Sometimes I’m overwhelmed by my own privilege. Not only the privilege of being a comfortably middle class so-and-so working towards a university education with a roof over my head and food to eat, but also the privilege of frivolity—of time. Almost everything I do is totally frivolous, and frivolity is a luxury afforded to only the few.
As of last month, I started writing the regular column “If there’s a Hell…” (formerly “Asshole of the Month”). There could hardly be a more frivolous beat than this. While others comment on world affairs, I get to single out someone or something that has pissed me off and explain exactly why they deserve to be derided. Hardly Seymour Hersh stuff.
Last month revealed no shortage of contenders: Rod Blagojevich, embattled governor of Illinois; the IDF, currently launching a ground campaign in the Gaza strip that has claimed many lives already, and will claim many more; Hamas, launching rockets into Israel and destroying months of progress towards peace. There are easier targets, too: George W. changing the rules down south to allow dumping near wildlife preserves, and our own Steve Harper hiding behind the GG to save his political hide.
But I just don’t feel like writing about any of them. Maybe it’s the introspective impulse that a new year brings, but I can’t get rid of that nagging feeling, familiar to anyone with privilege: shouldn’t I do something instead of merely writing about what bothers me? Isn’t it incumbent upon me to sacrifice my plum assignment and start reporting on important things?
Mea culpa. I should but I won’t. I just don’t know how.
In better times, frivolous activity is known collectively as “culture.” Whether it’s painting a picture, staging a play, singing a song, or writing criticism about any of these, when things are good, the rest of the world indulges and lets us happily hum on. But when things are bad and money gets tight, the wider world’s patience runs out. We privileged few have to confront our privilege square in the face.
Instead, we tend to whine. Whine about arts cuts, the importance of “culture,” and how we (well, not me—not yet) need our grants to keep contributing. But the reality is that these are privileges. Writing about assholes is something I get to do, but something that could vanish in an instant.
Singers have no “right” to sing, painters have no “right” to paint, and writers have no “right” to write. All of these things are privileges afforded to few, and enjoyed by fewer. When times get tough, the privileged come under scrutiny. Of course there will be arts cuts, and debates about whether drama needs to be taught in schools, and patronizing quips about how “ordinary” Canadians don’t care about the arts. But we will keep doing what we know, whether it’s painting or singing or playing or writing.
Those fully immersed in the ways of frivolity will just keep soldiering on.
