Thursday, December 16, 2004

My Ode To Aaron Hayward

A young man named Aaron Hayward passed away on December 7. I didn't know him, and even though I probably saw him a couple of times at Blockbuster, I'm not going to pretend I knew him. I feel very sorry for his family and close friends, but I don't intend to rearrange my life due to his passing.

What this post is about, however, is the people who have this urge to milk the sympathies of others by jumping on a person's death. I read a lot of blogs of people who "knew" Aaron, and it's really painful to see them basically begging to be felt sorry for. All the posts and memorials are filled with comments about how so and so will never forget that time they did the thing at the place. And they'll never forget it. They all remember now what classes they had together, even if they never actually, you know, talked or looked at one another, or even knew one another's names.

One blog in particular nicely sums up the point of this. Not only does the quote "There's not enough time to feel sorry for oneself" pop up, but she quotes Sartre - not really the person you want to quote when talking about living a full and rich life. The entire thing drips of hypocrisy, and it just makes me feel worse for his family. Nowhere in it does it say whether he had brothers, or sisters, or a mum or a dad or what.

The same thing happened a year ago when a young man named Robbie was murdered by other three teens. Everyone had stories of how much he meant, and the wonderful life that he left far too soon. Oh yeah, he was killed during a drug deal. Other than that, great guy.

I'm sure this sounds cold and cynical, but I suppose my point here is that no one ever feels bad for the people who actually meant something to the deceased, they feel bad for themselves. Our world has become so melodramatic that even if people can't relate to the emotions of the situation, they can at least pretend to empathize.

Like I said before, I feel bad for Aaron's family and friends (close friends, that is), but I refuse to feel sorry for the people who sat next to him in art class. Or those who played soccer with him eight years ago. Or served him at Blockbuster. Oh, the pain.

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