FROM FLAILING HANDS WE THROW THE TORCH…
Remembrance Day has arrived and I never bought a poppy. That’s the first time that’s happened in years. I had the chance about two weeks ago in a bank, but didn’t have any loose change, and I figured I’d get one later, but I honestly don’t think I saw them anywhere else. I suppose I could have sought one out. But I didn’t, so alas I am without pinnage.
Not long ago I probably would have felt much more guilty about this. I would have worried I was inherently bad for not visibly honoring the veterans, or at the very least I would fear being judged as such by the stern looks of poppy-festooned peers and elders. But I don’t want to feel guilty about it, and if I’m given any such stern looks, well, I don’t think I really care anymore, as I seem to be reaching an age where I’m recognizing that 99% of judgmental people should really focus on tidying up their own backyards. As for inherent goodness or badness, I’ve got to lean towards a “good” verdict. I’m thinking of a specific example why.
A month ago in Toronto I was waiting for a lift at the entrance of a subway station. There were two kids standing outside the doorway, a little girl of about six years old and a boy of maybe eleven or twelve. They were selling apples. I watched as commuters walked past them. The little girl would give an adorable toothless smile and squeak out something inaudible to the people closest to her. The boy, a lurching, gangly figure with pom-pom bouncing haphazardly off the top of his head would let loose a shrill plea to “Support scouting!” that carried with it the self-assured persuasiveness of your cheaper brand of rape whistle. It didn’t take long to see that, in terms of sales, the sweet little girl was cleaning up, while the boy was met with nervous shrugs and downward glances.
What else could I do?
I wandered up to the boy and, before he could strafe me with one of his blood-letting pitches, I asked him what he was raising money for and how much it cost to buy an apple. Stammering through a memorized shpeel, he informed me that they were raising money for boy scouts and girl scouts and that you paid what you wanted. So I gave a loonie and thanked him for the apple and left him to mentally regroup. There was a lady whom I assumed was watching over the little troopers in a supervisory capacity, and she gave me a grateful smile.
And that, as much as any reason, is why I don’t feel so bad that I didn’t buy a poppy. The old warhorses will have no trouble raising awareness and money for their cause. Those guys have the uniform, the dignity, the sheer prestige of fighting in the most momentous struggle for freedom in the history of the world. With a promotional triple-threat like that you know the product’s going to sell itself. Give me the nervous, unkempt little scamp whose propensity for negotiating begins and ends with squeezing his parents for an extra half hour of tv before bed. In a dog eat dog world, that’s where I’m throwing my biscuit.
I'd like to salute all the youngsters who, faced with unyielding authority, have taken their marching orders and fought in the trenches of social awkwardness and uncomfortable produce transactions. They’re not the bravest little soldiers, but they’ve got the scars to warrant a little remembrance, too.
Hey, they can’t all be the “greatest” generation.
Remembrance Day has arrived and I never bought a poppy. That’s the first time that’s happened in years. I had the chance about two weeks ago in a bank, but didn’t have any loose change, and I figured I’d get one later, but I honestly don’t think I saw them anywhere else. I suppose I could have sought one out. But I didn’t, so alas I am without pinnage.
Not long ago I probably would have felt much more guilty about this. I would have worried I was inherently bad for not visibly honoring the veterans, or at the very least I would fear being judged as such by the stern looks of poppy-festooned peers and elders. But I don’t want to feel guilty about it, and if I’m given any such stern looks, well, I don’t think I really care anymore, as I seem to be reaching an age where I’m recognizing that 99% of judgmental people should really focus on tidying up their own backyards. As for inherent goodness or badness, I’ve got to lean towards a “good” verdict. I’m thinking of a specific example why.
A month ago in Toronto I was waiting for a lift at the entrance of a subway station. There were two kids standing outside the doorway, a little girl of about six years old and a boy of maybe eleven or twelve. They were selling apples. I watched as commuters walked past them. The little girl would give an adorable toothless smile and squeak out something inaudible to the people closest to her. The boy, a lurching, gangly figure with pom-pom bouncing haphazardly off the top of his head would let loose a shrill plea to “Support scouting!” that carried with it the self-assured persuasiveness of your cheaper brand of rape whistle. It didn’t take long to see that, in terms of sales, the sweet little girl was cleaning up, while the boy was met with nervous shrugs and downward glances.
What else could I do?
I wandered up to the boy and, before he could strafe me with one of his blood-letting pitches, I asked him what he was raising money for and how much it cost to buy an apple. Stammering through a memorized shpeel, he informed me that they were raising money for boy scouts and girl scouts and that you paid what you wanted. So I gave a loonie and thanked him for the apple and left him to mentally regroup. There was a lady whom I assumed was watching over the little troopers in a supervisory capacity, and she gave me a grateful smile.
And that, as much as any reason, is why I don’t feel so bad that I didn’t buy a poppy. The old warhorses will have no trouble raising awareness and money for their cause. Those guys have the uniform, the dignity, the sheer prestige of fighting in the most momentous struggle for freedom in the history of the world. With a promotional triple-threat like that you know the product’s going to sell itself. Give me the nervous, unkempt little scamp whose propensity for negotiating begins and ends with squeezing his parents for an extra half hour of tv before bed. In a dog eat dog world, that’s where I’m throwing my biscuit.
I'd like to salute all the youngsters who, faced with unyielding authority, have taken their marching orders and fought in the trenches of social awkwardness and uncomfortable produce transactions. They’re not the bravest little soldiers, but they’ve got the scars to warrant a little remembrance, too.
Hey, they can’t all be the “greatest” generation.
posted by David Pryde at 5:09 PM
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