Tissue Is The Issue

I've seen an increase in two items of concern on the grass and on sidewalks: 1. dead birds (I don't know why; other people say they don't see them) and 2. paper tissue (not bathroom type, mind you, just the runny nose type or for wiping makeup from one's face (same thing, cosmetic redress).

The princess and the pea. 

The stone in your sandal. 

The sand in your bathing suit. 

The bird poop in your eye. 

Relatives after three days. 

Granted no one of them big things. Not to go to war about. But they're certainly irritating to the point of instilling a need to rid the nation of them . . . this very instant. Not that I'm in favor of any other kind of injudicious discard (litter). But this one is so personal and so directly filthying up the environment that it screams for public action.

What happened to the handkerchief? I remember being surprised when I substituted in the urban middle schools how when a student hand shot up it was not to answer a question or comment on a text but to ask, "Teacher, do you have a tissue?" often with the other hand pointing to the questioner's mucus-laden nostril. "No," I'd respond honestly because I truly had none and had not been instructed to provide such as a teaching tool.

"Use your handkerchief," I'd offer, and the whole class in unison replied in disgust, "Ooow, how gross!" "Waddaya mean gross? At least you wouldn't be walking around asking for a tissue to wipe up your snootful. Besides, it's not my job to provide you with kleenex, just like I'm not expected to provide paper or pencils." 

Truth was though many teachers had for years been providing paper, pencils, pens, and tissues out of their own pockets (not literally for the last item). Often enough scrounging in the teacher's desk could turn up the nostril-mops. And, once provided, the supply was gone in one 45 minute period.

"Yeah but then you'd have to put that germy old hankie back in your pocket and carry it around all day--carryin' fresh boogers--ooo!" they explained. I should clarify someone came to Snotnose's rescue; he blew loudly, came forward, dramatically deposited the soggy mess in the waste basket at the teacher's desk, returned to his seat, but looked as if he would soon reenact the cycle. 

Kids with long-sleeved shirts did not require tissues as frequently as the short-sleeved urchins but I never could get them to see how brandishing boogers on one's shirtsleeve was tantamount to carrying a used hankie.

"You do know hankies can be laundered? and reused?" I produced my clean hankie from my pocket and again met a chorus of ooos and boos as if I had just pulled a maggot-covered rat out of a hat. 

When I see the volume of "tissues," looking like white poppies strewn over the green grass of my neighborhood park, I sincerely wonder if the whole of the last two generations need to be reinstructed on basic nasal hygiene. Not all the "tissues" are products of hooker handjobs; those are usually accompanied by a single generic ambidextral latex glove. 

My OCD about litter is getting to be like pushing a boulder uphill. Step aside, Sisyphus, I'm not stopping anytime soon.