I awoke this morning to find scattered patches of snow on the ground and small droplets of water drizzling down from the sky. By mid-morning the snow was gone, washed away by the patter of rain.
Nevertheless, before anyone’s 6:00 A.M. alarm clock could go off, the college where I work had sent official notice: it was closing for the entire day.
It’s now nearly 3:00 P.M. Most of the days’ classes would have already ended, and there is still no snow on the ground. [Update: Essentially there was no snow]
We live in a panic culture.
Blame could be assigned to myriad causes: competitive media frenzies; gross litigiousness; a loss of machismo with the decline in blue collar labor; an infantilizing obsession with safety; a general softening in the world’s wealthiest nation.
But whatever the reasons, there’s really no denying that American culture is now quick to push the panic button. Freaking out has become a national pasttime, and as the propensity for worrying grows, the scale of problems that beset us becomes more and more irrelevant.
Increasingly fretful public reactions to minor inconveniences like holiday traffic and maybe half a foot of snow mirror the public reactions to real traumas like school shootings and economic downturns.
The way we publicly discuss social problems, whether great or small, real or imagined, is disturbingly similar. The tone varies little. The major difference is merely how long we talk about them.
Newtown is still with us, while the snow will be forgotten as soon as it melts away. But both demand
ed immediate and total attention, grinding our world to a halt.
The elevation of minor kerfuffles into to epic tragedies is of course tremendously insulting to those who truly suffer. But on the flip side, I am becoming ashamed of my fellow citizens who cripple themselves with inflated fears.
The point is not to claim that in my day we walked to school through a foot of snow without shoes, up hill both ways. The point is that it really did take a foot of snow to shut everything down, not the mere threat of a foot of snow, much less the threat of half a foot. And when a foot of snow did seem imminent, it didn’t set off a rumbling stampede of wild-eyed people hell bent on clearing the supermarket shelves.
Because a foot of snow means the same thing now it meant a hundred years ago. Everything will shut down for a day, then we’ll dig ourselves out and get back to life as normal, but with more slush.
God forbid you go a day without bananas and milk. You might shrivel and die.
And half a foot? That’s barely enough for a respectable snowman.
By the way, if you’re in the sun belt reading this, don’t laugh. An overcast day is enough to send you into a tizzy. Don’t deny it.
If you’re in the snow belt reading this, absolutely feel free to laugh. Until you remember that I’ll have real spring weather beginning next week, flower buds and all.
And if you live in China, India, Brazil, or any other aspiring, developing nation, know that we’re as weak and panic-stricken as you are hungry and steely eyed. Indeed, it’s gotten so bad that you don’t need to develop nuclear weapons or crafty trade and currency policies to overtake the United States.
You can bring this mighty empire to its knees by merely renting a few dozen snow machines during the off-season. Takeover entire cities as you march through empty streets while the panicked denizens hide from the threat of bobsledding and snow angels. Heaven help us.