They thought I was kidding when I said I found it offensive.
Work colleagues were talking about how funny the “People of Walmart” website was — you know, the one where people post photos and videos of shoppers and tack snide comments beneath them about the shape of their bodies, their style of dress, or generally how tasteless those people are.
They are the poor “white trash” folks who gravitate to Walmart for bargains or convenience. Not all are white, and not all are poor, but they certainly are not as privileged as those who take great joy in ridiculing them.
There was an incredulous look in the newsroom when I called the site offensive; my co-workers weren’t sure if I was kidding or not.
“No, really, I find it offensive,” I repeated, and I’m sure my face displayed the anger that wells up inside me from that form of humor.
Afterward, when I was calmer, I pondered why that website provokes such a strong sentiment. I generally don’t take offense at anything. I enjoy a good joke as much as the next person, and simply dismiss the lame attempts at humor. What was it about the People of Walmart that brought out those deep feelings of outrage?
Thinking about it, I realized it came from Babe Caldwell. Jovial around others for the most part, he would turn pale and stern when he heard someone poke fun at someone who was physically or mentally deficient. “They can’t help the way they are,” I heard him say on more than one occasion.
Babe treated everyone the same way, whether they were wealthy or poor, capable or inept. He might joke about something stupid someone did, but he would still respect the person. Growing up around him, I never paid much attention to anyone’s social status, ethnicity, or religion. We were all just people.
Certainly there were issues in the background. We would recognize that we were not as wealthy as our more affluent neighbors. We had Catholic friends and Protestant friends, but knew that marriage between the two was forbidden. When I was a teenager, there were moments of shame when the school bus arrived while Babe was in the yard, dressed for the sawmill or hunting, rather than banking or management.
Still, he was wise in his way, and his lessons became ingrained — so much so that, when our children were growing up, we emphasized to my son that he should associate with the outcasts as well as the popular ones at school; and when a girl stole coins from my daughter’s purse, we let her know that, while the deed was wrong, the girl was very poor and probably needed the money.
I never really gave much thought to the reasons Babe felt the way he did. I knew he had it hard growing up as part of a large family. I also knew that it bothered him to remain at home during World War II while others went off to fight. He was an epileptic and could not serve.
He never wanted anyone outside of the family know that he had epilepsy. He was afraid he would lose his driver’s license if anyone found out. That we knew; what we didn’t know was that there might more to that fear.
It was only recently that I made the connection between his fear of exposure and the very real danger that it held in the 1920s through early 1970s. The eugenics movement, which helped fuel nazism, was embraced in this country when it came to the “feeble-minded” — a term for the mentally ill that also included those with brain malfunctions such as epilepsy. They became outcasts — people to be purged from society. The Laconia State School became a repository for the mentally ill, but for some of them, the “illness” was a failure to conform — and for others it was epilepsy.
The state school inmates were subjected to inhumane treatment because they were considered inferior, and many were involuntarily sterilized to make sure they would not pollute the gene pool. Even today, there are traces of the eugenics movement in comments about people being from “the shallow end of the gene pool.”
Whether Babe was aware of that or not, he knew there was a certain stigma associated with epilepsy because a grand mal seizure can be frightening to see. Medication could control it to a certain extent, but the dosages had to be right, and sometimes were ineffective. People were understandably unnerved by the disease, and that alone could make one seek anonymity in connection with epilepsy.
Whatever his reasons for hiding his affliction from those outside the family, Babe may have seen something of himself in the people who were being ridiculed when “they can’t help the way they are.”
Regardless of what prompted it, the lesson was valid. People do what they do for many reasons, some of them beyond their control. There are hundreds of health conditions that affect people’s ability to do what they would like to do, and there are thousands of other factors — wealth, social status, religious background, ethnic history, and education among them — that help determine their choices. One student may be awkward and abrasive without intending to be so; another may steal money from a purse without thinking about the consequences. Someone may wear pajamas to Walmart because other clothes are uncomfortable.
Despite our dissimilarity, we’re not all that different from one another, and we have a lot in common when we’re not focusing on our differences. All people value affection, appreciate an understanding attitude, and long for comfort and security. Everyone needs a kind ear to listen when talking about what is troublesome or difficult to overcome. Sometimes providing a little encouragement is all the other person needs.
