Gawking

Yesterday Peter and I walked to Copley Square here in Boston. It is not my favorite destination, but Peter wanted to photograph some flower beds he had seen the previous evening on his way to a meeting. I find the area alienating as a native Bostonian. It is now a Manhattan transplant.

 

The recent bombing was not on my mind until we began walking around Copley. Foreign and local tourists with cameras were everywhere. They were obviously looking for any gruesome sign of the recent madness here. Yes, I saw people with cameras looking for blood stains on the pavement at the site of the bombing. They seemed frustrated. The sidewalk has been thoroughly cleaned.

 

Terror tourists. This is perhaps one of the sickest aftermaths of that heinous violence. The media are flooded with stories of surviving amputees getting on with their lives. These tourists are relishing the memorializing of gore. The ersatz memorial of bric-a-brac, cheap flower bouquets sold by street vendors for the purpose, and all kinds of sentimental tokens looks like a market stall with aisles, populated by tourists with cameras. TV vans were parked at the curb. People pushed there way in with their narcissistic expressions of something. Some faces bore masks of determined aggression, neither sadness nor mindfulness of the true horror of violence. Others had the demeanor of Walmart shoppers. Would they want to tour the ruins of a garment factory in Bangladesh?

 

Nearby a twenty-foot length of park bench was occupied by a row of sleeping homeless men. The elaborate fountain in front of them was not in operation, as usual. It was being used by arrogant skateboarders, routinely chipping away at the structure with their little wheels. A hefty Boston cop trudged over to them. They ignored his silent waving. He eventually told them to get off. They complied grudgingly.

 

We sat on a bench at our bus stop for the return journey. The many passers-by were carrying fresh purchases from expensive shops in glossy little bags embossed with their logos. These were a richly dressed international bunch, most likely populating the posh hotels and condos nearby. They were not going anywhere near the memorial or the homeless sleepers.

 

The concept of this form of public grief is a media invention, fostered since the Princess Di memorials at Buckingham Palace forced the Royal Family to publically respond to that celebrity death. This was as much an implicit protest against aristocratic pomposity. It sells soap and cars on TV, on the Web and in magazines. The reality is that human beings, unless sensitized against violence, are drawn to it. Sitting in a traffic jam caused by accident gawkers brings this to light. Schadenfreude is a human weakness in those who are less conscious of their motivations. As a survivor of the AIDS pandemic and a nurse I can testify to this.

 

My walk with Peter yesterday has enhanced my practice. I am struggling with my own anger and disgust at what I have seen as callous curiosity. It has reminded me that the work against human violence is endless. The actions of and reactions to violence are embedded in the animal nature of our brains and bodies. Raising consciousness about the process of violence, even in the outwardly nonviolent, is part of my own humanist practice.