When an American Catholic must make a decision about morality he looks nearby (very nearby) for guidance.

He looks to himself.

A sad-but-perhaps-not-surprising survey by Pew Research Center suggests that nobody knows right from wrong better than the individual – at least in the mind of the individual.

When confronted with a moral issue, Catholics look to the following sources for guidance:

• The Pope                                 10 percent
• Bible                                         15 percent
• Church teaching                  21 percent
• Their own conscience         73 percent

This suggests that American Catholics (A) have deeply formed moral compasses or (B) suffer from delusional pride.  Based on decades observing American culture, I’m picking (B).

We Americans (Catholic or otherwise) believe we are an independent lot.  We make our own decisions and don’t want anyone – even the Pope – telling us what to do.  After all, who knows better what is good for me than me?

But while proclaiming our independence, we’re influenced by an increasingly sick culture every day of our lives.  Television, radio and social media tell us what to wear, what to eat, what music to like and what politically correct views to embrace.  We don’t want the Church telling us what to do, but it is OK if movies stars, advocacy groups and political parties shape our every move.

Let’s see; who should I look to for guidance?  George Clooney or the Pope?  People Magazine or the Bible?  Friends of the Earth or the Catholic Church?  Me or, well, me with the Catholic team of Pope, Bible and Church teaching guiding my walk in life.

For most of the decisions in my daily life I don’t need the Pope’s help.  I can select a car, match décor for my home and pick toppings for tonight’s pizza.  But I’m not among the 73 percent of American Catholics who believe they know best about the big things in life.

I need a hand.

Dear Grandpa Diff,

I have not written for a long time, but I thought you would be interested in some cultural issues we’re dealing with here in the good old US of A.

As I’ve mentioned before, lots has changed since you passed away several decades ago and likely went to a pleasant meadow behind the pearly gates.  (If St. Peter didn’t let you in, there isn’t an iota of chance for me.)

Anyway…we’re having difficulty with our bathrooms.  No, it isn’t the toilets, sinks and pipes; it is a rather gnarly debate over who uses which facilities.

I’m sure this strikes you are odd.  After all, in your day when a kid in a school needed to go, a boy used the boy’s room and a girl used the girl’s room.  Of course, in those days there was general agreement on who was a boy and who was a girl.

There likely were some confused kids back in your time, but I don’t ever remember you mentioning anyone in your circle of acquaintances being transgendered or gender questioning.

Oops…you probably don’t know those terms.  A transgendered person is someone who was born biologically of one gender, but identifies more (at least in some part of their own mind) with the other gender.  In other words, a baby boy might decide at some point he wants to be a she, start dressing like a girl and even have surgery…well…never mind about that.

A gender questioning person is someone who isn’t sure which sex they are called to be and wants to try various options.  I admit I have a difficult time understanding how this works.

This is all by way of background to the debate our society is having:  should a person use the bathroom that corresponds to their gender according to birth or their gender according to how they feel?  Is where someone pees determined by biology or emotions? Or should everyone just go into one unisex bathroom and ignore biological differences?

North Carolina passed a law to settle the issue for Tar Heels – in that state you have to use the bathroom that corresponds to your biology.  Thus, even if a boy is feeling really girly on a particular day when nature calls, he still has to use the boy’s room.

This has outraged some groups.  The governor of Washington State has banned state officials from visiting North Carolina.  (Washington has a law that says you can use the bathroom that corresponds to the gender you feel you are.)  The governor of New York has done the same thing.

Here in Chicago, the mayor has asked all citizens to refrain from traveling to North Carolina.  Hey, I never knew the mayor carried so much about toilets.  Maybe this means he’ll put a few more port-a-potties in Grant Park.

With hope…your grandson…Jim

Like most adults who once were kids, I have memories of my mom encouraging me to eat something I didn’t want to eat.

For some kids it was peas.  For some it was green beans.  For me it was beets.

I hated red beets and I still do.  The only way I could eat them was buried in copious amounts of mashed potatoes, covered in copious amounts of butter.

Mom seemed really mean when she said things like:

• You aren’t getting up from the table until you finish your beets…
• You don’t get any desert if you don’t eat your beets…
• I bet the millions of hungry children in China would thank God for those beets…
• Well…I guess you aren’t really very hungry if you don’t want those beautiful beets…

But mom was kind and gentle compared to the Federal government.  The people we keep in BMWs and lattes through outrageous taxes are considering a regulation that would punish school districts and state education offices that don’t enforce the Healthy, Hunger-Free Kids Act.  (This is the nanny-state idea Michelle Obama came up with to make sure kids eat their vegetables and don’t consume too much candy, soda and other unhealthy things kids like to ingest.)

There isn’t anything inherently wrong with encouraging healthy eating.  But I think we’re getting more government than we need – or want – when people in Washington start dictating what kids in Peoria have to eat for lunch.

The government tells me how much water my toilet can use and what sort of light bulb to use.  Not it is going to tell kids what to eat for lunch.  I’d prefer the Feds concentrate on keeping terrorists out of the country.

Donald Trump has a way with words.  He tends to come across as a bit harsh and insensitivity.

I wouldn’t mind having dinner with the guy – provided he paid.  And I wouldn’t mind living next door to the guy – that would mean I had come into a great deal of money.

No, I didn’t vote for him in the Illinois primary election – I voted for one of the other guys.

It isn’t the challenging things Trump says that worries me; it is the crowds of people trying to prevent him from stating his point of view.  Those folks ring of the thugs in totalitarian regimes who beat those with different political views, who make political opponents “disappear” or suppress the practice of religion.

When free speech falls victim to street protests, America becomes just another banana republic.  Policy should be determined by a vigorous debate of ideas, not by who throws the biggest tantrum to prevent an opponent from speaking.

One of the most distinguishing features of the United States has been freedom of expression.  We have always let anyone and everyone say what they want to say.  But we are fumbling away that fundamental right.

Several of the people running for our nation’s highest office express views that I find morally reprehensible.  But I have no intention of trying to prevent them from stating their views – and am ready to go to the mat to prevent them from taping my mouth.

Freedom of speech doesn’t mean I can’t say something that might hurt someone else’s feelings; it means I can state my case even when it is painful to those who disagree with me.

One person’s hurt feeling is another person’s deeply held belief.

I’m all for being thoughtful, polite and considerate of others.  I’m also going to have my say.

My heritage is enriched by various cultures and nationalities.  In other words, I’m an American mutt.

Lots of German, some Dutch, perhaps a little English and, possibly, a tiny bit of Irish.

I married a beautiful woman of 100 percent Italian heritage.  I quickly accepted that as result, my son and daughter always told folks they were Italian.  I can’t blame them; their mom was sure where her ancestors came from and I had plenty of doubts about mine.

Well, this week we celebrate St. Patrick’s Day.  I’ve learned it isn’t that big a deal in Ireland, but it is a huge event in the United States, where millions of people of Irish ancestry live and take comfort in being part of the Irish Diaspora.

I always thought it would be fun to be Irish, but didn’t feel comfortable claiming membership in the Gaelic club.  (However, I have noticed that many people with absolutely no clear genetic link to Ireland decide they are Irish on March 17 each year.) This year is different for me.  And while I may be claiming a right I don’t really deserve, as far as I’m concerned I have become at least part Irish by association.

The association is with a remarkable young woman, Karen Brady.  She is smart, clever, thoughtful, athletic, musically gifted and beautiful.

She also became my daughter-in-law last summer.

When it became clear a couple years ago that my son was on a path that would lead him to marriage in Ireland (and likely permanent residence there), I have to admit to moments of, well, regret.  After all, there are at least a million marriage-eligible young women within 100 miles of our home near Chicago.  Couldn’t he find one who might keep him closer to me?

But there isn’t a Karen Brady anywhere else than where this one is:  Tullamore, Ireland.  And there isn’t a couple who more belong to each other and with each other.  My son chose with a wise heart.  She is worth crossing an ocean to join.

Thank you Karen, for the wonderful person you are.  I hope you don’t mind me crashing your club, but I figure that should be a benefit to any man with a perfect Irish daughter-in-law.

Starting in 1893, the University of Notre Dame has awarded the Laetare Medal at its spring commencement ceremonies.

Past recipients include Presidents, bishops, nuns, writers, artists and people from many other walks of life.  This spring, the award will go to two politicians:  Former House Speaker John Boehner and Vice President Joe Biden.

Unless there has been a sudden change in the purpose of the award, I’ll assume it is what the university says it is:  Notre Dame’s Laetare Medal is presented annually to an American Catholic in recognition of outstanding service to the Church and society. It is considered the oldest and most prestigious award for American Catholics.

The university said it pick the two politicians to recognize their leadership, civility and dedication to the nation.

Interesting.  I can’t believe the university is referring to THIS nation, in light of all that the vice president has done to destroy us over the past eight years – and all the failure by the speaker to halt the destruction.

I do get the sense that Mr. Boehner meant well.

In Mr. Biden’s case, I doubt it.  He has been a cheerleader for the culture of death and a consistent scandal to the faithful.  He also has a bit of a potty mouth and trouble consistently telling the truth.

It probably is really difficult to decide who to award with something like the Laetare Medal.  After all, there are around 72,000,000 Catholics in the United States, so narrowing that down to a single person (or two) is a daunting duty.

On the other hand, with that many people to choose from, I would think Notre Dame could come up with a recipient who is pro life, honest, civil-tongued and has had a positive impact on society.  The award can be given posthumously, so perhaps Judge Antonin Scalia would be an option.  Rumors abound that he practiced the Catholic faith.

What a lost opportunity.  Notre Dame creates an award that could celebrate someone with the courage to live our faith fully and fearlessly.  Instead, the university seems to say that living a public life in bold contradiction of the faith is acceptable – even worthy of celebration.

Laetare is Latin for “rejoice.”  I think the university must either find a new recipient or change the name of the award.  Come to think of it, maybe the university ought to change its name.  I doubt Our Lady would want to be associated with this travesty.

Important disclosure:  I’m a Roman Catholic and a registered Republican.

I’m a bit uncomfortable about the Pope Francis vs. Donald Trump exchange of apparent insults.  It isn’t that I expect political and spiritual leaders to agree with each other about everything, but I do expect a certain level of basic respect.  We have lost the ability to have a calm discussion about a serious subject.

This isn’t the first debate between a Catholic leader and a land developer.  In one of my favorite movies, The Bells of St. Mary’s, Sr. Mary Benedict (played by Ingrid Bergman) heads a parish school beset by financial troubles.  The school building suffers from a world-class case of deferred maintenance.

The solution to the school’s many challenges appears to be right next door: a beautiful new facility built by businessman Horace P. Bogardus (played by Henry Travers).  Sister just needs to explain to Horace that it is God’s will for him to give her the building.

Some interesting discussion ensues, but none of it devolves to the level of the current debate.  In fact, there is much demonstration of faith, love and charity.  (If you want to know what happens, you gotta watch the movie.)

Of course, that was just a movie.  And the spat between the Holy Father and The Donald is real (I think).  The contentious concept is that Christians don’t build walls.

But this isn’t about a wall.  And I believe if you locked Pope Francis and Donald Trump in a room for a couple hours they would emerge laughing, arm-in-arm.  This debate, like so many today, is less about where we want to go than how we want to get there.

I’m willing to stipulate that both the Holy Father and Donald Trump want the world to be safe and prosperous.  Everyone should have food, clean water, a decent place to live and the ability to practice their faith without being beheaded.  It would be nice to have challenging, creative, rewarding work to do.

These two men might take a different path to get there, which offers nothing new in the arena of ideas.  Free enterprise vs. socialism.  Democracy vs. centralized planning.  Individual vs. collective.  Low taxes vs. high taxes.  (Another disclaimer:  I support the first of each of these pairs.)

We need a little clarification…

When Trump says he’ll build a wall, I think he is expressing his frustration that America’s borders are being overrun and we don’t know how to deal with the situation.  Our system is broken and needs fixing.  I don’t think he wants women and children starving in the shadow of a menacing wall.

When Pope Francis says it isn’t Christian to build a wall, I think he is expressing concern for the poor and the immigrants who need help.  He wants the two countries on either side of the border to get together and act like Christian adults and fix this.  I don’t think he wants to confiscate the private property of every working Mexican and American.

I had a boss years ago who took over our department.  He had several people reporting to him and we direct reports didn’t always agree with one another.  So early in the new guy’s tenure he told us something a bit startling:  if two of you have a disagreement and come to me to decide who is right, I’ll assume you are both wrong.

Immigration has spawned a huge disagreement between Pope Francis and Donald Trump, between Mexico and the United States.  We all have a common boss, God.  And if we don’t find a way forward I fear he’ll assume we’ll all wrong.

Way back in the middle of the 20^th century, I went to public school.

We had events that I remember being called “debates.”  There would be some proposition, say, “the voting age should be lowered to 18.”  (Yes, I’m old enough to have lived when the age requirement was 21 – but the issue of women having the vote had long been resolved.)

The debate would have two teams, one for the proposition and one against.  One side would speak, then the other.  There were rebuttals and the use of many index cards and a copy of the rules ever handy.

I always thought what I have just described was called a debate.  But I’ve watched several television events called debates – and they aren’t anything like what I remember.  These current events remind me of what sometimes occurred on the playground at recess.  It was a spirited conversation, usually between two young male students, that went something like this:

You are lying.

No, y’er lying.

You are a dirty, rotten liar.

Am not…you are the dirtiest liar in the whole school.

You take that back or I’ll punch you.

You punch me and my big brother will whoop you.

Your brother touches, me my dad with beat him up.

Yeah?  Well…my dad is bigger than your dad.

Is not.

Is so…

The discussion could go on for several minutes, sometimes devolving to a physical altercation.  This rarely resulted in any real physical damage to the participants, although I expect there are thousands of psychologists who have made a good living sorting out the resulting mental trauma to fragile young male minds.

I never thought of these playground events as “debates.”  I thought they were just a couple young guys acting like jerks.  They usually were the sort of guys who would make a younger boy put his tongue on a light pole in the dead of winter and laugh when it stuck to the metal.

If I had to give them a formal name it would be something like “spat” or “scuffle.”

So…when I tuned into the “debates” I thought I was watching a scuffle, with a bunch of guys (and an occasional gal) acting like jerks.  I guess these people are running for President of the United States and believe the best way to get elected is to call the other candidates liars, cheats, dummies or Canadians.  (Frankly, I always thought it was a compliment to be called Canadian – but perhaps that’s because I’m a fan of the frequent-of-late-Stanley-Cup-Champion Chicago Blackhawks.  We have lots of wonderful Canadians on our team.)

Maybe my apparent misunderstanding of these terms is just another case of the confusion inherent in the English language.

For example, “forensics” is the study of “reasoned discourse: argument.”  A debate team often is called a forensics team.  But “forensics” also is a criminal science.  Forensic scientists investigate crime scenes and are often portrayed on television shows analyzing DNA samples and tiny hairs left behind by doers of dastardly deeds.

I think the folks on the televised “debates” relate to both definitions of “forensic.”  They engage in argument, though sometimes poorly reasoned.  And they seem to be in the midst of a crime scene, the crime being the murder of the American political process.

Maybe we’d be better off with their tongues stuck on a cold pole.

 Some students at the University of Oregon don’t like this quote, which is displayed at their student union.  They are so limited in their vision of political correctness.

By the way, if you don’t know what a student union is, it is a place on a university campus where students hang out and ponder the important issues of the day:  what’s for lunch, what bands are playing in the local bars, boxers or briefs.

Students also engage in conversations to make sure they are achieving a sufficiently high level of political correctness.  Thus, the Oregon students want this famous quote removed because it is too narrow – it doesn’t refer to gender identity. It seems King should have mentioned the rights, dreams and aspirations of the transgendered.  Perhaps King would still be respected on the Oregon campus if he had said:

I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin or which gender they identify with on Tuesday, but by the content of their character and their willingness to share a toilet with anyone of any gender.

Sadly, adding the rights of the transgendered to King’s dream hardly gets you to politically correct pre-eminence.  What about the rights of Druids?  What about people who have an extra little finger on their left hand?  What about vegetarians and folks on the paleo diet?

I read last week about a young woman who identifies as a cat.  She says she is trans species.  Who is looking out for her right?  Maybe not the students at Oregon, which has the team name “Ducks.”  Ducks don’t like cats.

Then there are fat people, skinny, tall people, short people and people who are just too average in build and stature.

The sad fact is that the walls of the student union at Oregon probably aren’t tall and wide enough to display all the categories what must be cared for.

But if the students could actually read what King said, they will realize that nobody is excluded.  Every human – male, female or undetermined – has a particular color to their skin.  And they should not be judged by that color but by the content of their character.

Doesn’t anyone really want to argue with that?

Please be advised that in this entry I’ll mention nudity.

I know that the subject is terribly sensitive, especially to some of the extremely gentile world leaders like the president of Iran.

When the quiet and unassuming leader of one of the world’s most violent nations visited Rome recently, a museum he visited covered statues of nudes lest Mr. President be offended.  Mr. President met with the Pope while in Rome; I hope the Holy Father didn’t subject him to a tour of the Sistine Chapel.  Lots of nudies up on the ceiling.

Now I suppose it is only polite to show a bit of cultural sensitivity when someone from another culture comes to visit.  But covering up great works of art goes beyond my definition of cultural sensitivity.  The smarty pants part of my personality would have wanted to march Mr. President past the naked sculptures to see how he handled the shock.

While wondering about that, I wondered how Iranians would adjust to my sensitivities were I to pay a visit to their charming nation.  (Just to be clear, Iran isn’t on my short list of vacation paradises.)

If the Iranians want to be culturally sensitive to moi, they would realize that I’m offended by the sight of women covered from head to toe in a black bag, nothing but their suffering eyes for the world to see.  If the locals want me to feel at ease, dress the women in real clothes – I’m sure Talbots or J. Crew could come up with some stylish yet modest outfits.

This entire bit of nonsense reminded me of the first time our family went on pilgrimage to Italy.  We were walking into the center hall of the museum in Florence.  I looked down and my daughter had her hands over her eyes; she had noticed that the famous statue of David doesn’t have a fig leaf.

My wife and I explained that it was art and she could look at it but didn’t have to.  She continued to avert her eyes.  I’m thinking Mr. President could have done the same thing.  But perhaps he isn’t as mature as my daughter was.  She was six.