I was shaken, deeply, by this. I'm appalled by the belief that profiting from tragedy--no matter how removed you feel from that tragedy--is a legitimate expression of "capitalism." I'm trying to imagine how Jeneane's daughter would feel, years from now, if her "money for school" was acquired through the sale of this debris. I'm wondering if Jeneane's belief that 'anything that lands in her yard is hers' extends to human remains--heck, those are probably worth even more, right? Likely to fetch a bundle on ebay from collectors.
Why this makes me so angry, I'm not sure. I suppose it's because it comes from someone's whose writings I trust--someone who writes so beautifully about her relationship with her daughter, her frustrations with injustice. It's hard to reconcile this self-described "slimey" statement with the person I feel as though I've come to know through her writing.
I like Liz and I have a deep professional and personal respect for her. Plus she lives in my old home town. (I wouldn't be the only one walking around Rochester with a less-than-popular response to this particular hypothetical dillemma--I'll bet you that.) So we can shorten this up by saying, I like Liz and Liz either liked or likes me. But I wrote something that made her feel "angry" and gave her trouble reconciling all the parts of who I am. And yes, I assure you, this is one of those sides.
However, I'm not stupid. I said I would wait a few years.
I wrote a comment over at Liz's place explaining how I came to my hypothetical decision. But it didn't go far enough. Whether or not it's capitalism (we find or earn, we barter), barbarism, or some other ism, the point is that because I fessed up I'd probably do it, Liz seems to be grappling with feeling differently about me. Because I told the truth, and that truth was ugly to her. I could have lied. I could have just gone offline for a day or two. But why? Why is my truth any less tolerable? What would be a "non-appalling" response to my hypothetical situation?
If you found a piece of the space shuttle in your yard five years from now--or if you move to Texas and buy a house and are planting a garden one day and you find a chunk--what do you do then? You going to give it back? Not touch it? Pretend it's nothing? Does it carry that same grave weight for you now that it's not front-page news?
You're going to keep it. And if you're not emotionally attached to space flight or related to one of the crew, you're probably going to sell it. Or save it so that someone else in your family can sell it one day.
Why is it so different that I said so from day one?
Because when I experience loss, definition and constraints around that loss remain consistent, forever. From loss-day on.
I've actually been queasy at the myriad in the realworld and online throwing themselves on the media's neatly arranged tombstones.
Tom wrote something great about how the media--and in this instance I think blogland responded much like mainstream media--is leading and controlling our grieving, and the decision of whether we grieve at all or not. For anyone to whom this has a ring of truth, I say this: It's okay to question your grief, your sorrow, and where it's coming from. Because letting outside forces control your grief means that they can control you in any other way they choose.
Now, the next question, is to not grieve someone else's loss different from capitalizing on it? Where's the line? Where's your line? The proper response would be...
For me, at least, it's not all as cut and dry as it seems.
To Shelley, I'm sorry for commenting on what were such beautiful tributes on your site. I know this is a deep loss for you because you believe in all that is space exploration, and because you have a deeper heart than you like to admit. I should have kept my insensitivity over here.
To Liz, I am sorry I fell short for you on this one. But I was being me. Am I passionate and dispassionate, sometimes at the same time? Am I as empathetic as I am brazen? Are there some things I don't care about with the same amount as my caring? You bet. And I still like and respect you, just so you know.
I've been described with a lot of favorable adjectives online. And I appreciate all of those. But don't paint me as a hero and expect me to fit in the frame. Save that honor for the Astronauts and other deserving recipients...
