The Good, the Bad, and the Oblivious

Friday, November 17, 2006

Page 11

AT THE SIDEBAR (Column)

The Good, the Bad, and the Oblivious

By J’AMY PACHECO

As a Disney theme park addict, I have had many opportunities to see people at their best, and their worst. It is rare that I see the two behavioral extremes at the same time, but I had just such an experience during a recent weekend visit.

I’m no stranger to bad behavior. I’ve had my ankles rammed by more strollers than I can count. I’ve had people cut in front of me, sit on my child, push me, swear at me, step on my shoes and, most common of all, bump into my backside in a queue.

Most of the time, I take it in stride. If there are more cranky people than happy folk around, I go home. Most of the time, I don’t let the people around me influence my experience.

On a recent visit to Disneyland, my 10-year-old and I decided to see a new attraction. The Star Wars-themed show was called the “Jedi Training Academy,” and offered young galactic hero wannabes the opportunity to train as Jedi knights.

Since the show is new and very popular, we arrived early to get good seats. By sitting on the floor against a short wall that separated an elevated outdoor restaurant from the show area, we had an excellent view of the stage.

We were soon surrounded by children hoping to be trained as Jedi knights. Since my daughter wanted only to observe, our seats were perfect, except for the hard floor and the chicken finger crumbs that the children in the restaurant above us continually dropped on our heads.

I noticed a nearby group that included several children. One, a boy who looked to be around four, was in a wheelchair. Suspended from the back of his chair was some kind of life-giving machine. The boy was tethered to the machine by several tubes that appeared to go into his little chest.

What drew my attention, however, was not the chair or the machine, but the boy’s face. It was the happiest face I’d seen in a long time. His smile lit up the whole area when Buzz Lightyear, famed hero of “Toy Story,” came down an aisle and stopped to visit with the little guy.

While the two posed for pictures, a woman passed in front of me, headed toward Buzz. Without pausing to indicate notice of the cameras aimed at the little boy and Buzz, the woman pushed her child toward Buzz, and proceeded to take her own pictures.

At first, I was stunned. But then I decided she must have been part of that group, because she and her son were certainly going to be in their pictures.

I forgot about it when the show started and a bunch of children from the audience were selected to go through Jedi training. The woman’s son was one of them, and I watched in amazement as she worked her way through the crowd and stopped right in front of us. To my dismay, she remained standing, despite the fact that everyone around her was sitting and she was, therefore, blocking the view we’d waited 45 minutes for.

We rolled our eyes and shifted position so we could see. After a few moments, she shifted, too. We moved again; she shifted. Exasperated, I sent my daughter to sit in front of the woman — who proceeded to step on my daughter’s little toes.

We endured it, deciding it would be fruitless to point out her rudeness. Besides, we could always come back.

Toward the end of the show, the villainous Darths Maul and Vader came out and the newly trained Jedi children had the chance to fight them. It was then that we realized the little boy in the wheelchair had also been selected as one of the Jedi.

With tears in my eyes, I peered around the woman to watch the boy wield a light saber almost as big as him to “fight” Darth Maul. I was touched when the audience burst into spontaneous applause at the end of his fight.

I couldn’t help noticing that the woman in front of us — busy with her camera — didn’t seem to even notice the applause.

When the little boy took on Darth Vader, he seemed unaware of the tubes that connected him to the machine and the woman who held it for him. And when he bested Vader, I couldn’t hold back tears. The applause was like thunder.

I didn’t know any of the people in the audience, and had no idea how many of them had rammed their strollers into strangers that day, had cut in line, or had absconded with someone’s view. But I was grateful for the good thing they did. By the simple act of clapping their hands, they restored whatever faith I’d been lacking in my fellow man.

It’s too bad about the lady in front of me, who appeared oblivious – or immune – to the emotional scene being played out.

She had the best view, but she missed the best part.