Japan and Me

9,700. That’s the current death toll for the disastrous earthquake that has shook (literally and figuratively) the nation of Japan to its core. There is another 16,500 missing. It’s kind of hard to take in. Living a life of relative comfort and seclusion from the global experience, responding to something like this on a personal level is confusing and difficult. I remember when the death toll was back at 3,000. The first idea that popped into my head was “wow, only 3000. That’s not so bad.” I’m sure many other Americans thought the same thing.

 As the death toll and, to a greater degree, the number of persons missing, continues to rise, I have to continue to wrestle with my initial reflections. What is it that makes 3,000 “not so bad?” Is it the number itself, or my interpretation of the number? Sure, it could be a lot worse (it now is), but does the fact that circumstances aren’t at their absolute level of devastation imply that somehow everything is going to be okay? That the destruction is somehow insufficient to grieve over or take action against? If that’s the case, I’m a lost cause, because, of course, the situation could always be worse. The earthquakes could have caused Japan to sink under the ocean, or the nuclear reactors could have blown the whole island to complete smithereens. Would that have been enough to burst my bubble and wake me from my optimistic and complacent reverie? Maybe.

But in this circumstance, all I can think about is the fact that only one American has been reported dead as a result of the destruction. As such, my immediate world will not be affected in any real or lasting way. I have to wonder, though, would I, or Americans in general, care a lot more if we were the 9700? Yep. It would certainly bother me to be dead.

Interview Assignment: a Lesson in Self(ish) Reflection

She was one of those girls who was in several of my classes, but for some reason I never talked to. I finally decided to do so. She had always seemed like one of those people who would be interesting to talk to, and indeed she was. She told me her name was Elise, and that she was an art major. While nursing majors are nice and all, it was nice to meet someone studying something else. I didn’t waste time getting down to the big question.

 “So, what are you planning for spring break?” “Oh, not much,” she replied. “I’ve got to study for my midterms.” “Yeah, I know,” I replied, assuming I already knew everything, “I’m just trying to get through this week, too.” She gave me a hard look that seemed to say “Shut up and listen for one second.” “Actually, I have midterms after spring break, so I’m going to be spending my break studying,” she replied with a mock enthusiasm that can only be described as endearing. Once again, I had failed miserably in my attempt to control the conversation. “Wow, that sucks,” I replied, and I really meant it.

“What about you?” I was more than a little surprised by her question. I can’t remember the last time someone asked me about me, and I certainly didn’t need any more of an excuse to talk about myself. “Well,” I replied, “I’m pretty much going to just chill out and do nothing. It’ll be nice for a change, and I’m pretty sure I’ve earned it.” I knew immediately that she could see right through me to my self-aggrandized core; women are scary like that. But, all she had to show for it was a smile; I think to show that she pitied me. And, while I slink away and make a note to work on my self-centeredness, that will be enough.