There’s absolutely no need to panic

To my catalog of sins can now be added a failure to panic. Amid the current climate of political despair, I’ve so far managed to keep my head. That, in turn, seems to be driving certain people around me crazy.

It’s no secret that much of this continent has been on edge since November. In my own quiet way, I’ve had my share of anxieties. I’ve addressed them on Facebook, pointing out that our country has faced grave crises. Shays’ Rebellion, the Alien and Sedition Acts, the Civil War, the Great Depression, McCarthyism, missiles in Cuba, Watergate and a couple of presidential impeachments all come to mind. Somehow, I’ve noted, this imperfect nation overcame all of those challenges.

Perhaps in desperation, I’ve also resorted to dark humor. “Look, the Dow is holding steady,” I quipped in May. “How bad can it be?” When things get particularly upsetting, I intone, “Boy, do I love this administration.”

Alas, my cavalier attitude has ruffled many a sensitive feather. Shortly after Election Day, an acquaintance volunteered that our republic was doomed. I responded with something along the lines of how this was impossible, as I had a date on Saturday.

My acquaintance shot back, “You have disappointed me.” To which I replied, “I’ve disappointed me, too. Do you know how little I’m getting paid for this?” I was unfriended about 10 minutes later.

Not long ago I suggested to a rather passionate (and rather affluent) activist that she avoid hysteria. Her counterattack was rapid: “Calling it ‘hysterical’ is just sexist.” More to the point, she said, “As a white, Christian male you are insulated from the very real pain and fear that millions of Americans are experiencing right now.” For the record, she is also white and is in her own way insulated, residing as she does on a cul-de-sac in Port Washington. For the record, I identify as a lapsed Catholic.

One overwrought friend has argued that because I don’t have children, I have little stake in the next generation. So much for my niece and nephew.

Actually, I’m neither passive nor indifferent. On the contrary, my concerns run deep. Never in the 35 adult years of my 53-year life can I recall a nation so riven. Sometimes, thinking about the prospects is indeed chilling.

Just the same, there is something to be said for taking both a deep breath and a long view of our admittedly fragile experiment in democracy. That’s not a call for cockeyed optimism or blind faith in the Constitution. But hand-wringing and tears aren’t exactly a way forward.

If I’ve arrived at any semblance of equanimity, it’s largely because I learned the hard way. For a few months after Sept. 11, 2001, I practically shut down; even getting out of bed was awful. As I commuted into Manhattan, I was pretty sure the tunnel was mined and that death via anthrax lurked in every mailbox and garbage can. Aquiver with dread, I wasn’t a very productive citizen. But with reassurance from good people, and knowing that this country has survived grave threats, I came through and determined never to be so afraid again.

In 1938, with World War II looming, James Thurber complained to E.B. White about intelligent folks who had succumbed to excessive social consciousness. They had, he observed, “become grimly gray and intense and unhappy and tiresome because the world and many of its people are in a bad way.” He asked, “How can these bastards hope to get hold of what’s the matter with the world and do anything about it when they haven’t the slightest idea that something just as bad and unnatural has happened to them?”

It’s still a good question. Those who are worked up about the present state of affairs have every right to their feelings. In return, I hope they’ll allow me to keep calm, carry on and make a bad joke every now and then.

Thomas Vinciguerra is the author of “Cast of Characters: Wolcott Gibbs, E.B. White, James Thurber, and the Golden Age of The New Yorker.”