We are all, to varying levels, prone to sanctimonious, holier-than-thou, judgmental episodes. My own self-righteousness reared its ugly head towards the end of this past week. A Facebook friend posted what I suspect was meant as an innocuous, matter-of-fact honest reflection about why he needs to tip car guards and waiters who provide poor service with a stinky attitude but still feel entitled to a tip.
I waded in riding a particularly high horse of righteous indignation. My response, dripping with haughty, sarcastic undertones, was a rambling lecture that started: “It depends whether you believe that an executive who earns R10m per annum deserves to pay more tax than a domestic worker who earns R25,000 per annum. Whether it’s morally obscene or not for that executive to dock R150 worth of wages from that domestic worker because she did shoddy work on a day she was in a foul mood.” I ranted on and on about how R2, R5 or R10 given to a car guard working in the scorching sun does not really break anyone.
I ended my tirade by asserting that haggling with car guards is not part of the social contract I have signed up for in a nation with a Gini coefficient as obscene as ours. It was 3pm when I wrote this, two hours past lunchtime. I hadn’t had a bite to eat in seven hours and was in a generally irritable mood due to being horrendously behind on an important deadline.
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Yes, you’re right — I was probably justhangry.Do not misunderstand me. I believe every word I wrote, but the response was as disproportionate as hurling a hand grenade at a mosquito. It really does not hurt anyone to just be a little kinder.
More generous than we usually are. I am what we used to call a “pinko liberal” at heart. I am the seriously “bleeding heart liberal” who believes billionaire tax rates should be hovering at about 80%.
And no, I’m not interested in a debate about whether that just makes me a rabid socialist, rather than a liberal. It’s not that kind of party. That debate should be saved for sophisticated symposiums in our various think tanks.
I’m just an unsophisticated columnist rambling on about disbursing R10 notes to car guards to reward them for standing in the scorching sun instead of breaking into my house or redistributing my cheap Samsung phone at knifepoint in a dark alley. Anyway, after I calmed down, I apologised to my friend for my disproportionate response. And I meant it.
If only I’d waited until after lunch I would have made a different point. And it’s a point that emanates from my bleeding-heart, pinko-liberal viscera. I try every day to remind myself that for all my own financial difficulties, I still walk around in an invisible cloak of privilege.
I was born male in a world that is not kind to women, and emerged into a family that was lower middle class by black township standards. Ignore everything you may believe about Christmas being really just another capitalist, commercial scheme to squeeze as much of our hard-earned money from us as possible. Forget Santa, the chubby, rose-cheeked, cheerful fellow in a Coca-Cola suit.
This period is also about winding down at the end of yet another year. I write this probably a little intoxicated by having put Donny Hathaway’s version ofThis Christmason repeat. Bickering over the true monetary value of car guards is something we can pick up again when regular programming resumes next year.
Whether you believe in baby Jesus in a manger or not, I hope you’re just a tad gentler. Merry Chistmas to those that way inclined, a festive holiday season and a happy New Year to everyone. In the words of Charles Dickens’ Tiny Tim, may our respective gods bless us, everyone.
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