American Evita

In America we teach our children that with hard work and desire they can become anything they want to be. But there was never a chance that I could have become a Lakers’ center when I was growing up in Minneapolis and, not to date myself too much, the Lakers were the basketball franchise there. There was never a chance that I would get to be an operatic baritone. In fact, my sixth grade teacher (Mrs. Empie, are you still alive?) told my buddy Albert Thompson and me just to mouth the words instead of singing because we were always horribly off key. I had the talent for neither of those vocations, no matter how hard I tried nor how much I loved them. By telling our children they can be anything, we lie. And in doing so, we foster magical thinking and passivity.
When I was a growing up, one of my mother’s favorite daytime programs was “Queen For A Day,” hosted by Jack Bailey. He interviewed several women with sob stories (no doubt legitimate), and the audience voted for the most heart-rending. That woman was chosen Queen for a Day, and the show fulfilled her wish. I could never figure out if the producers had four solutions ready or if they rigged the “applause-o-meter” that tallied the audience reaction. At this point it doesn’t matter. What does matter, however, is that even back then anyone down on her luck could aspire to be on “Queen For A Day” (work hard enough and want it?), and her dreams might come true.
Long after “Queen for a Day,” our grandkids’ mother grew up largely in Argentina, and went to a school built by the Eva Peron Foundation. Like many of the things Evita did, it was kind of half-assed. The building was beautiful, d-in-l says, but there was no infrastructure – water, sewer, electricity, like that. Evita was known for her largess, a kind of thoughtless generosity that often invoked the law of unintended consequences. And she certainly fostered magical thinking in Argentina, brought to an abrupt halt by los disaparecidos, the disappeared ones. Their mothers still gather every Thursday night in front of the Casa Rosada, Argentina’s presidential palace, to march in memory of their children, spouses, and parents. And to wait for word of what happened to their loved ones. Perhaps that is magical thinking, but more likely it is hope tempered with grief and frustration.
In America, we practice magical thinking on television every day on the talk-reality shows. If you want it enough, and are cute enough, you can be the next American Idol.
If your problem is big enough and you write to Dr. Phil or Oprah, they may put you on their shows and award you psychotherapy, a stint in rehab, or perhaps a second honeymoon to make up for the one that someone messed up. Certainly you’ll get the book of the hour under your chair if you’re in the audience.
If you write “Extreme Makeover,” and your plight is sad enough, you could well be spirited off to a hotel for a week while an army of volunteers dismantle your home and rebuild it. Sponsors donate all products, of course, and get extra commercial time with blatant product placement. This is not to disparage the good works any of the reality-talk shows undertake. But they’re random, they reek of Evita’s arbitrary works, they encourage passivity and magical thinking. And a minute percentage of us will receive any bounty from reality-talk television.
Can we be anything we want to be? We can if we have the talent, the brains, the perseverance, the work ethic, the connections, the timing, and the occasional run of luck. In short, maybe. Does that mean we should we stop hoping? Of course not! But we must recognize magical thinking for what it is and temper hope with reality – and action.