Behind Enemy Lines

Most people have heard of PTSD, or post-traumatic stress disorder. In Berkeley, we have our own variety: progressive traumatic stress disorder.

You can see it in people's faces; many of them are scared. This isn't just because a riot might break out at any minute. It's because someone, somewhere in Berkeley at this very moment, is becoming unglued.

A case in point: I was at a farmer's market recently when I saw that tell-tale look of fear in a vendor's eyes. She was showcasing a booth of yummy-looking desserts. Going over to gape at the pastries, I asked if she were okay. She pointed to a woman with long, wild hair. The vendor leaned in, conspiratorially, and whispered, "That woman just yelled at me because I use white sugar and white flour."

I remarked to the vendor, "I bet you don't live in Berkeley. If you did, nothing would surprise you."

She shuddered at the thought, and replied, "Oh, no way. I live in the suburbs."

Here's another example: I was at Andronico's -- a local gourmet grocery chain. A young woman was offering samples of some new fangled water. I recognized that same frightened, deer-in-the-headlights look in her eyes. Breathlessly, the woman rattled off a bunch of esoteric facts about the water and its packaging. Finally I stopped her, and informed her that I didn't need to know all that.

Astonished, she looked at me for several seconds to make sure that I had come in peace. After taking a deep breath for the first time, she remarked, "Yesterday when I was here, shoppers laid into me for not knowing every fact and figure about the water. So I went home and read everything I could find."

The poor young thing was demonstrating one of the classic signs of Progressive Traumatic Stress Disorder: Hypervigilance. She was so frightened of being yelled at that she had gone overboard and begun inundating customers with useless information.

I have many examples of my own about being besieged by those who provoke Berkeley's brand of PTSD. Here's one: Last week I was at a holistic pharmacy to pick up some of the cute birthday cards they sell. After I handed over my money, the cashier just stood there looking at me. She forced me to utter those most politically incorrect of words, "Can I have a bag?"

After giving me the once-over, the cashier responded, dripping with contempt, "Oh, I'm surprised."

"Why is this?" I asked.

She hissed, "Well, most customers wouldn't ask for a bag for a few greeting cards."

At that moment, I had a decision to make: I could tell her off. Yet at the same time, I didn't want to get all bent out of place right before seeing a psychotherapy client. In the end, I looked at her stonily and asserted, "Well I'd like one."

What I've learned from three decades in Berkeley is that it's an alternative universe, composed of several factions. The cashier fits into one group: aggressive, with few boundaries. People like this have no qualms about using public humiliation, or even becoming unhinged.

Then there is a second group -- Berkeley-ites who are generally nice and polite. They're so pleasant partly because they suffer from Progressive Traumatic Stress Syndrome, having been on the receiving end of the fanatics' wrath one too many times. It's no wonder that the stricken have become the Left's most dedicated global citizens.

Lastly, there is a teeny weeny minority of closeted conservatives, like me. We actually do not welcome strangers getting all up in our business.

We can see through the power dynamics, whether in Berkeley or in Washington, D.C.: The radicals want the freedom to act out in the most hideous of ways. Then they try to scare us into submission. But what I've learned about conservatives is that they are not scaredy-cats, like so many others in Berkeley.

In that spirit, I decided to do something about the pharmacy's green meanie. After I finished with my client, I fired off an email to their corporate office. I described what had happened, and told them that if they wanted to give me attitude, I had no problem handing my money over to Walgreen's instead.

And, do you know what? The next time I shopped there, eco-girl was nowhere in sight.Best of all, the new cashier was all smiles when she handed me a bag.