewalk at 11th Street and Park Avenue in the LaSalle Park neighborhood. There, near a concrete light pole, is where Crume and Wysinger died in March, killed in their car during a drive-by shooting. Two days afterward, about 70 people lit candles and stood in silence around a 17-foot wrap of balloons, ribbons and stuffed animals tied to the pole as a memorial to the couple.

Brown died in a confrontation with police officer Darrin Wilson. Brown was said to be unarmed. Wilson shot six times at Brown for reasons that protracted scrutiny has not made entirely clear.

Crume, 23, and Wysinger, 26, were killed as shooters from at least one passing vehicle fired multiple times into their car as it rolled east on Park Avenue. The shots also injured one of Wysinger’s three children – ages 2, 7 and 9 – riding in the back seat. Police say Crume and Wysinger were unarmed and probably knew their assailants.

Brown’s death triggered weeks of unrest in Ferguson and turned a magnifying glass on the way some municipal governments and police perform their duties. In many communities around the country, officers now wear cameras on their uniforms to account for their actions.

Little has happened in the wake of Crume’s and Wysinger’s deaths. The authorities presume the shooting was an act of retribution but still do not know who is responsible.

This week, millions of people worldwide remembered the events in Ferguson on the first anniversary of Brown’s death.

This week, hardly anyone will remember Crume and Wysinger.

But the young couple also deserve our attention, our remembrance, as much as Brown. His death, though tragic, raised awareness of pervasive social and legal imbalances in our government and the courts, and hammers home the need for changes in how the public and police deal with each other.

Crume and Whysinger died in an act of rage that hammers home the stark reminder of our obligation to be just and civil to one another. Lacking that, we risk leaving a legacy that amounts to little more than wax stains on sidewalks.

“You see a family shot up like this needlessly – the car was riddled with bullets. Just senseless,” Metropolitan Police Capt. Michael Sack told the St. Louis Post-Dispatch in March. “It’s frustrating to have to deal with and try to find those responsible for it.”

The last time I saw my mother

Me and my mother, circa 1964

Me and my mother, circa 1964.

My mother’s last words to me weren’t words, but a wan smile and wave.

She was propped upright in bed by an armada of fluffy pillows tucked inside starched white slipcases. Her blue, flannel nightgown was a hand-me-down from her own mother; she loved it so. It was as crisp as the slipcases.

The hospice workers changed her bed sheets every four hours to keep her comfortable because my mother loved the smell and feel of laundered linen. She looked like a used toy nestled in a new package.

I had flown home to sit by her bedside when she was awake and tidy up her affairs when she wasn’t, which was often. A few days earlier, in a long and tense phone call with my uncle, I had agreed with him that she would never leave the hospice, and that the clean sheets and pain medication were the only things left to offer.

“I know you’ve been busy,” my uncle said. “But maybe you should come see her as soon as you can.”

This was a frequent refrain. For months, my mother seemed on the edge of the abyss, then I would visit and she would pull back, just not far enough to get her out of hospice. I had mounted each trip to see her as if it were my last.

Something’s different this time, my uncle said. He was by my mother’s bedside two days earlier trying to engage her, trying to determine if she was still aware of the present amid her incomprehensible mumblings about the past. The conversation was, as usual, one-sided, until my mother halted mid-mumble, looked at him and said with unusual clarity, “I’m never going to leave this place, am I?”

When I arrived straight from the airport, she was sleeping so deeply not even the hospice workers could rouse her. A desert breeze wafted through open windows to freshen her small room.

“She does that,” a hospice aide told me, shrugging. “One day, she’s awake and her appetite is good. Next day, she sleeps through everything and won’t eat. It’s getting harder to wake her when that happens.”

She slept through the first day of my four-day visit and the second. On the third, she was awake when I arrived in the morning. We talked – rather, she talked, and I tried to make sense of what she was saying. Much of it seemed to be about her upbringing in Utah and Hawaii, about her own uncles and aunts and cousins I never met, about events that occurred more than generation before I entered the world.

The whole time she talked, I was one of those uncles or cousins. She spoke as if I had been a witness to each event she recounted.

“I’m David, Mom,” I repeated several times that day. “I’m your son.”

At each, she would bunch her brow, look at me and say softly, “Oh.”

At each, a knot formed in my chest.

The fourth and final day of my visit started like the first two. My mother was deep asleep and stayed that way past noon. Attendants bathed her and changed her bedclothes, yet she did not stir. My time with her was trickling away. I looked around the room at the few belongings she had left – a framed watercolor that once hung in my grandmother’s house; pictures of my uncle’s children and a 20-year-old picture of me; a gray, stuffed cat that resembled her real cat, which she had to give up upon entering hospice. I bought the stuffed cat when she began spending more time in hospitals than at home.

At last, an hour before my flight was due to leave, she opened her eyes and stared at me. No words, just a long stare from eyes that were tired and dark and dull. I tried spurring conversation by recalling pieces of the broken stories she had strewn across her mind. I pointed to and described the watercolor, the family pictures, the cat.

Nothing.

Finally, I rose to leave and leaned over to kiss her forehead. Her skin was smooth and cool. Her white hair was pushed against the pillow. I pressed her knotty hand into mine.

“It’s time for me to go, Mom,” I whispered. “You take care of yourself. I’ll be back to visit very soon.”

I headed toward the door, and as I opened it to leave I turned around to wave goodbye. She had raised her hand slowly to wave back, grasping at the air as if reaching for a knob. The sagging corners of her mouth turned up and her lips formed a slight smile. For a moment, my mother’s eyes also appeared to brighten.

I have thought of that moment each Mother’s Day since. I probably will remember it each Mother’s Day hereafter, and I wish I had swept up and bundled as many better memories of her that I could summon.

But the smile and wave told me more than all she had tried to say in words. For in that instant, I believe she remembered who I was, why I was there, and what I meant to her.

And there were no words that could express those things any better.

3 reasons to avoid copying TV reporter’s F-word rant

GIF of Charlo Greene

Courtesy of PerezHilton.com

Until last Sunday, few people outside Anchorage, Alaska’s TV news audience knew of KTVA-TV reporter Charlo Greene.

She changed that in one second on a live broadcast and became a prime example of what not to do when leaving an employer.

In signing off from the CBS affiliate on Sept. 21, Greene acknowledged playing a key role in the story she was reporting on medical marijuana and announced that she was switching allegiance from journalism to the cause of legalizing marijuana use in Alaska by telling viewers “As for this job, well … f**k it. I quit.” She then walked off camera to leave a stunned news anchor stumble through damage control.

From Anchorage to Albany, N.Y., the Web went wild over Greene, known off-screen as Charlene Egbe. Links to her flameout appeared on hundreds of sites. A YouTube clip of it posted by the Alaska Dispatch News had 12 million hits by the following Thursday.

She did what many people dream of doing.

But the backstory makes her cavalier farewell far from heroic or enviable. Greene had opened her own medical marijuana dispensary in the months before producing a five-part news report for the station on Alaska’s legalization initiative. She also had legal trouble related to her advocacy. KTVA’s news director said in a public statement that Greene never disclosed her conflict of interest to the station.

The station has reason to be embarrassed, but so too does Greene. The Dispatch News reports that advocates for the initiative found fault with her reporting and that Greene says she went rogue mainly to reverse waning support for the legalization movement.

In a post-meltdown interview with Vice.com, Green ended with this:

“If you’re going to quit your job, do it big. Why not? Your job probably sucks, so go ahead and get whatever you can out of it.”

Sage advice perhaps for inconsiderate nonconformists but toxic for everyone else. A truly effective workplace exit impresses both ex-employers and potential employers and preserves the shine on one’s own reputation.

By leaving KTVA the way she did, Greene badly bruised herself and the people around her in three ways:

By using vulgar language — We hear the F-word all the time in music, movies and casual conversation, but a stigma sticks to it in most professional and public venues, and usage is discouraged in workplaces, schools and stores. Greene demonstrated how the centuries-old F-word still cuts through our social sensibilities. However, the F-word is a one-trick pony; the second use lands a weaker punch than the first, and continued usage implies the user has a limited vocabulary — which undercuts anyone who works in communications.

By being unethical — Green apparently continued acting like a journalist even though in her mind she stopped being one. She told Vice.com that KTVA gave her a platform “to draw attention to the (marijuana legalization) issue” and hinted that her outburst formed sometime between Sunday and April 20, the date Greene says the advocacy group she heads received its business license. The Society of Professional Journalists’ Code of Ethics says, “Avoid conflicts of interest, real or perceived. Disclose unavoidable conflicts.” When professional ethics waft out the window with the pot smoke, credibility in all things likely follows.

By harming others — Greene obviously had her own interests in mind when she paraded her petulance. She neglected to consider, or was indifferent to, the impact of her actions on others, and that could rebound in her face. The Federal Communications Commission has levied fines on broadcasters who permitted even accidental on-air uttering of F-words. KTVA is apologetic; still, accusations by supporters of the initiative that Greene let bias and inaccuracy seep into her reporting have raised questions about why KTVA considers Greene’s activities surprising. Meanwhile, marijuana-use advocates in Alaska and Colorado say Greene’s profane exhibition potentially weakens their efforts to advance the issue with maturity.

Had Greene remained professional and objective, KTVA lacked a reason to probe her work behavior or her privacy. Digging too deeply amid the latter risked violating her civil rights. Personal responsibility, not an employer, determines an individual’s credibility.

Andy Warhol once said, “In the future, everyone will be world-famous for 15 minutes.” This week, Charlo Greene received quite a bit more attention than that. Next week, nobody will take her seriously for even half as long.

Thanksgivukkah will return sooner than you think

Thanksgivukkah cardToday, Americans can carve a turkey and light a Menorah at once.

That’s because Thanksgiving and the start of Hanukkah fall on the same day for the first time in anyone’s memory.

It might be the last time. According to calendar watchers who have crunched the numbers, the next Thanksgivukkah lies almost 80,000 years distant.

But resist chucking your Menurkey and shredding those sweet-potato latke recipes. My guess is that the yawning chasm of time will close up sooner than anyone thinks.

Why? Our calendars are imperfect. They are pegged to human events, not solar or lunar ones.

Hanukkah was inspired by the rededication of a holy site in Jerusalem that was damaged and defiled in a war about two centuries before Christ. (The word Hanukkah derives from a Hebrew translation of the verb “to dedicate.”) Hanukkah also stretches over eight days in the Hebrew month of Kislev, which has no direct relationship to any month in the Gregorian calendar most of us follow.

Thanksgiving started out in America as merely a remembrance of the pilgrims’ progress in the New World, with states and communities left to honor that effort when and how they wished. No official recognition came until 1789, and even that was a one-day-only proclamation emphasizing a citizen celebration of America’s 9-month-old Constitution.

No more proclamations came until President Lincoln issued one in 1863 as balm for a war-weary nation and set the Thanksgiving date as the last Thursday in November. Other presidents made the act of proclamation itself a tradition until 1939, when Thanksgiving was scheduled to land on Nov. 30. President Franklin Roosevelt was asked by retailers wanting an extra week of Christmas sales to move Thanksgiving. He did, to Nov. 23. He moved up Thanksgiving the following year, too.

Those changes wound up causing more consternation than contentment. Americans were divided between recognizing the traditional Thanksgiving and the new “Franksgiving” as it was derisively called until Congress passed a law 1941 that Thanksgiving should fall on the fourth Thursday in November.

The calendars themselves keep changing, too. The Gregorian calendar requires periodic adjustment — a leap day added every four years — to correspond not only with the sun’s behavior in our sky, but also because Christian tradition insists that Easter remain close to the vernal equinox. The Gregorian calendar spawned from the Julian calendar, also containing leap days. The Julian one grew out of a Roman calendar that incorporated a whole leap month.

Likewise, the Hebrew calendar factors in some leap time to prevent holidays from drifting too far into one month from another.

So, the notion that either Hanukkah or Thanksgiving is locked down or immovable for another 79,811 years strikes me as 798 centuries premature. Time, politics and perception are certain to whittle at our attitudes toward both. Already, Thanksgiving is thought to be under assault by retailers trying to move the official start of Christmas shopping into the holiday itself. A day set aside for counting our blessings may devolve into a day for counting cash instead.

Especially if Menurkeys become popular.

Please, please, PLEASE, think before you tweet

Think before you tweet

context (n.) — the portions of written or spoken statements that influence meaning or effect.

Philadelphia TV reporter and former anchor Joyce Evans may finally appreciate the meaning of this word, thanks to social media.

Kansas University journalism professor David Guth might as well, for the same reason.

Both have entered a pantheon of infamy wrought by ill-advised actions on Twitter, considered the fastest vehicle for embarrassment apart from reality TV. They are poster children for the importance of cramming context into the small space Twitter allows, no matter how tight the fit.

The question now is whether anyone who witnessed what they went through garners a shred of wisdom from the circumstances.

Evans ran headlong into a wave of unwanted attention this week after merging pop culture and breaking news into one cumbersome, 89-character blurt on Twitter for her employer, Fox affiliate WTXF-TV.

Evans' Tweet

Evans’ intent was clear; she wanted to surf the wave of attention spawned by broad public interest in “Breaking Bad,” the black-comedy crime drama on AMC that bowed out Sept. 29 after 62 episodes and a history of far-reaching social engagement.

But in channeling “Bad” the way she did, Evans trampled the distinction between reality and fantasy, and suggested she was deaf to the tone of each. Audiences tried to enlighten her.

Evans Criticism

An apology for her overstatement seemed in order. Instead, Evans compounded the problem by pushing off responsibility onto her Twitter followers.

Evans' Response

The subsequent fusillade stretched well beyond WTXF’s viewing area, silenced Evans’ usually busy Twitter feed as well as her Facebook page, and cost her the weekend anchor job she held since 1996.

Guth’s own Twitter reality check in mid-September, on the other hand, was purposeful and potentially more costly. The associate professor at the William Allen White School of Journalism and Communications exploded against conservative commentary on the shootings at the Washington Navy Yard on Sept. 16. Thirteen people died, including the assailant.

In response to perceived invective on Twitter by alleged supporters of the National Rifle Association, Guth posted:

Guth's Tweet

The reaction was predictable. Even Republican state lawmakers vowed retaliation, and the president of the Kansas State Rifle Association promised that her NRA chapter would campaign to have Guth fired.

KU at first distanced itself from Guth’s comments, then from Guth. The university hustled him off on a research sabbatical that was not scheduled to start until next year. His Twitter feed also came down.

Guth remains unapologetic. He said on TV after the tweet that he was “deliberately provocative,” and in an email responding to my request for comment, he wrote, “It’s unfortunate that my comments have been deliberately distorted. I know what I meant. Unfortunately, this is a topic that generates more heat than light.”

He said he expects to be back at KU at the conclusion of his sabbatical but declines to say anything more about what happened. The university is similarly silent.

As for what the rest of us expect, especially from professional journalists and educators, it’s something more than selfishness, something more than a middle finger pointed at our sensibilities.

When Evans hyper-extended her comparison, she made what many of us might consider an honest mistake. The lure of social media is in part due to its speed and the excitement that speed generates. In turn, we react without full awareness of what we’re saying and remain ignorant until the excitement subsides.

A 2009 study by the University of Southern California seems to confirm this, explaining that social media moves too fast for our “moral compass” to catch up with what we’re thinking.

“If things are happening too fast, you may not ever fully experience emotions about other people’s psychological states and that would have implications for your morality,” Mary Helen Immordino-Yang, a researcher for the study, told CNN. “For some kinds of thought, especially moral decision-making about other people’s social and psychological situations, we need to allow for adequate time and reflection.”

Sree Sreenivasan agrees. He’s a popular tech evangelist and one of the foremost advocates for sensible use of social media. At the Society of Professional Journalists’ national convention in Fort Lauderdale last year, he advised journalists against posting before thinking.

The owner of more than 50,000 Twitter followers, Sreenivasan waits three to six minutes between tapping a tweet and posting it because he knows that first words usually are not the best words, in any medium.

“Anything you share can and will be used against you,” he said.

This is sound and potentially career-saving advice for people such as Joyce Evans and David Guth who put hubris before introspection. In both instances, the Twitterers omitted context, either by accident or by design, then denied that their choice of words muddled their messages.

You are the best protector against your own embarrassment and ridicule. We need to remember that in this social-media inflected age, often our only guide to responsible behavior is staring back at us in the mirror.

Maybe Evans would still be a TV anchor and Guth still teaching if not for their unartful language. Unfortunately for all of us, their fame is based on what they said, not what they meant.

(Update: Guth will be allowed to teach again at Kansas next fall, the Lawrence Journal-World reports.)