We have seen an inspiring outpouring of support, compassion and selflessness these past few weeks. We have also witnessed price gouging, looting and lightening-quick litigious trigger fingers.
We have heard creative ideas put forth on how to best rebuild. We have experienced impatience for that rebuilding to start as soon as possible.
We have, in short, seen the best of us and the worst of us. Mostly the best.
This is the closest I have been to a real disaster. If you don’t count the time I wasted six bucks on Waterworld. Up until now, I have witnessed disasters from afar, felt a modicum of empathy and sympathy and then pretty much gone on with my life.
But this was different. Several of my friends lost their homes. Several more were among the evacuees. Some personally fought the infernos and saved their houses. All of them walk around with the slightly dazed and weary look of trauma survivors. Which, of course, they are.
At times like these it seems that the world can, indeed, be a better place, that the compassion and sense of community that rose from the ashes could extend to everyday life.
Yet, much as 9/11 didn’t really end the Age of Irony, our wine country fires did not forever bind our community together. Why? Because people are people, rough edges and all.
By the way, I’m not sure exactly when the Age of Irony started, but believe it was right after the Age of Wrinkly. I am truly sorry about that. And I digress.
As I was tooling down the mean streets of Healdsburg t’other day (that’s Shakespearean, you know) I was pulling up to a stop sign as the car on the street to my left was doing the same. Those of you who actually paid attention in driver’s education may remember that, when arriving at a four-way stop simultaneously (those of you who actually paid attention in English may remember that means “at the same time”), the driver to the right has the right of way. That was me. Or would have been if the other driver had actually stopped at the seemingly ridiculously named sign instead of putting a light tap on the brakes then rolling through, purposely not glancing my direction for fear he might notice one of my fingers was not behaving like the other ones.
This is an occurrence that happens with mundane regularity, but now it seems well … unseemly. Against all logic, I expected our newly refound magnanimity to weave its threads through all aspects of my life. But, alas, that guy with the monster truck still roars down our residential street at 60 mph, the woman with 25 items still appears in front of me in the express line, and time-sensitive emails still find themselves unread.
One can point to our so-called leaders as the perfect example of behavior trickling down, but of course this has been happening for some time. The support posts of a cohesive, supportive society have been eroding at least since Biff tortured George McFly in those “Back to the Future” documentaries.
Perhaps the noise and clutter that surrounds us bears some blame. Sensory overload is part of our societal DNA. Relentless grabs for our attention dominate our days, from nefariously addictive phone apps to signs, banners, posters, fliers, robocalls, TV and radio ads, and pop ups everywhere, that leave us with precious few quiet moments, compromised perspective and practically no time to just be.
It feels to me that we have devolved into a nation of whining grumps, demanding immediate gratification, eager to assign blame and routinely tired, edgy and short-tempered. Even the myriad magnanimous actions of so many over the past month can’t completely erase the vestiges of this simmering angst.
But, you know, a return to normalcy (whatever that means) includes the prickly little things that bug us as well as the warm fuzzies that lift our spirits. A Stepford Wives (or Black Mirror’s Nosedive episode for you youngsters) type of vapid niceness would freak me out.
“Papa don’t preach,” I hear you say (it’s either you or Madonna), so I will only address my own behavior, which is, naturally, all I have control over. My modest pledge: to keep my (figurative and literal) middle finger holstered as much as possible.
At least until holiday shopping rears its tinseled head.
Steven welcomes your comments. You can reach him at
st***************@gm***.com
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