When I was young I pictured “crisis” as an apocalyptic event involving a blood-red moon, stars falling from the sky and supernatural horse-riding angels. Most people still do. Many see crises as only the large events that seem to take the universe by storm: the falling of the Twin Towers, the destruction of New Orleans, the tsunami that ravaged Sri Lanka.
These events were embraced as nation or worldwide tragedies. Though we lived thousands of miles away, they put lives on hold. Funds were raised and endless stories aired about people pulled out of rubble, children separated from parents, homes that could not be rebuilt and lives that could not be repaired.
I had no personal investment in these crises. I lost no relatives and knew no one in the areas affected. It was that way for most of us, and it is this way for most large-scale catastrophes. Why do they affect us so? Why does it take the overturning of a city, a ravaging tsunami, or the collapse of a nation’s icons to make people gather in self-reflective mourning?
I’ve heard many argue that these tragedies remind us of our own mortality, so it is necessary that we approach them thoughtfully. As one person expressed it, “These events are proof our lives of privilege are temporary, and it’s a duty to reach out and help those whose worlds fall apart.” Her voice shook as she said these words to me.
Her viewpoint interested me, but not for the reasons she expected.
I never believed in putting my life on pause to reflect over New Orleans, Sri Lanka or even New York after 9/11. I became anxious when my teachers taught nothing for a day or two, consenting instead to let us watch endless news reports on crisis situations. I had no reflective ditties to share when these events popped up in sympathetic conversation. I did not donate money or resources to people whose homes needed rebuilding. Naturally these stances were unpopular by those who felt I was being inhumane or unpatriotic.
But we don’t need to wait for events of this scale to make us more sympathetic, productive or kind people. The fact is, our “lives of privilege” are filled with moments of crisis that are overlooked because they happen to one or a hundred people at random instead of a thousand all at once. Grandparents die of old age, parents lose their jobs, and very good, very young friends wake up one morning to discover they have cancer. These are critical events that happened to me and to people I know in the past year. We didn’t make news and we received no donations.
When moments of crisis occur in my life and not in Sri Lanka, near enough for me to feel a desire to put my world on pause and fall into a carefree heap, life doesn’t wait. These moments are the most critical of all: those during which, after a personal catastrophe, we must choose between throwing away all we built (the choice that feels justified) or gritting our teeth, bearing the pain and continuing on for survival’s sake and for the sake of those we love.
While I don’t lack sympathy for those whose communities were destroyed or whose children were lost, every day a man or a woman is hanging in the balance between the heartless choice to remain sane and the more “human” choice of allowing ourselves to fall victim to broken spirits or addled minds. Every morning we are faced with the decision to hold fiercely onto our characters and move toward our goals under torrents of pressure, or drop everything and give in to a tide whose direction is always against us. For this reason, every moment is one that merits a great deal of self-reflection. It should take no distant crisis on a grand scale to spark a desire to help others – or to help ourselves.
I thought of writing a piece about my ancestors’ immigrant struggle, and then I realized it would insult their strength to dwell on obstacles they successfully overcame. I thought about going into detail about the night I thought I’d die alone and unloved on a cold floor, but I defy this crisis by remaining alive, moving toward a goal that gleams ever closer. The crises of the everyday are those that tell us the most about ourselves. Wiring money to tsunami victims says nothing about a man who crumbles under the burden of his own troubles or turns a blind eye to matters closer to home.
The road unfolding before us is littered with obstacles and terrifically tragic events. It’s human and necessary to lend our hearts to those whose troubles move us as though they were ours, or to give ourselves a moment to reflect and recuperate after our own struggles, but it’s foolish and crippling to lend them more time than they are worth. It’s also foolish to imagine that only the crises big enough to monopolize every news station are the ones that merit self-reflection over our own paths.
If my house washes away tomorrow or I lose my loved ones to a tragedy, it will be my responsibility to rebuild my life and my burden to pay respect to those I love by moving relentlessly forward. An event like this won’t appear on the news. America won’t send me comfort or money. Should the futile night of the blood-red moon arrive with the death angels on horseback, ready to destroy the world, I will face it the same way I choose to face the roadblocks that confront me everyday. The best defense to a crisis is to prove, with strength of character and strength of will, that you will be the one who remains standing. The crises that hit us with the most force are the ones that test our strength, merit our self-reflection and determine our futures.
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