I refuse to mourn Terri Schiavo's death. I am doing this consciously and deliberately as a useless private protest against the psuedo-caring that has been foisted on Americans by our media. I'm writing this diary because it's surprisingly difficult to do this.
Terri Schiavo is, in the abstract, very worthy of compassion and rememberance. An eating disorder ended her life far too early, robbing her of a life with what seems to me to be an obviously devoted husband. Then, her sad story was appropriated by a social/political movement bent on using tragedy for its own ends. While her awareness of this farce is quite obviously non-existent, it still robs her end of the dignity which every human should be awarded.
But, and here's my point, I don't know her. I never met her, and I never would have.
John Donne, of course, wrote that every death effects him because we are all a piece of the continent, a piece of the main. Any bell tolling tolls for thee and me. And it's true, we are all sentient beings and share a spark of life, the extinguishing of which in any form is a tragedy we should mourn. And, in a way, I wish I could in this instance.
But I won't. I won't join in the national psychosis of weeping and wailing about one death I see on TV, while ignoring the death and pain around my home. I won't allow myself to be drawn into the constructed reality of television to the detriment of the actuality around me. I will not let the forces of economics and politics in mass-media dictate on what I spend my emotional capital.
Mourning Terri Schiavo with a keening reserved for truly personal events is part of the problem. We all need to distinguish between what is real and what is not. The blurring of this line has been an on-going problem in this country and the world since the invention of television. Our clanish brains simply can't comprehend fully that the sights and the sounds we see are not real. Sure, we know they are not, but our deepest emotions are stirred, poked, prodded, and twisted by the constant barrage of images of tragedy among people we recognize, identify with, but do not know. Our sub-conscious sees the face of Terri Schiavo and recognizes it. Our neurons have connected that face with a family, a history, a tragedy. It is almost like knowing her. But it isn't.
Still, though, the power of video remorselessly pushes on, moving from a pregnant woman murdered in California to children molested by a pop star to a family fight over a dying woman to ... what? There will be another tragedy to feed our growing addiction.
And it is an addiction. The most addictive substances give you an intense illusion of a real feeling, while denying you the satisfaction of actuality. A drug high is stronger than the quiet satisfaction of sitting alone in the woods. A woman dying amid a political firestorm is more dramatic than the older couple next door sitting lonely in their yard, happy when my son runs over to get a ball and says "hi." But my life is enriched when I ignore the tragedy on the screen and alleviate the quiet sadness next door by walking over and striking up a conversation. And I don't do that enough; too many of us don't do that enough.
So, I will not mourn Terri Schiavo. I mean no disrespect to another human being who has suffered. Instead I will use this moment to try to remind myself of the many ways I can connect with the lives around me: the family, friends, neighbors and strangers I see every day in my real life.