Observer

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Friends, we are suffering through a true societal crisis, one that offers a window into much of what ails us in this first half of the 21^st Century. I’m not sure how to resolve it, although I do know that with the passing of June’s graduation season, we can expect at least some relief.

I’m speaking of the explosion of meritless congratulations. There was a time when village elders reserved their hosannas for actual achievement, when parental units believed that certain things were to be expected, not celebrated, and when you had to earn a handshake or a high-five from a friend or playing partner.

Now, it seems, we have come to expect a pat on the fanny (although perhaps the target should be slightly to the north) for performing the most mundane of tasks or completing a chore that is actually required by either law or custom.

Take, for example, the passage from kindergarten to first grade. Once upon a time, this was a non-event. Parents would no more say, “Hey, neighbor, when you see little Jane, remember to congratulate her on graduating from kindergarten,” than they would say, “Hey, neighbor, that’s a fine-looking eight-cylinder Oldsmobile you have there, but what kind of gas mileage do you get?”

As far as I can tell, no kindergartener’s self-esteem suffered as a result of this ho-hum treatment, since no self-respecting kindergartner would have expected presents, parties, visits from aging relatives or even a pat on the fanny just because they were moving from one classroom to another.

Now, however, every June finds the front lawns of suburban towns littered with elaborate signage offering fulsome congratulations to little Jane for the remarkable accomplishment of “graduating” from kindergarten.

And it doesn’t end there. No, sir. Post-toddlers have come to expect recognition for simply outgrowing pre-school, while fifth graders lay awake at night thinking of how to spend the riches they will accumulate for the simple act of moving on to middle school.

Lest you consider me a heartless curmudgeon, I’ll remind you of something Barack Obama said a few years ago: “You know, sometimes I’ll go to an eighth-grade graduation and there’s all that pomp and circumstance and gowns and flowers. And I think to myself, it’s just eighth grade.”

None of this, I suppose, should be surprising given that we live in an age in which the president of the United States regularly demands hearty congratulations for winning a war that he actually lost, winning an election that he actually lost, rebuilding a reflecting pool that he actually destroyed, and passing a cognitive test that nobody seems to have administered properly.

I have to say, the case of the doddering old fool in the White House does have me wondering about my premise. Perhaps he would not be quite so moronic if somewhere along the line his father took time off from building houses exclusively for white people and congratulated his offspring for setting the record for most bankruptcies in the history of Atlantic City or for ripping off a record number of students at the now-shuttered Trump University.

Who knows? Had Trump the Elder delivered meaningless congratulations for his son’s non-achievements, perhaps Donald would have contented himself with picking the pockets of rubes without longing for access to the country’s nuclear codes.

I suppose there’s no going back to the days of reserving praise for actual accomplishment. That being the case, the next time I visit my doctor’s office, I fully expect some sort of meaningless congratulations after he takes my pulse.

Of course, if he doesn’t find one, I expect he will congratulate my wife.

At least she will have earned it.

Note to readers: Observer is taking the summer off, so this is the last edition you’ll receive until September. If this pleases you, well, congratulations! If, however, you are dismayed, grief counselors are available at 1-800-GET-ALIFE.