Last week, somebody swiped the Oscar statuettes from a loading dock. Who took them? I wondered. Perhaps a fan of Jim Carrey's, perturbed by the Academy's failure to grant him a best actor nomination, pilfered the gold-plated trophies in protest. Maybe a potential best director pinched the prizes in order to practice properly his acceptance speech. Or perhaps a desperate individual stole the trophies in a last drastic attempt to prevent one more awards show.

Awards shows certainly appear to dominate the miniature silver screen. Various channels treat viewers to the Golden Globes, the People's Choice Awards, the Emmys, the Daytime Emmys, the Grammys, the American Music Awards, the Nickelodeon Kid's Choice Awards and the list continues. Speculation about potential winners, losers, and unfashionable dressers precede each of these shows. (Beware the ill-clad actress at the Oscars, who receives Joan Rivers' scrutiny.) The hoopla concludes with an extended, commercial-interrupted presentation of trophies. At the end of the show (or at least the line of various awards shows), everyone in the entertainment industry seems to leave with some sort of honor. Entertainers receiving trophies give grand acceptance speeches and those slighted receive sympathy, attention and publicity for the slight. I wonder sometimes if the media should save itself time by broadcasting a single all-encompassing awards show in which every person remotely connected to entertainment stands around, applauds everyone else and then thanks them.

This propensity for awarding prizes extends throughout American culture. Like the majority of Notre Dame students, I received numerous trophies for my childhood and high school endeavors, particularly those in sport. At first I relished the opportunity to acquire any type of statuette. My sister Christine and I counted our trophies and compared their size and shape.

However, the trophies eventually lost luster. Coaches gave out numerous "participation" awards to less skilled athletes like myself. After one soccer tournament, all the players on my team walked away with a small, bronze sculpture of a girl soccer player despite our last place finish. (From far away it looked like a third-place award.) By high school, I did not even want the awards distributed at tournaments and banquets, including those for actual victories or accomplishments. I threw them into a box in my closet. I gave my "participation" awards to my younger sister, Laura, to whom the trophies still looked impressive.

The coaches at these awards banquets and tournament prize presentations meant well. They hoped to alleviate the pain of the disappointment suffered by those not receiving actual awards. I remember a discussion at an end-of-the-year swim team banquet in which one mother boasted that no child would leave without a prize, as she admired the rows of miniature trophies on the table.

Unfortunately, the children receiving these prizes did so without the benefit of actual accomplishment. They obtained a sign of success without actual success. In American society today, as evidenced by the numerous entertainment awards shows and the "participation" awards now sitting in a box in my closet, awards and trophies signify ultimate success. However, as an increasing number of these trophies circulate throughout society, the success that they represent becomes increasingly trivial. The distinction between those who deserve an award and those who merely participated becomes increasingly blurred. The average director, actor or athlete becomes victorious. Do those coaches and bestowers of entertainment prizes truly believe mediocrity deserves honor?

Perhaps they simply want everyone to feel accomplished. In the case of the entertainment industry, the awards shows also aid their business. The awards show itself draws attention and viewers to the network broadcasting it. I wonder, could ABC or NBC receive an Emmy for their skilled, thoughtful coverage of the Grammys?

And maybe some people benefit from the participation awards. If the average person believes themself successful, fewer people will turn to self-help gurus in their middle age. As for Notre Dame, my friend Mary Anne offers a differing theory. "Here," she says, "they make everyone feel average by making everyone fail." But then, she seemed a little bitter at the time.

Joanna Mikulski is a freshman from McGlinn Hall. Her column appears every other Friday.

The views expressed in this column are those of the author and not necessarily those of The Observer.

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