An essay about the healing effects of small kindnesses for one my kindest friends:
September 26, 2001
A Time of Gifts
By STEPHEN JAY GOULD
The patterns of human history mix decency and depravity in equal
measure. We often assume, therefore, that such a fine balance of
results must emerge from societies made of decent and depraved people in
equal numbers. But we need to expose and celebrate the fallacy of this
conclusion so that, in this moment of crisis, we may reaffirm an essential truth
too easily forgotten, and regain some crucial comfort too readily forgone.
Good and kind people outnumber all others by thousands to one. The
tragedy of human history lies in the enormous potential for destruction in rare
acts of evil, not in the high frequency of evil people. Complex systems can
only be built step by step, whereas destruction requires but an instant. Thus,
in what I like to call the Great Asymmetry, every spectacular incident of evil
will be balanced by 10,000 acts of kindness, too often unnoted and invisible
as the "ordinary" efforts of a vast majority.
We have a duty, almost a holy responsibility, to record and honor the
victorious weight of these innumerable little kindnesses, when an
unprecedented act of evil so threatens to distort our perception of ordinary
human behavior. I have stood at ground zero, stunned by the twisted ruins of
the largest human structure ever destroyed in a catastrophic moment. (I will
discount the claims of a few biblical literalists for the Tower of Babel.) And I
have contemplated a single day of carnage that our nation has not suffered
since battles that still evoke passions and tears, nearly 150 years later:
Antietam, Gettysburg, Cold Harbor. The scene is insufferably sad, but not at
all depressing. Rather, ground zero can only be described, in the lost
meaning of a grand old word, as "sublime," in the sense of awe inspired by
solemnity.
In human terms, ground zero is the focal point for a vast web of bustling
goodness, channeling uncountable deeds of kindness from an entire planet —
the acts that must be recorded to reaffirm the overwhelming weight of human
decency. The rubble of ground zero stands mute, while a beehive of human
activity churns within, and radiates outward, as everyone makes a selfless
contribution, big or tiny according to means and skills, but each of equal
worth. My wife and stepdaughter established a depot on Spring Street to
collect and ferry needed items in short supply, including face masks and shoe
inserts, to the workers at ground zero. Word spreads like a fire of goodness,
and people stream in, bringing gifts from a pocketful of batteries to a
$10,000 purchase of hard hats, made on the spot at a local supply house
and delivered right to us.
I will cite but one tiny story, among so many, to add to the count that will
overwhelm the power of any terrorist's act. And by such tales, multiplied
many millionfold, let those few depraved people finally understand why their
vision of inspired fear cannot prevail over ordinary decency. As we left a
local restaurant to make a delivery to ground zero late one evening, the cook
gave us a shopping bag and said: "Here's a dozen apple brown bettys, our
best dessert, still warm. Please give them to the rescue workers." How
lovely, I thought, but how meaningless, except as an act of solidarity,
connecting the cook to the cleanup. Still, we promised that we would make
the distribution, and we put the bag of 12 apple brown bettys atop several
thousand face masks and shoe pads.
Twelve apple brown bettys into the breach. Twelve apple brown bettys for
thousands of workers. And then I learned something important that I should
never have forgotten — and the joke turned on me. Those 12 apple brown
bettys went like literal hot cakes. These trivial symbols in my initial judgment
turned into little drops of gold within a rainstorm of similar offerings for the
stomach and soul, from children's postcards to cheers by the roadside. We
gave the last one to a firefighter, an older man in a young crowd, sitting alone
in utter exhaustion as he inserted one of our shoe pads. And he said, with a
twinkle and a smile restored to his face: "Thank you. This is the most lovely
thing I've seen in four days — and still warm!"
Stephen Jay Gould, a professor of zoology at Harvard, is the author of
"Questioning the Millennium." |
