“There’s always room”

That's the last line in Hotel Rwanda.

It's hard to talk about Hotel Rwanda because Nazi references are supposedly taboo. Every frame of that film says, "Never again." That statement is one of the most important things we can say. It is also, among other things, a Nazi reference. So please excuse me for ignoring this misguided taboo, but I don't accept the idea that we ought to stop saying one of the most important things we can say just because it violates the delicate sensibilities of some people who mistake "civility" for Victorian manners.

"Never again" is a normative statement, not a descriptive one. It is a commitment, a pledge — not a statement about how things are, but a statement about how things can be if we work to make sure that it is so.

The same is true for its necessary corollary statement: "There's always room."

I'm not a huge Neil Simon fan, but I love the ending of Brighton Beach Memoirs. For the entire play, the extended family has been crowded into one house with just barely enough to get by. Then the father loses his job. Now there will be less than enough to get by. The family is without hope and the story seems to be ending on a note of despair. Then a letter arrives from relatives in Europe. It is 1937, and they are Jews, but they have escaped. This is a miracle. America has granted them asylum — another miracle, because in 1937 America's policy toward Jewish refugees was not governed by the idea that "There's always room."

So as Brighton Beach Memoirs ends, a poor family unable to provide for its existing needs extends itself to accept the greater needs of others. And just like that, despair turns to hope and our story comes to an inexplicably happy ending. This ending is only a happy one, of course, if you accept that "There's always room." A careful study of the family's balance sheet, of the already-stressed physical limits of their house, would seem to suggest otherwise. A very strong case could be made that there wasn't any room. But again, "There's always room" is not simply a descriptive statement.

What prompted all this was this post at Big Monkey, Helpy Chalk (via Majikthise). Rob Loftis offers his notes following a phone interview with Ronnie C. Harris, the mayor of Gretna, La.

This story, by Nicholas Riccardi of The L.A. Times, supplies the background for this interview. As evacuees fled flood-ravaged New Orleans, armed Gretna police guarded a bridge that was one of the few escape routes, forcing the evacuees — at gunpoint — back into the flooded city.

I'd encourage you to read all of Loftis' measured, thoughtful post, but here's his kicker:

I can see quite clearly where [Mayor Harris] is coming from: He thinks he did the right thing, because he protected his people. His problem is that he has too small a view of who his people are.

Loftis' blog, like this one, includes a tagline declaring his membership in the "reality-based community." From one angle, "reality" often seems like a place marked by scarcity — a place where there isn't enough to go around, where there isn't always room. But from another angle, the reality is this: Whether there is "enough" for everyone depends on how we define "enough." Whether there is room for others depends on whether we will make room.

There's always room.