Thursday – The Cloak
Oct. 15th, 2009 10:22 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ninanevermore.
.
.
When Big Death issued me my employee badge, they also slipped a cloak of evil over my shoulders. I barely noticed it at the time, but it was definitely there. I mostly become aware of it because I sometimes wear short sleeves, and it itched wherever it touched my bare skin.
For a lot of the people around me, the cloak allowed them to adopt a sort of cognitive disconnect about Big Death, what it does, and how it operates. These are mostly good people who all sound like cult members gushing about all the good that Big Death does, while ignoring all the bad. When the scandals happen, they always chalk it up to an isolated incident.
"We help people," they say, "Our business is helping people in their hour of need. What we do is so important." They are sincere and earnest; the cloak protects them by shielding them from the truth, and they need it.
For others, the cloak was never really necessary, but wearing it was comfortable for them and they didn't mind its weight. They know damned well that Big Death exists not to help people, but to fleece people in their hour of need. They even discussed how to take advantage of people's vulnerability within the first week of grief as a way to boost profits. I know, I sat in on this meeting and took notes for a PowerPoint presentation.
"It is imperative that a family gets a visit from our counselors within two days of the funeral, and not more than a week," I heard and dutifully typed into PowerPoint. "Market research shows that if we do this, our chance of convincing that person to prearrange with us goes up exponentially. If we wait longer than that, they are no more likely to prearrange than your average cold call."
Keep in mind that a "counselor" in Big Death parlance is not a licensed counselor who helps a person work through some problem: it is what they call their sales force. In that first week of grief the bereaved still wants to be physically close to the dead because they haven't yet wrapped their minds around the idea that the loved one is really gone. It is easy to convince them to purchase an adjacent plot to hold their own mortal remains when the time comes. Two weeks later they are a bit more rational, and the window of opportunity has closed for Big Death. Big Death hates that.
Big Death is arsenic wrapped in a sweet candy shell. The sincere, earnest people are the public faces of Big Death – the sweet shell. The others are the poison in the middle.
I ran into a few others like me for whom the cloak felt like a costume, kind of like the outfits bellhops wear at hotels. It wasn't us. Like me, they always refer to Big Death by its corporate name, and not as "we" like the other two groups do. Those of us who found the cloak itchy were there for a paycheck. I've never had a job where I didn't refer to the company as "we" before. "We do this," or "we have been in the business for X number of years" or "we offer these benefits over our competition." It must have been the itch that kept me from doing this. I always referred to Big Death by its name, separate from my own. I was not part of its collective, or so I told myself, despite the paycheck. What I did for Big Death, putting on seminars for veterans groups to sell pre-need funeral plans, was not evil in the way that taking advantage of people in their most vulnerable hour was evil. What I did for them was actually kind of honest, as much as Big Death is capable of being honest.
But that's not true, is it? Like it or not, I was wearing that itchy cloak. It wasn't me, but it was all over me as long as I worked there. Now they have taken it back. Winter is coming on and they have pushed me out into the cold with no cloak to keep me warm. Regardless, it cool air feels delightful on my skin. A few more showers, and maybe the itching will stop and the rash on my soul will clear up.
At least I have my integrity back. It may not be as thick as the cloak of evil was, but it is silky smooth and feels light upon my shoulders. Unlike the cloak, its job is not to protect me from the elements so much as to help me stand up to them. The cloak blocked out the sun, integrity lets in the light and the light has a way of keeping you warm in the way that the dank, dark, itchy cloak did not. I like it better.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * # * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
.
.
When Big Death issued me my employee badge, they also slipped a cloak of evil over my shoulders. I barely noticed it at the time, but it was definitely there. I mostly become aware of it because I sometimes wear short sleeves, and it itched wherever it touched my bare skin.
For a lot of the people around me, the cloak allowed them to adopt a sort of cognitive disconnect about Big Death, what it does, and how it operates. These are mostly good people who all sound like cult members gushing about all the good that Big Death does, while ignoring all the bad. When the scandals happen, they always chalk it up to an isolated incident.
"We help people," they say, "Our business is helping people in their hour of need. What we do is so important." They are sincere and earnest; the cloak protects them by shielding them from the truth, and they need it.
For others, the cloak was never really necessary, but wearing it was comfortable for them and they didn't mind its weight. They know damned well that Big Death exists not to help people, but to fleece people in their hour of need. They even discussed how to take advantage of people's vulnerability within the first week of grief as a way to boost profits. I know, I sat in on this meeting and took notes for a PowerPoint presentation.
"It is imperative that a family gets a visit from our counselors within two days of the funeral, and not more than a week," I heard and dutifully typed into PowerPoint. "Market research shows that if we do this, our chance of convincing that person to prearrange with us goes up exponentially. If we wait longer than that, they are no more likely to prearrange than your average cold call."
Keep in mind that a "counselor" in Big Death parlance is not a licensed counselor who helps a person work through some problem: it is what they call their sales force. In that first week of grief the bereaved still wants to be physically close to the dead because they haven't yet wrapped their minds around the idea that the loved one is really gone. It is easy to convince them to purchase an adjacent plot to hold their own mortal remains when the time comes. Two weeks later they are a bit more rational, and the window of opportunity has closed for Big Death. Big Death hates that.
Big Death is arsenic wrapped in a sweet candy shell. The sincere, earnest people are the public faces of Big Death – the sweet shell. The others are the poison in the middle.
I ran into a few others like me for whom the cloak felt like a costume, kind of like the outfits bellhops wear at hotels. It wasn't us. Like me, they always refer to Big Death by its corporate name, and not as "we" like the other two groups do. Those of us who found the cloak itchy were there for a paycheck. I've never had a job where I didn't refer to the company as "we" before. "We do this," or "we have been in the business for X number of years" or "we offer these benefits over our competition." It must have been the itch that kept me from doing this. I always referred to Big Death by its name, separate from my own. I was not part of its collective, or so I told myself, despite the paycheck. What I did for Big Death, putting on seminars for veterans groups to sell pre-need funeral plans, was not evil in the way that taking advantage of people in their most vulnerable hour was evil. What I did for them was actually kind of honest, as much as Big Death is capable of being honest.
But that's not true, is it? Like it or not, I was wearing that itchy cloak. It wasn't me, but it was all over me as long as I worked there. Now they have taken it back. Winter is coming on and they have pushed me out into the cold with no cloak to keep me warm. Regardless, it cool air feels delightful on my skin. A few more showers, and maybe the itching will stop and the rash on my soul will clear up.
At least I have my integrity back. It may not be as thick as the cloak of evil was, but it is silky smooth and feels light upon my shoulders. Unlike the cloak, its job is not to protect me from the elements so much as to help me stand up to them. The cloak blocked out the sun, integrity lets in the light and the light has a way of keeping you warm in the way that the dank, dark, itchy cloak did not. I like it better.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2009-10-15 03:40 pm (UTC)She "helps people."
Ask her.
no subject
Date: 2009-10-15 04:00 pm (UTC)If she is a "family service counselor" or a "community service counselor" then she is a salesperson, no different than a "used car counselor" or a "life insurance counselor."
no subject
Date: 2009-10-15 04:13 pm (UTC)Does that make her a used funeral counselor?
no subject
Date: 2009-10-15 04:46 pm (UTC)I'm not anti capitalism or anti profit, by any means. I know this is a business. But there is a dark, exploitative side to it I find distasteful.
no subject
Date: 2009-10-15 05:01 pm (UTC)She sold my ma-in-law a pre-paid funeral after the pa-in-law died!
no subject
Date: 2009-10-15 05:10 pm (UTC)I have no doubt she is a good person, as I met plenty like her when I was part of the machine. That cloak I wrote about is made of wool, and it comes with a large hood that covers the eyes of the good people who work there.
no subject
Date: 2009-10-15 05:16 pm (UTC)But I was **that** reporter, the one that refused to interview the parents at their kid's accident scene.
no subject
Date: 2009-10-15 05:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-10-15 07:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-10-15 08:19 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-10-15 08:37 pm (UTC)It is just too too perfect to "not use" it for PerfectJoanie(tm).
no subject
Date: 2009-10-15 03:47 pm (UTC)Unfortunately, it contained little micro-shards of fiberglass. Within 15-20 minutes of contact with it, you'd start to itch as the fiberglass found it's way into your skin. Naturally, you'd scratch and that would just make it worse. Inside of an hour the only thing that would help is a long, hot shower with a scrub to wash it away.
no subject
Date: 2009-10-15 03:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-10-15 03:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-10-15 03:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-10-15 05:14 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-10-15 05:42 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-10-15 05:45 pm (UTC)/hugs
Hang in there.
no subject
Date: 2009-10-15 05:41 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-10-15 05:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-10-15 06:01 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-10-15 06:14 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-10-15 06:20 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-10-15 06:21 pm (UTC)