The primary tool for the enforcement of help is...
77 captures<br>10 Mar 2003 - 11 Sep 2025
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About this capture
COLLECTED BY
Organization: Alexa Crawls
Starting in 1996, Alexa Internet has been donating their crawl data to the Internet Archive. Flowing in every day, these data are added to the Wayback Machine after an embargo period.
Collection: Alexa Crawls
Starting in 1996, Alexa Internet has been donating their crawl data to the Internet Archive. Flowing in every day, these data are added to the Wayback Machine after an embargo period.
TIMESTAMPS
The Wayback Machine - https://web.archive.org/web/20101126175812/http://www.mouthmag.com:80/issues/58/contam_smile.htm
my<br>contaminated
SMILE
by<br>Joe Ehman
The photo is of a blonde woman at<br>her desk who is obviously a professional helper.
Her smile is as perfect as her hair, and given with such insincere energy
that it almost creates a halo around her.
Baring<br>the fangs of help
While<br>waiting for a red light to change<br>a fellow came up from behind<br>me and "helped" me, grabbing my wheelchair handles, pushing me across<br>the street. I heard him say from over my shoulder that if only I would<br>put my faith in Jesus, the good Lord would help me walk again.
I called back over my shoulder that<br>Jesus better ask if I even want His help. Then I took one more step<br>over the line, telling him that maybe Jesus could help make him white.
Perhaps<br>I'm oversensitive about help I don't ask for. I used to do it for a<br>living, so I know.
While<br>studying to be a social worker, I landed a part-time job as a hospital<br>orderly. I saw myself earning humanitarian brownie points for helping<br>those people. I bragged to my friends about how I helped patients bathe,<br>dress, toilet, feed. They couldn't do it themselves. I did it for them.<br>When my friends told me how saintlike I was for laying my healing hands<br>on the untouchables, I glowed.
That's<br>where I developed The Smile.<br>My<br>workday started when the nurse handed me the duty list. It was my<br>job to do what was on that list and also to answer the call lights.<br>I pitied those poor people. They needed my help. I had to do something<br>to make their lives better: adjust the bed, reposition them, open<br>the curtains... and never know or ask if that's what they wanted at<br>all.
Completing<br>the duty list was helping the patients. Answering call lights was<br>not my idea of help. When I saw a call light flash above a patient's<br>door, dread and fear came over me. A call light meant that a patient<br>wanted something unknown, something not on the duty list, something<br>I might not know how to do, something I might not want to do.
If<br>a patient dared ask for any of the above, here came The Smile. Tilting<br>my head 35 degrees to the right, I contorted my face into a large,<br>painful, cheek-to-cheek smile, exposed my teeth, glared at them and<br>said "I'll help you in a little while. Other patients need me right<br>now." Then I could get back to the real helping.
Helping<br>reduced suffering and made me feel good. After I had finished acts<br>of help, I waited like a vulture for expressions of gratitude. I'd<br>helped, hadn't I? When thank-yous weren't forthcoming, it was clear<br>to me that those people weren't even human enough to be grateful.
To<br>get the thanks I deserved, I sometimes stood over the bed, behind<br>The Smile. In a scolding-wheedling tone I'd ask, "Now, aren't we forgetting<br>something?"
Don't<br>make me get the nurse.
If<br>ever a patient refused my help,<br>I'd use The Smile. Behind it, I hid what I truly felt, disgust: You're<br>pathetic. You make me uncomfortable. Helping you eases my discomfort<br>about your existence, earns your gratitude, and gets me out of your<br>room, quick. You say you don't want my help? Then I'll just have to<br>make your life miserable.
How<br>could anyone refuse that smiling face?
If<br>anyone did, I'd lean over their bed again, smile more forcefully, and<br>say, in my best holier-than-thou voice, I'm sorry but, Doctor's orders,<br>you know. Smile.<br>Don't make me get the nurse. Smile.<br>It's for your own good. Smile.<br>If you ever want to go home, you'll let me do that. Smile.
Now<br>the tables have turned.
Today<br>I'm a gimp at the mercy of folks<br>who help without asking what I want. By now I should know better, but<br>I still don't seem able to resist the impulse to jump in and help. My<br>roommate, Josh, is another quad, a higher quad. He's been a second class<br>citizen for about a year now. When I see him reach into the fridge for<br>a can of soda, struggle forever to grab it and take it out, I feel uncomfortable.
It<br>takes, sometimes, two or three attempts. Josh may even drop a can on<br>the floor where he can't reach it before he gets the can to his lap.<br>Then he has to get it to the counter where he takes another five minutes<br>to open it.
That<br>drives me nuts. So, I jump right in and do it all for him, without asking.<br>When I jump in with help, I'm not thinking about what Josh wants. I<br>know what he needs: help!<br>Refusing<br>help is difficult, even...