Let’s talk about Johnny Depp v. Amber Heard. If you’re thinking, “Ugh” — I’m with you. I wasn’t aware this grudge match was on the horizon until my friend, Robin, whose taste for the juicy and dishy should earn her an executive position at TMZ, texted the morning the carnage began and exhorted me to tune in. So I did.
And you probably did, too. Once the trial began it was impossible to escape the endless updates. Were the McNeill-Lehrer Report still on, those venerable journalists would have been forced to get involved. To quote their erudite anchor ghosts, “Ick.”
Midway through the trial, my friend, Abby, already had her decision: “When the jury decides damages, Amber and Johnny should receive nothing but be forced to pay each juror $1 million for the sheer torture of having to listen to all this sewage and pretend to care, plus lost wages and mental harm from boredom.” She then wondered which party would end up first on Dancing With the Stars.
As the war stories began to unfurl, three things came to mind: 1. Johnny and Amber are desperately damaged; 2. Their marriage was a nightmare; and 3. They are cultivated babies. Is this what money and fame (with a daily dose of narcotics) do to a person? Do massive wealth and celebrity leave one immune from responsibility?
I was raised in a house where one of the dicta was “You make a mess; you clean it up.” I’ve passed that on and am proud that both my daughters know their way around a broom and cleaning supplies.
Personal responsibility is a marvelous deterrent to mayhem. Do you think Amber would have thought twice before hurling at Johnny that jumbo vodka bottle, thus severing a chunk of his middle finger, knowing that she, and she alone, would have to spend the next week wearing flip-flops while sweeping up stray shards of glass? I think so. And do you think Johnny would have dribbled blood all over, willy-nilly, knowing that he would have to clean the rugs and face untold laundry-day woes? I think not.
Years ago when I was teaching at the University of St. Thomas, I had a student I’ll call Travis whose work ethic I’d surmised early on hovered right around zero. One day Travis showed up with a Big Gulp, 7-11’s thirty-ounce contribution to the world. He sat at one of the small desks and removed the lid. I suggested he replace the top but he declined, citing the important fact that he got more drinking straight from the cup than through the straw. Big Gulp, indeed.
Sure enough, Travis knocked it over. I don’t know what flavor it was, so we’ll just go with red. Horrified, I looked at him sitting there, inert, and said Límpialo (Clean it up). He replied insouciantly, “That’s what custodians are for.” I loved teaching Spanish, but hated imparting childhood lessons to freshly minted adults. No, I explained, custodians are hired to deal with day-to-day maintenance, not to steam-clean carpet infused with a quarter-gallon of crimson pop. Spilling the drink was an accident. His attitude was an on purpose. Travis cleaned it up.
I don’t know if Travis learned any Spanish that day, but he got the memo that you can’t outsource character.
Who knows what, if anything, Amber and Johnny learned from airing the foul details of their union? Still, they demonstrated well that responsibility and civility cannot be separated.
– Dorothy
