The Twisted Rantings of the Dantelope

Back when I was growing up, my mom and dad used to take me to work with them once in a while. I distinctly remember, with crisp and fond recollection, trips to the General Motors building with dad and sitting in the library at a Detroit public school with my mom. Some of my best memories were from weekends when my dad would need to drop by the office to take care of something.

We'd arrive at the security desk and my dad would greet the guard, sign in, chit chat (something painful for him), and then we'd walk up to where he worked. He'd let me access the mainframe to play Adventure, or Star Trek, or Wumpus. I'd sit there for what seemed like an hour or two and just enjoy the atmosphere. The large marble walls with columns that seemed to stretch out of sight. The shiny glass plates that tiled the ceiling, letting the afternoon light bounce off the rows of indoor trees. The fantastic open architectures of the visitors desk and the large, bold letters of the company's name riveted overhead. Echoes of footsteps as we walked along the halls, twisting and turning, occasionally passing by coworkers and enduring the pride (and childish embarrassment) of introductions.

Times have changed, for sure. Today I tried to repeat this loving memory with my son. I drove him down to Dearborn to see where dad was spending the last four years of his life and to give him a sense of awe about that place that I disappear to every weekday and occasional weekend. He was quite excited about it, too. I imagined what must be going through his mind.

But then we both learned a cold, stark lesson about the country and times we live in. Whereas in the 1970s, it was implicitly obvious that if a father took his son to work, the father was 100% responsible for the welfare and safety of his own flesh and blood, it is apparently not so obvious in litigious 2006 for corporate america to allow such assumptions to be made.

No, instead of chit chat, this irritating and clearly child-averse guard and I had to discuss how corporate policy prohibits unauthorized entry of a guest without prior approval from a manager. Indeed, he lamented how my son could be hurt on the property and it would be -- brace yourself -- his responsibility. Huh? Not mine? I was struck instantly by a grievous sense of loss for both innocence and simplicity.

Has it really come to this? Somehow in the last 30 years, the care and well-being of our own family has been transferred to the property-owner and its guardians? A magical shift of responsibility from those who should care deeply to those who don't.

So the manager -- who has never met my son -- can take responsibility... the security guard -- who knows neither me nor my son -- can take responsibility... but I, who would gladly jump into the jaws of death to save my son from danger, cannot.

I don't fully blame the company for its policy. Rather, it's the legions of folks who sought legal action against companies when an injury took place on their property and caused this country to fall into an impersonal, uncaring, rut of legal cover-your-arse. We've tipped the balance in this country from favoring personal responsibility to blaming everyone else -- and now it's coming back to haunt us in the most ridiculous ways.

I suppose, in the real sense of "justice", it serves us right.

---- Dantelope @ don't-touch-me-or-i'll-sue