It was an ordinary candy shop.
A row of ice cream vats sat behind a pane of glass. A bevy of other sweets – saltwater taffy, gummy worms, cotton candy and the like – was arrayed neatly on shelves along the far wall.
Nothing pointed to this place being special. But looks can be deceiving.
For this candy shop was in the middle of a resort town. Day after day, the large sign over its front door beckoned to a new set of tourists.
Many of these tourists were hungry as the sign caught their eye. Others were in the mood for a sweet indulgence.
Either way, this shop was perfectly placed to seize the opportunity. And those tourists were more than willing to open their wallets to make it happen.
It was a symbiotic relationship. The perfect mix of supply and demand.
This was clear to me as I surveyed the ice cream options one day.
But then another thought crossed my mind. A more sinister one.
What if something disrupted the harmony? What would happen then?
This wasn’t an artisan candy shop, you see. That ice cream wasn’t hand-cranked in house. Neither were the shelf-stable confections.
No, suppliers shipped these goods into town every week or two. The manager of the shop took delivery. Then the staff diligently stocked the shelves and filled the vats.
It was a team effort, but also a delicate chain to maneuver. For it would only take one loose link to send the whole thing haywire.
Maybe a storm elsewhere would delay delivery of the ice cream. Or an issue at a confectioner would pause production of the shelf-stable candy. Maybe a contagious illness would keep several staff members from their shifts, forcing the shop to close temporarily.
In a vacuum, these disruptions might seem minor. But for a business such as this, they could prove devastating.
Devastating in a way that few could rightly appreciate.
When I was a teenager, I got into a fender-bender on the way to school one day.
I was trying to change lanes in stop and go traffic on the highway, and I accidentally dinged another car in the process.
No one was hurt, but both vehicles sustained some damage. So, the other driver and I each pulled onto the shoulder and exchanged insurance information. Then we waited for the authorities to arrive.
It was cold that morning, and I was none too pleased about standing on the side of the road for close to an hour. I was also dreading the weeks I’d be without the car while it got repaired.
These were all notable concerns. But at the end of the day, they could be classified as first world problems.
First world problems refer to the trivial inconveniences we often contend with. Things like losing service on our smartphones at an inopportune time, or accidentally placing a lunch order at the wrong location of our favorite quick-serve restaurant.
These issues can make our days more of an ordeal. But they don’t pose an existential threat, as so many third-world concerns do.
We’re not generally at risk of getting devoured by a wild animal, sickened by non-potable water or robbed blind in our sleep. Our ability to maintain security, nourishment, and shelter remains strong as ever.
In many ways, the pure existence of first-world problems represents an indulgence. The fact that we can stress about things that ultimately matter so little shows how fortunate we really are.
Yes, the fender bender was problematic. But at least I had a car to begin with.
And sure, any number of risks could have sunk that candy shop I’d visited. But the death of a resort town business hardly represented the collapse of society.
Still, such thinking carries profound risk.
And that risk is not exactly tolerable.
There are many famous images from the 1930s in America. But perhaps the most poigniant is a photograph by Dorothea Lange.
The image — titled Migrant Mother — features a dark-haired woman staring slightly askance of the camera. A worried look covers her face, while her calloused right hand supports her chin. Faint lines appear on her forehead, framed by the backs of her children’s heads.
Migrant Mother speaks to the strife of the Great Depression, when poverty and despair ran rampant. Many Americans lost their livelihoods and their life savings. They ceded their modest homes for rickety shacks and spartan tents. They waited for hours in line for soup or bread.
The last vestiges of the frontier had been stamped out. America was in no way a third-world country. But it wasn’t thriving either.
The government took aim at this morass. President Franklin Delano Roosevelt worked with Congress to pass the New Deal – a set of reforms that included public works projects and a social safety net.
Not long after this, America soon got involved in World War II. The war effort turbocharged the economic engine, lifting our nation out of poverty once and for all.
And despite a few close calls, that engine hasn’t fully idled in all the decades since.
The journey from Migrant Mother to the present day tells the story of our nation. Of its resilience. Of its resolve. And of its penchant for rationalization.
You see, from the moment pen hit paper on the New Deal, the dominant concern in America gained top billing. The misfortunes of everyday Americans have continued through the years. But instead of being profiled in Dorothea Lange portraits, the afflicted have found their struggles marginalized.
You lost your job? Your house burned down? That’s too bad, but it’s no national tragedy. Pick your head up. There are plenty of opportunities to land on your feet.
So it goes with perceived first-world problems, time and again.
This train of thought is factually accurate. But when it’s presented this way, it can be quite harmful.
For while these misfortunes might be individualized, they still cut deep. Those who lose a job or a home must cauterize the wound while those around them continue to thrive.
The dissonance is real. And a message of pick your head up only furthers this isolation.
It invalidates the pain the afflicted is feeling, and it implores them to suffer in silence. None of which is healthy.
The occasional blowback from this type of behavior tends to make headlines. We’re aghast when an ex-employee opens fire at their old workplace. We’re despondent when someone robs a bank to claw back some of what was taken from them.
These newly minted criminals can do better than to violate the moral code. But so can we.
We can do more to consider the scope of effect that an individualized tragedy can have. We can do more to support the afflicted. To hear them, to see them, and to assure them they’re not alone.
We can be kind. We can be empathetic. We can follow the golden rule.
We can, and we must.
For such behavior makes our nation a better place. It allows our society to keep moving forward without leaving the fallen in the dust. It helps fulfill our promise while forestalling our demise.
And that’s an ideal worth working toward.
So yes, I truly hope that resort town candy shop continues to thrive. But should misfortune befall it – or any of us – I hope that we can help soften the blow.
First-world problems are real-world problems. Let’s treat them accordingly.