The world can't be saved. Thinking back, I think I was probably about eight years old when those five words hit me like the back of my mind.
If it's true that everyone faces a critical moment of disillusionment, this was mine. At that moment, I wasn't actually planning a grand mission to save the world. All I wanted to do was save a bunch of kittens.
Perhaps that is why those five words against my insignificant cause hurt me so deeply. I felt so powerless.
In my warped and blurry memory, we were on vacation, far away from home, which made the prospect of taking a long trip home with a flock of kittens even more complicated.
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Perhaps she was so heartbroken by the suffering of her poor kittens that she didn't have time to reason with an emotional child who was not interested in explaining things rationally.
It was a desperate but dismissive attempt to get them to drop the idea that I was their “savior,” at least long enough for me to reverse out of the parking lot and wave goodbye to the kittens that were the sum total of the world I couldn't save.
I want to tell you that these five words have motivated me to live a life that is literally saving lives, just like the doctors who risk their lives on the front lines of war.
But alas, here I am, sitting in the corner of my office writing a rather self-indulgent column about the anxiety that has stirred in the pit of my stomach ever since, whenever the syllables of those five words reach my ears like the scraping of metal.
My mom has a five-word phrase that she hates and that is banned in our house: “That's it.”
No matter how awful “it” is, don't dare utter that word and be so vile as to become a defeatist.
I admit that I am sometimes branded with her bright red “D,” but only in the name of being a realist. “I'm not a pessimist, I'm a realist,” is my defense. I suffer from the impossible condition of being the biggest realist in a room full of idealists.
But in the face of pragmatism, I oppose the party of staunch idealists.
“If I believed I could fly, the realists would gather around my flat body, shaking their heads, and I would die trying to fly, we told her. So when you tell me I can't save the world, the idealist in me leaps into rebellious rage and the realist in me sinks into a deeper depression.
Perhaps this is why the most rational response to my mother's and my own forbidden five-word phrase is a seven-word paraphrase an aunt once made in frustration on a family trip when nothing went according to plan: “It's not the way it's supposed to be.”
It’s a rather liberating sentence to shout into the void, as if life and all its circumstantial plot twists are taking back the control we’ve snatched from the scripts we’ve written ourselves.
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This week, I looked into Bette Davis's eyes and thought of my five-word nemesis. Bette Davis? That's the name I gave to the stray cat that descends on my front porch every morning and afternoon, and that I at least don't feed and that a few times doesn't try to follow me.
Then she remains motionless, staring at me with those big, Bette Davis eyes. Maybe it's because that Kim Carnes song is in my top 10 karaoke hits, but once you've seen it, you'll never forget it.
This cat's eyes are, without a doubt, her biggest attraction. The longer they stare, the more desperate they become. Their desperation is hypnotizing. This cat has the perfect mix of rudeness and innocence, and I find myself stealing food from my spoiled cats and feeding them around corners when they're not looking.
I know for a fact that the first mistake I made was naming her. Being a realist, I keep coming back to that. The second mistake was feeding her, because Bette Davis is apparently desperate to move the food bowl inside the house, and my “kittens” are not happy about that.
It's almost like an alien invasion: the aliens are fluffy and friendly and in need of a loving home, but their eyes are the ones decoding the message.
If the neighbours heard me roaming their yard, they'd surely think I'd gone mad. “Bette Davis, please get out. I just fed them. The cats don't like you here. Go home. Do you have a home? I don't think so, but you can't stay here. Please get out.” “Can I keep her?” the idealist pleads. “No, you already have two cats and I'm pretty sure three would be too many,” the realist replies.
“Maybe by some miracle we can all become friends” — the height of delusional idealism. I know I can't keep her. It breaks my heart. I hate that the realist in me always wins. I desperately want the idealist to win.
“In an ideal world” — we realists love this four-word phrase. It’s usually followed by the cognate “but”… “however” is my preference.
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That's a pretty big statement, don't you think? “We can't keep all the cats” is one word longer than “We can't save the world,” which makes it even harder to swallow.
Luckily, the SPCA is able to rescue her, which should be easy if they can get a hold of her, and then hopefully a loving family will open their hearts and give this elderly cat a home.
Who wouldn't want to look into Bette Davis's eyes? Sometimes, even after doing all we can, it still doesn't feel like enough. Buying bread for a beggar won't solve poverty.
They will still be hungry tomorrow. Recently I was answering a question from someone who has somehow managed to retain an innocent pure heart in this harsh, cold world: “Why are there so many homeless people on the streets? We need to help them. Why doesn't anyone help them?”
I had no idea how to answer such a simple question that should have an easy answer. The truth is, there are so many amazing organizations fighting for all kinds of needs in society. Every single day. But with all their resources and expertise, they must always feel like they're only reaching the tip of the iceberg. Especially in this economic climate, when it comes to one very necessary ideal: fundraising.
In an “ideal world,” we could save the world. We could eradicate poverty, reverse climate change, and erase the concept of war forever. But in reality, this remains an ideal. Does that mean all our efforts will be in vain?
That's impossible.
And, surprisingly enough, this is actually the realist in me saying this: Every time we identify a need, pick up the phone or send a message to a community group chat, a million little dots connect and a network is formed.
A life-saving network that we can all participate in. If that is the kind of salvation we are talking about, I see the “world” being saved every day.
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From millions of street corners and social media platforms, perhaps it is a place where realism and idealism not only meet but create a harmonious union.
After all, they may both be important factors when trying to save the world.
• Jade Le Roux is deputy editor at The Witness.
