It seems that time and time again, the richer you are, the less you care. A research piece that attempted to anatomically dissect the relation between money and empathy determined that “status and monetary incentives appear to be more salient than empathy in guiding behaviors in a social dilemma task” (Osman, LV & Proulx). The ultimate discovery of that paper determines that the ego and abstract power derived from money disable cooperation. However, is that necessarily such a bad thing? While the obvious, and cliché answer would be to say that money isn’t the key to happiness, it isn’t so clear cut. In a money based world, our species has surpassed its need for empathy, and truth be told, rightfully so. From an objective standpoint, you need money to survive, you don’t need empathy. In fact, in a study surrounding wealth and happiness, it was determined that “higher social class was associated with greater self-oriented feelings of contentment and pride, and with greater amusement” (Piff, Moskowitz). If you can feel happiness and make money, why is there a need for empathy? There seems to be no reason why you shouldn’t just hustle at something that makes you money, don’t think twice about whoever you make that money off of, and bathe in the lavender smell of knowing ‘you made it’ in the world we live in. But much like Jordan Belfort’s case, you might question how long your apathy will hold itself together. I know that quite often I will put the dollar sign before I put the passion. Where does this come from? And how can we uproot the cause at the seams of its conception.

(Note: I will have a scene about Jordan Belfort prior to this paragraph)

Imagery: 

It’s that sort of giddy feeling you get. When the mitochondria powered elevators in your gut don’t remember which way is up, and just start butterflying about. It’s the feeling when you know that someone has nothing to give you, but still manages to give you something. Now that’s beauty. To some it’s the final dimes of a paycheck being spent on your favourite bag of chips. To Karen Weese, an author for the Washington Post, it’s her friend who tipped 5$ at a Denny’s even though she “worked as a caregiver and was raising two kids on less than $19,000 a year.” How can someone who is in an inescapable hustle for a minimum living still be generous? Weese dictates that it’s empathy by proximity. Humans have the innate ability to feel for themselves, and the more they see themselves in others, the more empathetic to those they become. The issue arises as we climb closer to the ‘One Percenters’ of the tax bracket. While a poorer person looks around and sees crowded markets, overflowing with similar people. On the other hand, rich people look around to see vast, empty and lonely savannahs. That’s why “John Paulson gave $400 million last year to Harvard University, his alma mater, and not to, say, Habitat for Humanity.” It seems as if the thicker the wallet, the thicker its asbestos walls become.

Scene: Great Grandmother’s story

She had 2 parents, 4 grandparents, 12 brothers and sisters, and a near exponentially increased number of cousins, nieces and nephews. While many families this sprawled out, and copious in size tend to fall on the poorer side of the spectrum, hers did not. They owned a variety of beer factories, giving them enough money to comfortably bathe in the finest of Poland’s riches. My mom told me that she was the only 4 foot 9 polish grandmother who can drink a beer. My great grandmother came from a family that had it all, and had all of it to give her. But they were Jewish. And the 1930s were not kind. While some may call it fate, luck or a lame apology from their creator, it was love that in turn saved her life. In the early 1930s, my great safta found her Romeo. It wasn’t an easy ride off into the sunset, because much like the play, the Capulet’s were unfond of Juliet’s boyfriend. This led to their great escape; a harrowing bolt to the land of Israel. She went from riches to rags, upgrading from a 5 star suite to a tent and a Torah in the desert. Now while love saved her life, it was not as empathetic to her family’s. While she never saw her family again, I got to: peaceful, in a pile of ash, at the centre of Majdanek.

Exercise 2: This is going to be pathetic

1. Imagine you are writing a ridiculous run on sentence to try and conclude your equally ridiculous run on essay about how running late to class is not a ‘turn on’ for your teacher. This runs on as the clock runs out because by 12 AM you will have to run to go re-park your barely running car to get it out of the way of the snowplow machine that is hopefully running as late as you. You run on and on and on before you eventually and inevitably will. turn. off.
2. It feels like a quasi mortal combat finisher, that feeling of your heart being ripped out after looking at a paper you had put your all in and getting a 59.

The feeling of stress: The Mad Hatter is mad no longer. I think that he is on to something because I am beginning to empathize with his demeanour. Stress is the feeling that will out run you. Every time. It’s the weighted blanket that you just got for Christmas only the blanket is too heavy move under and the oxygen inside you is being sucked out and your bed is on fire and the blanket isn’t a blanket at all but a straight jacket telling you that you can’t move.

The Oxford dictionary does not define stress as: qwertyuiopasdfghjklzxcvbnm1234567890

1: The Chosen Word: Connived

a) The secondary meaning is the one that I had used in context, however the primary and tertiary definitions are interesting.

b) The word works, but only to a certain extent. The sentence that it is in is alliterative and over the top; connived works perfectly. Nonetheless, its definition is slightly too sinister than my intentions. Let’s find a synonym.

2: Thesaurus

a) collude, conspire, devise

The old country was not home to a wide variety of culinary cuisines.

• Step 2: Poland has bad food.
• a) Poland has non diverse food.
• b) Poland has a lackluster food array.
• c) Poland, the old country, has a lackluster food array.
• d) Poland: bad food.
• e) Poland, food?
• f) Poland.
• g) Poland’s food 😦
• h) Bad Definition: “Failing to reach an acceptable standard” – Merriam Webster. Bad Synonyms: Diddly, The Pits
• i) Poland has bad food, even if it was considered home to my ancestors.
• j) Poland has diddly food, some would even say it is the pits.
• k) Poland, the land wherein much of my heritage originates from, has still yet to release its first cookbook.
• l) If not for Twinky Winky, Laa Laa or Dipsy, the land known as Poland would not be what it is.

Step 1:

Embarrassing story:

Previously, I would spend my summer attending summer camp. The summer camp I went to is called YCC, and it is around 20 minutes from Mont Tremblant. In my last 3 summers there, I worked as the camp videographer, creating an incredibly wide variety of creative, entertaining video content of the kids for the parents to enjoy. Camp was the first place that enabled me to discover this passion of mine, and by my second summer I had begun turning my hobby into a business. Now as the world progresses, so does its technology. As a videographer, one of the brilliant and honestly mind boggling technologies that exists that I use for work is my drone. She flies, she films and she does it very well, so long as the pilot is competent. Unfortunately, that is not always the case for me. YCC has a tradition called ‘Theme Day’, it acts as their ‘original’ take on what many schools and camps call colour war. In this camp wide competition, the population is divided into 4 groups, each based off of a colour. They compete in a number of physical, comedic and other miscellaneous activities and ultimately determine a winning team by the end of the day. The finish of Theme Day was to happen at the top of the mountain, visible from the entire camp. The concept this year was for whichever team won the Apache (a land race involving around 50 activites across the camp) to wave a smoke bomb with their teams colour at the top of this mountain to signal that they won. Prior to theme day, we wanted to test the visibility of the smoke bomb from all places in camp. We decided to also film this occassion with the drone, for safe keeping. We successfully operated the smokebomb, and got the shot that we were looking for. After doing so, it was time to fly the drone back to the top of the mountain so we can climb back down. It only took a few seconds of ‘texting and flying’ for me to crash said drone into an 80 foot tree. Heartbroken yet determined, we tracked the drone just before its battery died and found the tree she was stuck in. Much to my dismay, the tree would not come down with an axe, regardless of how many hours I would spend chopping. We were lucky to have cut down the tree, and keep the drone working and in one peice. Wether it was the omnipotent ‘He’ or wether it was the camp maintenance man, Sylvain, with his chainsaw who saved my drone, I do not know. Moral of this story: Pay attention when operating flying machines and always trust the man with the chainsaw.

Step 2:

In my summers I worked as the videographer to an up north summer camp. The bulk of my job entailed creating videos for the parents of the campers: many of the videos included drone footage. For added dramatic effect, we had planned for a camp wide activity to end with the winner lighting a smoke bomb on the top of a mountain. While practicing a shot for this particular video, I had ‘happened’ to crash my drone into a tree on the side of this small mountain. Due to my ignorant mistake, I had to face the consequences of my actions; or go into the forest and chop down a tree. I picked the latter, and went in with an axe to try and save my drone. Unfortunately for me and my minimal upper body strength, I had to drag the maintenance man, Sylvain, into my mess. Him and I found the tree with my drone in it, ripped the chainsaw chord, and saved my drone. Moral of this story: Pay attention when operating flying machines and always trust the man with the chainsaw.

Step 3:

It had not been for a single sun cycle duration that my ever present carbon husk that I am incarcerated in had attended the place of my ever dying childhood: summer camp. Only a third of a 24th of a 365th of a year distance from the largest ski resort on the east coast, the name of the place: YCC. My job, simple: create a never ending flurry of frivoulous fandangos for friends and family to fangirl at. Jake is the name, and drone flying is the game. Drones are a miraculous invention of the bringing about a new pace to the face that runs the place: the human race. 4 propellors, 3 axis gimbals, 2 landing gears and 1 drone. While flying in forests of fantastical fern, a fire fluctuates within me. Do I tap my extremities against this bacteria riddled glass in order to electronically communicate with my friend? I do, I do. Whilst in the midst of this new age form of electronic communication, a drone crash occurs, one which was completely and entirely out of the realms of my control.