The Power of the Crossing Guard

For too long now, the lady in front of my daughter's school has wielded her arms as if the Luftwaffe returned to the democratically open spaces of North American skies. Her facade of power includes a whistle, a coat the color of exotic Amazonian endangered birds, and white gloves magically transforming mundane hands into holy artifacts. "Can't you see my hands say 'Stop'," her voice needles with Nazi intentness.

My capability for sight is questioned almost every day.

Lord Acton's aphorism never goes out of style. But what has caused this seemingly regular person to metamorphose into a mad donkey? It simply can't be the retina burning outfit. The sworn charge of safety? Safety above all else? I believe it is more insidious and more prevalent than anyone has yet to imagine.

We have begun to create what I call the Cult of Life Implosion. It's more than the 15 minutes of fame. It's the idea that whatever I do deserves recognition and reverence. Important I am; therefore I exist. Few of us hold contentment as a qualifier for a happy life.

The implosion is directly related to the service rendered by each individual whether that service exists in a physically imminent form or a physically removed form. Let me provide two examples.

I called my bank the other day to change my address. This request seemed to fall into the realm of a) simple and b) simple. I wasn't asking for any personal or private information; I was going to give them information! Hah!

After meandering through the labyrinth of hell called the Telephone Tree, a woman's voice arrived on the phone:

-- I need to change my address.
-- What is your account number?

Account number was given, name and SS# verified, all is well. Not a chance.

-- I can't help you.
-- Sorry?
-- I can't change your address over the phone.
-- Why not?
-- Security reasons.
-- But I'm not asking for any information. I just want to get my bank statements.
-- You can email me your address.
-- That makes no sense. I could create a fake address in three seconds. I want to give YOU an address because YOU have my information which I've verified.
-- We can verify your email because we already have it on file.
-- I'll just tell you my email now and then you'll know it's me.
-- I can't do that. Why don't you fax it to us?
-- How do you know it's me from a fax?
-- That's what we can do; otherwise you have to come in to one of the branches.
-- That's stupid.

It pretty much disintegrated into the chaotic world of yelling. (Actually, I yelled, and she hung up.)

I, the customer of the bank, held no power. I could have closed all my accounts and still been left with a hollow feeling of impotence. If she gave in, what would have been the consequences? Planets colliding? Dogs and cats speaking in tongues? No.
The only problem would have been her usefulness; she could no longer justify the power she held behind the desk of her office holding a phone. Her name plate removed; her hairstyle obliterated.

My second example directly correlates with another public service mammoth -- the restaurant. Is it too much to ask the power crazed staff of the food industry NOT to add glass shards to my food?

Accidents occur. That is a given. If you cannot conceive of this standard of life's rituals, then head immediately for the exit. But, when the accident is over, can someone take responsibility? Not if your power is at risk.

So after I discovered glass in my omelette's cheesy center and after the apologies and after not volcanically burning the remaining hairs on my head, I wanted to know what management intended to do. The manager had the power to make amends. I only had the power to request another breakfast which I considered to be a slight risk.

The manager refused to do anything. No compensation. It was explained to me as if I had just entered Ellis Island after an arduous boat trip originating from Boneheadavalkia. Nothing could be done. We don't refund. We will gladly make you another broken Tiffany egg surprise. Power, where art thou?

Frustrating though it may be, the "small" lives led by those around me are the only ones justifying some type of recognition; some kind of vanity plate existence which validates who we are and how we define ourselves. I have nothing against the crossing guard lady. She does her job well. Bankers fill a niche. And, I enjoy being served instead of frying and boiling on my own.

Just step back one or two feet and separate the right and privilege of a job well done to the unnecessary control power advocates over other people. I can cooperate just as well as the next guy. Just don't kill me in the process.