Piled up upon a foot of snow, a lonely Grubhub delivery robot sits, frozen and helpless. Cara and I are quick to run to its side. We crouch in the chilled night air, teaming up with a random student passing by, all of us dusted by the still-falling snow and laughing at the absurdity of the situation.
But the robot proves to be much too heavy for three young girls to carry. And so, we leave it behind, deserted in a pile of ice.
“I don’t really like those little things anyways,” the girl (whose name I don’t know) admits. I agree that I find the robots an odd mixture of creepy and cute, with the creepy ultimately edging out the latter. “Sometimes I’ll be walking next to one on the sidewalk, and then suddenly I’ll stop and think about how ridiculous it is,” our new friend adds before parting ways and disappearing into the frost-bitten night.
She described the process of desensitization. In the few weeks since the little Grubhub delivery robots arrived on campus, we collectively stopped staring at them, harassing them and laughing at them zooming by. Now, they’re just as part of the campus as Hayes-Healy.
Desensitization occurs when we forget the uniqueness or shock of something after it’s been introduced — when we no longer see something that’s odd as odd, and when we accept it as mundane. It’s a process of forgetting through constant overstimulation.
In small ways, I’ve become desensitized to silly things like the Grubhub delivery robots. In other ways, I’ve become desensitized to cruel and dystopian realities. I can scroll past an image of Kylie Jenner wearing the head of a lion, or Doja Cat painted with bright red paint and wearing 30,000 tiny crystals without giving them too much thought. I snort at the ludicrousness of it all, perhaps send the post to my friends, and then keep on scrolling.
A couple of days ago, when rewatching “The Hunger Games: Catching Fire” with my friends, I marveled at the similarity between The Capitol’s fashion and the very real outfit choices of today’s celebrities. In her series “The Hunger Games,” Suzanne Collins illustrates The Capitol as a place of extreme opulence, where its bourgeoise citizens deck themselves out in feathers, alter their bodies to resemble animal fur and even consume special drinks to make them throw up after a feast. It’s an exaggeration of current celebrities’ lifestyles and illuminates the contrast between the wealthy elite and the rest of society who are just struggling to find a piece of bread.
But after a glance at New York Fashion Week, I found myself wondering just how exaggerated The Capitol really is. Perhaps Collins’ novel is not as dystopian as it seems.
Because of my desensitization to Hollywood’s hedonism, I forget how sinful it all is: that everyday people should struggle to pay their hospital bills and put meals on their plates while celebrities toss aside millions of dollars on makeup and perfume for one night of luxury.
Every shift at the dean’s office in Hesburgh, I make a cup of coffee in the break room. As I stand, leaning over the counter, listening to the grumbles of the Keurig machine, I read over the posters on the wall. There’s one for an upcoming student play, another for a research grant, and then, my eyes settle upon the one that reads, “STOP THE BLEED.” There, sitting among posters about student events and academic resources, are rules on how to stop your coworker from bleeding out.
How desensitized have Americans become to the idea of gun violence? How can we possibly feel safe inside our homes, our schools, our churches, knowing that anyone at any point could walk in carrying a rifle? How desensitized are we that we send our children off to school in the morning knowing that the school two blocks down had an intruder two weeks earlier?
As Americans, we have become desensitized to the horrible realities we’re forced to face every day. Since entering college, I chose not to be as updated with the news, finding it disheartening and frustrating. When I travel back home and watch Channel 5 with my parents, I’m always shocked by their ability to let stories of murders, kidnappings and mass shootings drone on in the background of their everyday life. Unlike me, they are no longer overwhelmed by the true terror of it all. The corruption. The prejudice. The blood.
Let us be sensitive to these crimes. Let it overwhelm us. Let us be filled with rage, so that we may demand justice.
Gracie Eppler is a sophomore Business Analytics and English major from St. Louis, MO. Her three top three things ever to exist are ‘70s music, Nutella and Smith Studio 3, where she can be found dancing. Reach her at geppler@nd.edu.
