The first day I picked my daughter, Clementine, up from kindergarten I asked her a stupid question. I asked her “How was your day?” It was stupid because that’s the kind of question that is virtually guaranteed to get you some bland and uninteresting answer like fine. Which is exactly what happened. I tried to rectify my mistake by adding “Anything exciting happen?” but that only elicited a shrug that could have meant “No, we sat in a circle and meditated for six hours” or “Well, there was one kid who showed everybody their vestigial tail during recess.” And so I tried once again. “Did anyone get in trouble?” Finally she took the time to think about her answer. “Yes. One kid. He wouldn’t share.” Ah ha, now we were getting somewhere. “Did he cry?” I asked with a twinge of excitement. “Yes.” A lot?” A small smile. “Yes.” And then the dam broke, and I was finally hearing about her day.
Well, the gossipy bits at least. I never learned what they had for snack, or whether they studied numbers or letters (or both), but I did hear about who shoved who at recess, and who refused to eat any lunch at all, and who was being such a pain at nap time that their mom had to come down and take them home. And then, finally, I heard about how her day really went.
For my part I told her about waiting outside with the other kindergarten parents, and who brought their bad dog that barked at everyone, and who talked on their cellphone the whole time and who didn’t even get out of their car but sat parked in the bus lane until the bus pulled up behind them and HONKED so loudly everyone jumped except for those of us who were watching the whole thing and secretly wishing for it to happen.
And that was the day that, even though no formal agreement was ever reached, Clementine and I decided that “How was your day” really meant “Got any good gossip?”
Don’t get me wrong: it’s not as mean-spirited as it sounds. Well, at least at isn’t on her part. She’s just as likely to tell me about someone’s good fortune as she is to tell me about the really awful fashion choice they made that day—more likely, really. (It is a well-established fact that she is much nicer than me). But it is also a well-established fact (in our relationship, at least), that the sharing of gossip means that you always have at least the first thing to say. And how can you have the second thing to say if you don’t have the first?
And the second thing is where it really gets interesting. The second thing is where the truth comes out. Don’t ask me why, but statements such as “Just because it does zip, doesn’t mean it should,” are usually followed by other even more honest statements. (True, sometimes those statements are along the lines of “You’re such a jerk, Mom” but still.)
Gossip really gets a bad rap. A friend of mine was just complaining about Jane Austen, and her complaint was that Jane Austen’s dialogue reads as nothing but gossip. I was astounded. Of course Jane Austen’s dialogue is pure gossip: that’s what so brilliant about it. When she has one character comment about another, it distills both of their characters down to their essences.
Every time that we gossip about other people we reveal things about ourselves—for better or worse. It’s just the nature of the game. And it’s the whole reason I, for one, like to play it.
And besides that, how else am I ever supposed to find out about some poor kids vestigial tail?