In defense of apathy

During my first few days as a freshman on the UW campus, it quickly became clear to me that our student body is concerned about a great many things, chief among them the transfer of other concerns to innocent bystanders. Walking through Red Square for the first time that fall felt like an immigration experience -- an onslaught of strangers in bizarre clothing thrusting pamphlets and flyers at me from all directions, rattling off manifestos like carnival barkers drawing in a crowd and completely overwhelming my political faculties by the third speaker. They could have been saying anything to me: save the whales, nuke the rainforests, re-elect Dukakis -- it didn't matter; I accepted their assorted paperwork with hands numb from confusion. I couldn't begin to track their wildly gesticulating limbs, attend to the details of their faces or follow the logic of their arguments. It was like going through a spanking machine converted for use in propaganda -- it left my social conscience red and swollen, my moral compass swinging wildly.

The first day of each quarter is always the worst, and I soon learned how to tell activists to back off with the set of my shoulders, the cadence of my stride, the hard gleam in my eyes. Today they receive my signal loud and clear, and pass their pamphlet to the next helpless rube passing by. When one makes a pitch in spite of my best efforts to dissuade them, I casually lie about my conviction about whales, the rainforest or Michael Dukakis, and shove the leaflet deep in my pocket, where it receives a level of attention somewhere between drugstore receipts and flyers for Chinese food.

In short, I learned that these people aren't worth my time, but why? The issues they address are often important and relevant, and as a reasonably intelligent person, shouldn't I be as concerned as they are? Why don't I care, and why do I see my apathy reflected in the motions of so many of my fellow students?

Part of the reason lies in our inundation by ideologies. My experience during those first few days of fall has repeated itself, on varying scales, every day since. The first one or two fliers during a quarter register in my conscious mind, but the rest are quickly swept under the doormat, so to speak, right next to the cheat code for Contra and my third-grade recipe for grilled-cheese sandwiches -- the information is there somewhere, but odds are, I won't be searching for it anytime soon. After all, I have a life too, and activists only have to worry about one cause at a time, whereas I am expected to track several concurrently. Not only is it impossible to reconcile everyone's conflicting views and adopt them all, it is daunting to choose just one when confronted by the kaleidoscope of choices. In the same way that I'm paralyzed by the wall of tooth-care products at Bartell's, the dizzying array of beliefs touted by groups on campus baffles me. But while I can grab a tube of toothpaste at random and probably end up minty-fresh, random selection of an ideology is bound to get me in trouble.

And why should I believe the fearless volunteers of these organizations? Certain canvassers look like they're just taking a shot at advocacy between bong hits, and I see little reason why more presentable supporters of other causes should have any authority to change my mind. Too many of them are the political equivalent of wannabes -- people who drive their SUVs to march in protest of an oil war, who sign petitions to end sweatshop labor while wearing GAP fleeces. These people jump on the bandwagon like it is a happening nightclub -- because being involved is cool -- without any real knowledge of the ramifications of their newfound beliefs.

My biggest problem with activism is the occasional blatant disrespect. When I walk past the Communications Building and see "NO WAR" in large spray-painted letters, I feel contempt for the activists, not our president or foreign policy. What do these vandals hope to accomplish other than stealing credence from their cause? Do they think I'll agree with them because an edict scrawled on a mailbox told me to? The same argument applies to the mess of duct-tape residue left in the wake of a papering campaign -- the sticky strips on walkways leave a much stronger impression than the message they originally held down. Clean up the mess, guys, and maybe you'll earn a bit more sympathy from the people whose shoes you currently soil.