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The
Victim Complex
It was a Wednesday, I think. My kid was off at preschool
learning more songs with which to slowly kill me. Dr. Phil and I were
making headway toward my self-actualization. I was avoiding my latest
unfinished article, opting instead to ponder whether or not the fanny
pack could be made cool again by merely adding the Gucci monogram. I contemplated
consulting my personal oracle on the matter when my phone rang.
"I'm leaving," he said.
"Great," I said. "Could you pick up a pizza on the way? I'm starving!"
"No. I'm leaving."
Need I waste the oxygen asking where? He was going where my best friend's
husband is. And where a couple of his friends had been for several months
already. Our lives, up to that point untouched by global realities, were
changing. The kid would be pulled from school. I'd probably have to quit
my job. We would be vacating our fabulous house. Married to the military,
I knew this day was inevitable. Still, after I hung up from the world's
worst conversation, I couldn't help but think "Why me?"
We are a peculiar people. In this country of purple mountains majesty
and the dollar chicken sandwich, our sense of privilege and entitlement
is almost palpable. Once the sole bragging rights of minorities, everyone
these days is nursing their very own victim complex. My ancestors were
enslaved, so I deserve reparations. Well, my forefathers weren't slave
owners, so why should it come out of my pocket?
Lately, I've run across some real pity puppies, all yapping for compensation
for something. They claim victim status, but are unwilling to compensate
for the slightest injustice toward their fellow man. Add to it our innate
sense of entitlement and the good old spirit of competition and it's a
recipe for Right Now. "Not only do I deserve compensation,"
we whine, "but I deserve it more than you". And in an era where
the wronged are the new celebrity, who's to say what's appropriate compensation
for anything?
These days, adequate compensation runs the gamut from millions of dollars
to the sympathy and, worse off, pity of total strangers. Many of my friends
are currently serving on foreign battlefields. I was too stunned to cry
watching them board that blue bus, but nothing has prepared me for my
own impending good-byes. I want to confide in those closest to me, but
these conversations almost always devolve into pity contests. I myself
am being left with a rambunctious toddler for a few months. But that's
nothing compared to Wife #2 who has two children and whose husband is
leaving for Afghanistan. Wife #3 has three kids, is pregnant now, and
her husband's already in Iraq. To an uninformed civilian, she wins the
victim game hands down. Iraq always trumps any other deployment. Only
the ultimate prize is a flag and a story to tell the grandkids or Fox
News. And what's the compensation for those prisoners who've been tortured
at the hands of their "liberators"? Is a garbled and stuttering, albeit
heartfelt, apology from the President of the United States enough when
you've been sodomized with the end of a broomstick?
I recently took a two-week, much-needed sabbatical to visit family in
Texas. Turns out, spending fourteen days with my younger sister was just
what I needed. We reminisced about high school, ate too many enchiladas
and helped our charge cards recognize their full potential. The culmination
of the trip down memory lane was dinner at a popular steakhouse with my
parents, my husband, and my son. Three generations of folks sat down for
an Atkins-friendly meal complimented by the down-home atmosphere. Well,
halfway through the salad and anecdote number five in the "Keisha was
completely bald until she was three years old" series, I realized something.
I was victimizing myself by clinging to moldy old indignities. The victim
in me wanted compensation or, at the very least, acknowledgement of the
irreparable damage they caused. But sitting in that booth listening to
my parents grate the tender meat of my childhood against the rocks of
reality, I understood that I was waiting for an apology ship that would
never sail. And over a plate lemon spiced grilled shrimp, I cut loose
my very own victim anchor and walked away.
Three weeks after the phone call, I'm sitting amidst cardboard boxes in
a half-empty house waiting to hear from prospective home buyers. I'm desperately
groping for perspective. Finally consulting the oracle (cleverly disguised
as Style magazine), I found an answer. Dress it up or down, at the end
of the day, a fanny pack is still a fanny pack. Still, the answer to a
more pressing question eludes me. What am I getting out of being alone
for months on end? Sure, I can spend more time with friends and try out
that new boutique in Waikiki. But when I return home, there will be no
one complaining about my negative bank balance and no reason to hide the
shopping bags in the trunk. And for that, there's precious little compensation
to be had.
by
Keisha Poiro
24th May 2004
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