Nothing brings out the best in people quite like a story about someone who is so down on his luck it doesn’t seem possible that things can get any worse, but then they do. This week, one of the local stations pounced all over just such a story: someone stole a man’s wheelchair. The man, who lives in an apartment on a very fixed income, is a U.S. veteran. He can barely afford to eat and pay the rent. Buying a new wheelchair is out of the question. For this man, the statistics aren’t abstract. He lives below the numbers.
Before the newscast was over, the razzle-dazzle anchor announced that the station had been flooded with calls from people who wanted to help. She shuffled her papers and thanked the viewers for being so nice. And with that, it was time for Katie Couric, but the wheelchair story was far from over. The following evening the anchor spoke of the outpouring of support like a proud parent. Money, food, a brand new wheelchair donated by a hospital and, best of all, a contractor with the wood, tools and know-how to build a ramp into the man’s apartment. The contactor was interviewed briefly. He explained that building a ramp is easy, that it wouldn’t take more than a couple of hours.
And then, time for community talk.
The contractor passionately explained that yes, he works and lives here in this community, and the man whose wheelchair was stolen is also a member of the community, and this isn’t about money or anything else, it’s about taking care of people in the community, because we’re a community and that’s what we do.
Please, stop. I think the notion of community is beautiful. I’d love to live somewhere where everyone is valued for who they are, where those in need are looked after, where those with abundance share with those cut short. But I have so many questions about these feel-good stories, and those who respond to them. In a city that’s ape shit about wheelchair accessibility, how is it possible that this man’s apartment doesn’t have a ramp? Where has this community-minded contractor and the good Samaritans at the hospital been for the last year, as the unemployment rate in our state has remained well above 10 percent, as the foreclosure orgy continues full-tilt boogie, as the food bank’s pantries become more barren by the day, as more people’s unemployment insurance expires and well, they’re kind of just screwed at that point, and more and more people are forced to either pay the rent or pay their health insurance premium – but not both? I’m not proud of myself for bashing generosity, but given our rat-on-a-treadmill enslavement to terms like community and giving back, I’d be foolish not to wonder.
The most offensive thing about this week’s feel-fuzzy blitz is the veteran angle. As far as I can tell, nothing gets this country aroused quite like the military. Our lust for war and all its trappings is insatiable. We’re so turned on by war images, in fact, that we even use them for commercials – shamelessly. Shilo Inns – yes, a hotel chain – runs a commercial regularly that’s so sparse it’s almost elegant. A man, a woman and a boy – presumably a family – slowly approach a grave marked by a white cross. They get down on bended knee and the man and boy – daddy and son, I assume – salute the cross that commemorates – again, I assume – the fallen older son who died defending his country. The man, boy and woman embrace, the Shilo Inn logo appears along with some schmaltzy message and that’s the end.
And the end it is, indeed. We love our veterans, the ceremonies, the uniforms, the flags, the teary departures and reunions at the airport, the baby that was born while daddy was away, often bestowed with a name along the lines of Justice, serving the country and preserving freedom and liberty so that his baby can grow up proud and free. We love the whole narrative, apparently, until it’s time to pay the bills. I am sorry, sincerely, to rain on the parade (although it has been an unusually dry summer) but I find it difficult to stomach these types of stories, the moral of which appears to be that nothing brings out the fair-minded generosity in people throughout the community quite as effectively as the arrival of the camera crew.
Before the newscast was over, the razzle-dazzle anchor announced that the station had been flooded with calls from people who wanted to help. She shuffled her papers and thanked the viewers for being so nice. And with that, it was time for Katie Couric, but the wheelchair story was far from over. The following evening the anchor spoke of the outpouring of support like a proud parent. Money, food, a brand new wheelchair donated by a hospital and, best of all, a contractor with the wood, tools and know-how to build a ramp into the man’s apartment. The contactor was interviewed briefly. He explained that building a ramp is easy, that it wouldn’t take more than a couple of hours.
And then, time for community talk.
The contractor passionately explained that yes, he works and lives here in this community, and the man whose wheelchair was stolen is also a member of the community, and this isn’t about money or anything else, it’s about taking care of people in the community, because we’re a community and that’s what we do.
Please, stop. I think the notion of community is beautiful. I’d love to live somewhere where everyone is valued for who they are, where those in need are looked after, where those with abundance share with those cut short. But I have so many questions about these feel-good stories, and those who respond to them. In a city that’s ape shit about wheelchair accessibility, how is it possible that this man’s apartment doesn’t have a ramp? Where has this community-minded contractor and the good Samaritans at the hospital been for the last year, as the unemployment rate in our state has remained well above 10 percent, as the foreclosure orgy continues full-tilt boogie, as the food bank’s pantries become more barren by the day, as more people’s unemployment insurance expires and well, they’re kind of just screwed at that point, and more and more people are forced to either pay the rent or pay their health insurance premium – but not both? I’m not proud of myself for bashing generosity, but given our rat-on-a-treadmill enslavement to terms like community and giving back, I’d be foolish not to wonder.
The most offensive thing about this week’s feel-fuzzy blitz is the veteran angle. As far as I can tell, nothing gets this country aroused quite like the military. Our lust for war and all its trappings is insatiable. We’re so turned on by war images, in fact, that we even use them for commercials – shamelessly. Shilo Inns – yes, a hotel chain – runs a commercial regularly that’s so sparse it’s almost elegant. A man, a woman and a boy – presumably a family – slowly approach a grave marked by a white cross. They get down on bended knee and the man and boy – daddy and son, I assume – salute the cross that commemorates – again, I assume – the fallen older son who died defending his country. The man, boy and woman embrace, the Shilo Inn logo appears along with some schmaltzy message and that’s the end.
And the end it is, indeed. We love our veterans, the ceremonies, the uniforms, the flags, the teary departures and reunions at the airport, the baby that was born while daddy was away, often bestowed with a name along the lines of Justice, serving the country and preserving freedom and liberty so that his baby can grow up proud and free. We love the whole narrative, apparently, until it’s time to pay the bills. I am sorry, sincerely, to rain on the parade (although it has been an unusually dry summer) but I find it difficult to stomach these types of stories, the moral of which appears to be that nothing brings out the fair-minded generosity in people throughout the community quite as effectively as the arrival of the camera crew.
