The Rudeness of Strangers

"I can't stand a naked light bulb, any more than I can a rude remark or a vulgar action."
-Tennessee Williams

Let me preface this by saying, yes , I know it was an ill-advised, if not entirely stupid, thing to do.

Despite an impending snow storm, which will be remembered as one of the largest since they started tracking such things, I went to the grocery store Friday afternoon as I was determined not to let some frozen molecules of water ruin my 30th birthday. I had scheduled the day off previously and thought I would be alone in my foraging at the Harris Teeter on Pennsylvania Avenue, SE. I arrived at the parking garage and suspected nothing unusual, as I immediately found a parking space. Little did I know what fresh hell awaited inside.

As I made my way through crowded aisles of shoppers frantically buying bread and toilet paper, I witnessed 2,000 years of cultural progress dissipating like so many snow flakes on a salted side walk. It is amazing that, in the face of a little inconvenience, how quickly the glue of societal order dissolves. The bread aisle was mostly bare. There may, or may not, have been a few multi-grain, flax encrusted hot dog buns left, but that was about it.

Now, this commentary isn't so much about human psychology and its relationship to pre-snowfall grocery shopping as it is about the rudeness of (some) strangers. It's a societal trait that, for whatever reason, I've noticed more and more lately as I go about my daily business. Take for instance, the woman on the metro the other morning. Early 20s. Seated in an aisle seat, while leaving the seat on the interior empty. An elderly man enters and asks to sit down. A wave of emotion crossed her face that would leave one to think he had asked her to massage his bunions.

Back at the Harris Teeter, where the grocery lines snaked through the store, past Crest Whitestrips, ending somewhere by the meat cases, a mother allowed her toddler to push one of those miniature carts they have for children, barely large enough to hold a head of cauliflower, a bottle of cold-pressed olive oil and a container of humus, completely oblivious to the obstacle this created---or if she wasn't oblivious, she didn't care. It's a sense of entitlement, particularly in families where the parental units have more education than common sense, that leads to this self-absorbed, my child is perfect and all the world should pause to witness this perfection. It's particularly rampant in DC. It is a fact: obnoxious people raise obnoxious children. It's a vicious cycle, you know. "Oh, honey look, Bella made a pretty design with her spaghetti noodles on the floor of the restaurant!", turning to the waitress, who will be on hands and knees scrubbing a proto-Picasso, saying "She is so talented."

Respect and consideration are instilled early in life, that in the absence of such instruction, you end up with the annoying colleague who always interrupts or the individual who insists on cutting in line at the exit ramp, despite the long line of cars waiting to do the same.

By 1:30 I had been in the checkout line for at least an hour. To my right, just over the paper products was another line. Unbeknownst to its occupants, it ended in a closed register. One woman, who probably read too much Howard Zinn at her liberal arts college (and, for the record, A People's History of the United States happens to be one of my favorite books), decided she was going to engage in a little community organizing. This nearly resulted in a reenactment of the Southern Bread Riots. The nastiness directed at the employees was appalling--it transcended all levels of class and socio-economic background. The employees of the Harris Teeter were doing the best they could with the situation, yet the customers (and this gets back to this concept of entitlement) were angry about the circumstances in the face of an overwhelmed system. You see, folks, we are all in this thing together. Whether it is pulling ourselves out of a recession or buying toilet paper and Wonder Bread pre-blizzard.

Love each other. And, Lord, oh, Lord, how I try.