If Love Closes
I grew up in a small town in Pennsylvania. I lived on a farm, alongside beautiful green grass and lush yellow cornfields. I performed farm chores with my father; I fed the cattle and raked hay. The town was called Waynesboro, and the population never exceeded 10,000. Almost all the citizens knew each other, and if they didn't, they waved "hello" anyway. We went to church every Sunday, and based our beliefs and actions on what we learned there. What our town lacked in population, it made up for in love. Helping others took priority over helping oneself. In my family, I was taught that this was the right way to live. My parents stressed the importance of serving others without caring about the rewards. I always felt appreciated and loved. I could never imagine anyone not caring about me.
But in September, I came to Boston. In the Prudential Mall, people would bump into me constantly, and not say "sorry," or even acknowledge my presence. On the streets, no one waved at me or looked my way; no one said anything to me, until I crossed the street. A taxi driver screamed some obscenities through his half-open window. "How selfish," I thought.
A cold chill cover me. The warm, yellow and green farmland that I knew had been frozen over, and had become an icy blue highway. The climate dropped in temperature, but so did the people. Where was the intimate town square that I knew so well, and the small but cozy country homes? They had been plowed by the towering skyscrapers. Where had the "farm-folk" gone? They had been killed by the cosmopolitans. This new home terrified me, because it seemed to lack love.
Boston possesses the vice of self-centeredness. According to the American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language, self-centeredness means, "..to be engrossed in oneself and one's own affairs; selfish." People care about their own business, and no one else's.
In the claustrophobic doorways of Berklee College of Music, musicians stand and freely chat with their friends. They don't realize or even care that they are blocking the doorway for everyone who may want to enter. Just the other day, in a nearby Starbucks cafe, I held the door for a woman. Of course she didn't say, "Thanks." I expected that by now. But shortly after she exited, a seemingly never-ending line of people walked out. I became their doorman, with no pay or verbal compensation. "This is a far cry from Waynesboro," I reflected. Back home, the second person through the door would have said, "You first." After a few minutes, I decided the only way out was to let the door shut; whether or not it hit someone didn't matter. I was tired of holding it. And that forced me to realize: Bostonians don't act inconsiderate because they have something against the human race. It has just become the way they live. And living here for any period of time, a person will start to live that way too, as I have.
Love is not completely absent in Boston, just less abundant. But that can still hinder a healthy lifestyle. Charles Horton Cooley, a sociologist, said, "If love closes, the self contracts and hardens: the mind, having nothing else to occupy its attention and give it that change and renewal it requires, busies itself more and more with self-feeling, which takes on narrow and disgusting forms, like avarice, arrogance and fatuity." And that is why selfishness frightens and appalls me. It forces us into attitudes of indifference and harsh snobbishness.
The sheltered yellow cornfields of my youth have been struck with the grim realization of a selfish world. I took the love of a small church town for granted. I just thought, ignorantly, that my small hometown was an absolute representation of the world. I sometimes do with the whole world could be like Waynesboro, but as long as everyone is different, selfishness will exist. The most important thing I can do is make sure I love others, and am not selfish. The love of other people remains a crucial part of life. And not getting that as freely tends to make "living" a colder experience for all.
--Copyright 1997 Michael Schmid--
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