There's always plenty of trauma to go around. Even if you knew no one involved in the shootings, have never been to Virginia and can't tell the difference between a Hokie and a Wahoo, there's no need for you to feel left out.
Did you feel sad when you heard the news? Did you ponder, however fleetingly, the mystery of mortality? If so, don't just go on with your ordinary life as if nothing has happened to disrupt it (even though nothing has happened to disrupt it). Honour your grief! Attend a candlelight vigil, post a poignant message on one of MySpace's Virginia Tech memorial pages and please, seek trauma counseling as soon as possible.
Count me out. There's something fraudulent about this eagerness to latch onto the grief of others and embrace the idea that we, too, have been victimised. This trivialises the pain felt by those who have actually lost something and pathologises normal reactions to tragedy. Empathy is good, but feeling shocked and saddened by the shootings doesn't make us traumatised or special — these feelings make us normal.
Our self-indulgent conviction that we have all been traumatised also operates, ironically, to shut down empathy for other, less media-genic victims, like the hundreds killed in Baghdad on the same day. Our collective insistence that we all share in the Virginia Tech trauma is a form of anti-politics, one that blinds us to the distinctions between different kinds and degrees of suffering.
The insistence on collective mourning even operates to depoliticise the Virginia Tech tragedy. Those who made the mistake of suggesting that the massacre might lead us to consider tighter gun regulation were quickly told to shut up because this is "a moment for grief," not politics. But we live in a political world. Searching for policies that can reduce the violence that plagues our world, at home and abroad, is the best way to honour the dead.
Second best? Let's at least stop pretending that we're victims too.





Reply With Quote
















