Bringing a Little Magic to a Small, Small, Cruel World

By Dana Parsons

Nov. 27, 1994 12 AM PT

For the last several years, the Orange County Press Club has treated underprivileged children to “A Day at Disneyland.” Colleagues who have chaperoned say it’s richly rewarding to watch the children’s faces light up, so thankful are they to be treated as special.

It must be one of life’s highest callings to bring joy to someone who sees little of it. Who among us wouldn’t want to remind someone that they’re not forgotten, that their hopes and fears matter to us and that we sympathize with the seemingly unbearable circumstances of their lives?

Unfortunately, the Press Club is a little behind the times. Yes, children growing up in poverty have it tough, but they’re hardly society’s most needy.

Accordingly, the Press Club should adopt my new program, “Take a Middle-Aged White Guy to Disneyland.”

Even if you only watch a little TV or read an occasional magazine, you must have heard how awful things are these days for middle-aged white guys. Surely you’ve heard their plaintive laments that they’ve had it up to here, and, blast it all, they just can’t take it any more.

As you reflect on how horrible their lives are, ask yourself: Haven’t we ignored these long-suffering victims for too long?

Imagine the joy you could bring to Don, a 48-year-old insurance salesman, if you took him by the hand and headed for Pirates of the Caribbean.

What a difference someone could make in Don’s life if they could just break through his moody indifference and get at what’s eating him.

What if, just once, someone said to Don: “I hear things are pretty rough for you right now. Want to talk about it?”

“Nobody seems to care about me,” Don might well say, unless he was too embarrassed to discuss his plight. “The only ones getting any attention are people I’m not and never will be: blacks, gays, women, the young, the old, the sick, Latinos, Indians, bisexuals, transsexuals, career criminals, pregnant teen-agers, couples who can’t have babies, skinheads, movie stars, working moms, stay-at-home moms, latchkey kids, grandparents who adopt. . . . It starts getting a guy down, you know what I mean?

“I’ve been busting my hump for 25 years and suddenly I’m a bad guy. People blame us for holding back minorities--as if I got it so great myself. I’m not holding back anybody, I’m just trying to make my paycheck stretch. Gay parades? Gimme a break. When did I ever get a parade? What about Don’s Day? You don’t see me whining about a parade.

“I got three kids; one needs braces, another one needs new clothes or she says she’ll kill herself and the other one’s 14 going on 30. My wife hasn’t worked for 12 years and says she’s feeling stifled. So, I tell her to go get a job and she says she’s frozen out of the job market and that I shouldn’t put so much pressure on her. My brother-in-law got two promotions in the last 18 months, and I’m stuck at my same salary for the last three years. My wife says she doesn’t care but then tells me every other day how we need new furniture and she can’t have any people over with the junk we got in the dining room.”

After an outburst like that, you might want to take Don over to the Matterhorn, just to let him air out. Just think how Don would react if you bought him the hot dogs and drinks and you stood in line, instead of making him do it.

“If I could get just a little credit,” he’d say. “Unless I’m mistaken, that’s been me working 50 to 60 hours a week, just so the family can take vacations. I’m the guy who always drops people off while I drive around looking for a parking spot. I’m the guy who always gets up when we hear noises at night, and I’m the guy who hassles the neighbor when his dog goes in our front yard.

“And while we’re at it, I’m tired of being lumped in with these guys who try to date their secretaries. Nobody’s given me so much as a second look in 15 years, so get off my back. My hair’s falling out and my pants are bunching on me all the time, I wake up every night at 3 in the morning and I got gas most of the time I’m conscious. I’m not hitting on anybody, and even if I did they’d probably shoot me down, and who needs the rejection?

“Besides that, I haven’t played poker in two years, there’s no baseball or hockey and I couldn’t spend as much in six months as my wife does in three hours at the mall. All I want to do on weekends is watch a lousy football game, and she’s got me on the roof sweeping leaves.”

I don’t know if even a trip to Disneyland could get middle-aged white guys to open up like that. For many of them, their pain is too indelibly set.

But wouldn’t it be worth a try? Wouldn’t you feel better knowing you had helped someone just like Don?

Or, better yet, what if you helped them so much you never again had to listen to them mourn the cursed existence they’re forced to live.

Dana Parsons’ column appears Wednesday, Friday and Sunday.