recognition

There are dozens at tables, quieted by the few at the front of the room. Everyone's attention is on them as they thank everyone for introducing themselves, gratitude for coming and their general appreciation for being able to come together.

One of them changes tone, mentioning the elder brother not in attendance. Another's face sinks into sadness, telling everyone where he is, that he's close and his current condition. The room falls somber.

As they turn the attention to Her, the room follows. Her devotion to that elder brother, Her father, is exalted. Her eyes turn to the table, Her face reddens and She fights against welling tears.

"And I'd like to thank Her for being so great with her Father. She's taken care of everything, is there all the time and she's taken on a lot. I can only hope my children act how she has when I need them."

She wipes an escaped tear from her cheek, hiding her eyes from those of everyone else. It's what She's wanted but She doesn't know how to react. She's bashful.

She bends herself to breaking for Her family. She makes tedious phone calls, manages finances and keeps everyone on task. Normally reserved, She can be aggressive and unrelenting.

Typically, no one acknowledges it, taking it for granted. She continues on in spite of most ignoring it. She can complain but generally seems to revel in the day to day activities.

I haven't appreciated Her, not like I should. I know She works too hard, stresses too much and overextends but I'm too caught up in my own selfishness sometimes to truly realize what She does.

But that look on Her face, red as a beet, eyes swollen with salty tears, is impossible to ignore. In front of everyone, to the point of embarrassment, She is finally recognized. And with that recognition I'm overwhelmed with pride.

I hope someday I can have half the compassion and care my mother does. I hope someday to be able to really express my appreciation for all She's done.

fruitless

He sold his business in the restaurant industry to avoid stress. He’s not given information before arriving at the stop. However, he’s seen as the authority until someone else arrives. Dozens line up, confused.

They all see the bus, then the driver, and wonder why they’re unable to board. The wind is biting. They start to dance, warming their muscles against cold’s advances.

She complains, loudly, redundantly airing grievances to anyone nearby. There are small groups among the queue that talk amongst themselves. She bounces from one to the other with the same complaints, trying to spread her angst.

The confusion spreads quickly. Some believe they’re waiting for different buses. Some think they’re going to leave any minute. Some think they’re waiting for a company representative. Some don’t care in the least about anything as long as they’re on the bus soon.

She continues to complain. Despite the driver being within earshot, she insists everyone’s waiting for the driver so they can leave. Any call for her to quiet herself and wait patiently are personal attacks, met with yelling and ignorant spews.

“Where is the driver? Why can’t we get on the bus? I paid my money, we all paid our money, for a three-o-clock bus. I want to get home! It’s cold out here!” She yells, ignoring that she’s one of many and all others are relatively quiet.

The driver lets some load their bags, tries to explain the situation to others and notes that he’s hoping to go directly to his destination without stopping in another city. Every trip typically stops in the other city but recently they’ve instituted an express route.

She’s having none of it. The mention of a possible stop sets her off on another tangent.

“I paid to get to [destination], I ain’t never been through [other city]. Why we stopping there? I didn’t pay to go to [other city]!”

Most of the crowd realizes she’s now working with a profound misunderstanding. Many turn away, ignoring her. Others tell her to quiet down or contradict her statements, getting verbally assaulted in response.

Her words are worthless. The bus still sits idle, he still waits for the required manifest before letting anyone board and the mass of people still dance against the growing cold. Soon another bus appears, not at all because she griped and whined.

She pushes her way to the front as the bus boards. Many others take her lead and step to the front of the line. There is disarray but soon many have boarded. Soon, we departed. Her yelling did nothing to speed our trip. They only to frustrate, stress and annoy those around her.

What a waste.

rocked

He’s floating, barely. His clothes are soaked through. His eyes, wide and frightened, stare to the sky while his arms struggle to keep him afloat. His arms are tired, overworked and flailing. He dips more often under the waves.

His labored breath is choked and rapid. His head spins in all directions, looking for any sign of hope. His legs are tied to a stone. It’s small but over time, as he grows more exhausted, its weight becomes more and more to bear.

With mismanagement and an almost impressive ability to ignore market trends, the auto industry is struggling for air. For years, Detroit has been unable to turn a profit, manufacturing out-dated vehicles in too-large numbers. Consumers have moved on.

We’re the backbone of the nation, they say. We cannot fail because with us goes the country, they say. Things will get better, they say. We’ll find a solution, adapt to the present, all we need is time, they say. Why do we listen?

They shifted focus to build cars to last only five or seven years. Their profits were astronomical and junkyards piled high with their excrement. Instead of following the will of the consumer, they spent billions on manipulation, telling those consumers their collective will.

Their products use archaic technology. On the surface, they’re covered in all the newest gadgets and safety features but below they are unchanged. We are told our nation relies on the market, why do we abandon those ideals to hand money to those that have proven unable to act wisely?

According to market principles, the industry should crumble. It has lost the ability to adapt and has been passed by more capable competitors. The same promises have been made incessantly with no result.

Weighed down by pensions and inertia, the industry is about to drown. When it does, hundreds of thousands will be without work. Those men and women can find work in other sectors. An emphasis on alternative energy will need incredible manpower if it’s expected to succeed.

Using the current credit crisis, they are looking for a handout, hoping for some retribution. Their arguments are thin and promises lofty. Those displaced by their failure could find work in manufacturing parts for alternative energy solutions, which will need incredible manpower to succeed.

They are the man fighting against the waves. They produced too much, promised more and are now pulled down by their own weight. That weight has become too heavy and they have grown too tired to remain afloat. They should sink, drop below the surface, hidden under the waves.

Like a rock.

Only after they have drowned will we be motivated to find creative solutions to the struggles at hand. Then we will see that we are not invulnerable. Then we will see our global position more realistically and stop living, and posturing, beyond our means.

assist

I cross at the crosswalk. I’m half to the other side when I notice the bus coming at me, slowing to a stop at the corner. Just ahead, a man steps from the doorway of a nearby building, making His way to the bus.

He’s smiling awkwardly and expending too much effort. His hair is long, thin, blond and appears greasy. His gate is stuttered; He’s struggling. He’s still more than fifteen feet away.

He looks to be more than three hundred pounds. A button-down drapes over His green t-shirt, billowing slightly as He tries to quicken His pace. His khaki shorts are just past His knees, exposing massive calves. His left knee seems to buckle slightly as He goes.

The bus stops, dropping off two passengers. I reach the sidewalk and glance toward Him. He’s not close enough to catch the driver’s attention. The bus doors close.

I could step quickly to the doors, waving through the glass at the driver. He would open the door as I feign looking through my wallet for my transit pass. I would stall until He can reach the door. Then I’d step aside and continue walking.

Instead, I watch Him reach the rear doors in time for the bus to pull off through the intersection. He starts walking back toward the building, that same awkward smile on His face. Like this happens to Him all the time.

I walk to my stop and onto the train, all the while replaying what I could have done to help Him out. The bus route came around often, especially this time of day. He would get on the next one in a few minutes.

I rationalize it, justifying my inaction. No one else would have done it. It probably wouldn’t have worked anyway. No one else would have considered it. I’ll do something for someone that will even the overall score.

Next time.

unfit

I lean against the glass, standing opposite the bike rack on the light rail headed south. The night is warm, smelling of fall and coming cooler nights. Voices echo off the plastic walls, resonating and creating a sea of white noise.

To my right, a pale woman with blood dripping from her eyes. She laughs with her friend who has a red-striped sweater and matching hat over jeans. His glasses have no lenses’ they're thick and black.

Across the isle, an obese pirate fiddles with his beaded wig while his girlfriend in a pleated, plaid skirt lays her head against his shoulder. Her pigtails are loose and frizzy. Her eyes turn up at me before she closes them and brings her legs up and under her on the bench.

Past the doors a zombie talks loudly to her girlfriend who wears cotton shorts, a t-shirt with the number seven drawn on it and cleats over her knee-high striped socks. The eye black under her eyes is smeared. Zombie has a gaping wound on her forehead and another on her cheek.

Behind them, a girl wearing a lacy wedding gown with a suit coat over her shoulders rests against the window next to her groom. Her eyes have dark rings under them and her pale cheeks are smeared, letting the fleshy red of someone who has drank too much bleed through.

Farther back, a group of people buzz with conversation. Among them is a cow girl, the Joker and someone from the disco seventies. All the conversations mesh, collide and fold over one another until there's nothing left of interest.

Through my headphones, I hear about strife in the Sudan and an update of electoral campaigning. There's a profound sense of isolation despite the crowd. My eyes go from person to person, from a girl dressed only in lingerie to another in full Victorian splendor and back to the textured floor.

The train slows. From the front of the car a woman steps down and stands waiting for the doors to open. She's in a dark brown suit coat and skirt, wearing small heels and nylons. She wears glasses and has her hair up in an unkempt bun that probably took her more than a half hour.

The train stops, doors open and she steps out. I see the plastic machine gun in her other hand. I smirk at the unoriginality of it. I'd already seen a dozen like her.

I've lost my sense of belonging. Not just with these people or just tonight. I've fallen deeper into myself, away from everything, thinking too much about different things. Their costumes betray their uniformity.

progress

Inspirational. I’m not prone to optimism. In fact, I’m very much opposed to it on a fundamental level. Still, I underestimated the power of a moment like this. The history of it is suffocating.

He stands, behind the podium in front of more than one hundred thousand people, with confidence and humility. There are no snickers, no air of predestined grandeur, just an air of satisfaction, filled with promise.

The crowd in front of him cheers incessantly, loudly and enthusiastically. During his speech, they are respectful and elated. So many there to witness history firsthand.

Earlier, his opponent’s concession was thoughtful and congratulatory. The crowd gathered to listen to Opponent speak was much smaller. They jeer when Opponent mentions his name, booing and scoffing, and how he will support him.

The two crowds, extrapolated to an entire population, show two very different Americas divided and conflicting. They show the passion for change, the overwhelming disappointment in the nation’s direction and the two very different conceptual ideas of how to bring about that change. They reflect the many flaws, a cultural snapshot of many failings.

For many this is a move forward. A giant leap that will fail to meet expectations. For many others this is a move in the wrong direction, a step backward, and a sign we won’t make necessary changes. With all the promises, lies and history of this election, we will look back and only see a mild deviation on an almost-straight line toward more disappointment.

My lack of optimism insulates me from the impact of this moment, as impressive as it is, but I can admit we have made a small step in the direction of true progress.

buoyant

The raft bucks and sways with the small waves. Rays of clear sunlight beat against my eyelids and warm my chest. In the distance, voices and boat motors spill over one another into a constant, whisper-quiet hum.

I lay on the plastic, all-weather carpet, breathing slowly. The lapping of the waves against the pontoons passes for aggressive compared to all else. My body resists nothing, releasing any tension, rolling slightly on the raft as it sways.

My swim shorts, just moments ago soaked through, dripping, are half dry. The puddle that formed under me has mostly evaporated. The turf scratches my shoulders and calves but is incredibly comfortable.

The motor of a wave-runner revs to my left, speeding from shore. A group of people walk down the pier, talking loudly but not to me. Someone laughs to my right, toward the small resort’s main complex.

I sigh. There’s no way to appreciate the stillness fully. In weeks, I’ll be back at school, inundated with stimuli. This, a fond memory, if that; most of the details blurred and faded.

My left eye opens slightly, letting the glaring sun in. I lift myself to my elbow, looking around lazily. I slide to the left and roll onto my stomach, resting my cheek on the backs of my hands.

A cloud passes, cutting the suns warmth. I recognize the voice of my friend’s mother but can’t decipher her words. My mind wanders, remembering the conversations from last night as her son and I drank around our pathetic fire.

We are camped on the other side of the lake, in a small site. We had returned after a day at the resort, much like we will tonight. In the darkness we attempted cooking a late dinner but drank more than we ate.

He and I talked about too much to remember. How we liked our schools, events from the weeks before, who was attempting to coerce who into naked romps where and what we we’d do the rest of the week.

I picked up my head and turned to the other side, away from the sun. I’m drooling slightly.

There’s a splash from the pier and then the sound of someone swimming toward the raft. I hear my friend yell to someone else from the shore. He’s playing catch with the friend of his whose family owns the house up the hill. Who else would be ... ?

My heart, just a moment ago silent, presses against my ribs, trying to get out with each resounding thump. The raft pitches as she steps up the rungs of the ladder.

A few drops of water drop on my shoulder. All my energy traced up my neck and to my eyelids, holding them shut against every impulse to watch her ease herself to the carpet. I can feel her just feet away, the raft settling back on the waves after a moment.

After a couple days, I open one eye, slowly and only slightly so she wouldn’t notice. She’s on her back, eyes closed, with her head resting on the palms of her hands and elbows just slightly off the green faux-grass. The water glistens, beading on her stomach.

Her skin is the color and texture of a well-stirred cup of coffee with extra cream. My eye follows the outline of her neck, her shoulders, her breasts, her stomach, her hips, her thighs and down her calves. When the come back to her thick lips, I burst into flames, realizing she’s watching.

How’s it going? I fumble. She, already smiling, lets out an audible snicker but is clearly unfazed by my gawking. In fact, she returns the optical accosting.

The conversation progresses, questions on both sides and some more laughs. She’s younger by a couple years but smart and lively. I can’t help glancing at her midriff as she turns toward me, rolls over or adjusts her position. The flexing and tightening is intoxicating.

She dives back in awhile later, and I turn back to my resting. Thoughts of her in various stages are pushed out of my mind by the utter stillness. There are no advertisements, massive man-made structures or flickering televisions.

The raft bucks and sways with small waves and I soak in the full magnitude of nature. In the real world I drown in images, haste and stress. Here I just float.

week

Just one more week and this will all be over.

That’s all I’m hearing. Sure, the election will be over and all will be right in the world. Maybe there’s a black guy behind the desk or a near-dead shell of what was never a maverick with his shaky fingers above the nuclear codes.

Whatever the case, does everyone think it’s going to just go away? If the old one’s elected democracy will be exposed as a sham. Those that are so passionate now will deflate and slink back to their Wiis and blogs. If the other wins, media will scrutinize his every move. His bills will be picked apart, eroded and rendered impotent.

The impressive rage, built up over more than a year of campaigning, pointing fingers and shifting blame, will not dissipate so quickly. Wednesday will not come with parades and hugs. Those that favored the opponent will remain firm in their beliefs, will still know they are right.

There’s a global recession coming, sparked by an ideology built on ever-expanding resources that are already drying up. Here, the nation’s poor are finally buckling under the disproportionate weight of the richest one percent.

Our markets are built on a flawed theory, one that was formulated and implemented when resources were infinite. It’s based on informed consumers that don’t have information and resources already drying up. Business and government cling to regression in a time that cannot afford anything but progress.

Things will fall. Not now, maybe not while I’m still alive, but eventually. Unless we change. Not our President, not our electorate, not our corporations, but the collective we. It is we that have to change ourselves.

Whether man-made, cyclical or proof God is bored with his pathetic experiment, climate change will have grave effects. Already we’re extracting more than the earth can provide. Our business sector, so powerful, flexible and advanced, opposes any real change, green-washing their message to save money, still thinking short-term.

Our nation, our communities and our conceptions need to change. We need innovation, ingenuity and transformation more now than ever. We, for the first time in our history, have ready access to global communication and we react by trying to limit bandwidth so those providing the pipes can glean more profit.

All people can talk about is one election in one nation. Short-sightedness got us here and will lead us further into desolation. My optimism waned and failed long ago but I hope to regain something resembling it. The ideas are already out there.

A book written fifteen years ago lists thoughtful tax incentive programs that encourage conservation over extraction. It uses a metaphor of ecological maturation to demonstrate positive restrictions and allowances that would regulate and expand the markets while decreasing our societal footprint.

I don’t have the hopefulness to believe it’ll happen. Too many are oblivious or ignorant to the struggles we face, some willfully so. Too many with too much have vested interest in indefinite continuation while too few with too little pay the price.

But, there’s nothing to worry about. Because in just one more week, this will all be over.

Cross posted at Thought Chasm

sedulous

I can’t see her face, the room is dark. On stage, the writer reads about his past. He’s funny and, like so many others, she responds with laughter. Unlike the hundreds in attendance, her laugh is a halted, loud honking.

She’s a goose in a human suit. Her laugh shakes the earth, drawing attention from many in a forty-foot radius. Most of them turn subtly, glancing over, trying to put a face to the acoustic bombardment without her noticing. Some shake their heads without turning to look, acknowledging her outbursts.

I turn left, not looking at her but trying to pinpoint her location. It sounds like she’s just behind me, yelping only inches from my ear, but soon I realize she’s to my left in the same row, her boyfriend between us. I try and fail to ignore the howls.

The Writer continues his story. He was in the women’s lounge on a train with another man. They were smoking and drinking after the drinks car had closed. He makes many humorous asides about his thoughts at the time and how they relate to his story.

With every funny or not-so-funny remark, she lets loose a string of bellows. More people turn to look and some start to murmur. I glance over and catch her eye—she must have been looking my way. It’s just an instant, the slightest second, in the dark where neither of us really see the other.

Still, it has an effect. From the corner of my eye I see her looking in all directions. The Writer’s story continues, with many hilarious comments and associated pauses for the crowd’s reaction, but her laugh is quieter, less enthusiastic.

Guilt slaps me on the chest. What would I do with such a distinct laugh? One that echos from wall to wall, spurring stares and exasperated head-shakes from strangers? Would I attend a reading by The Writer? The one who has so many laugh-out-loud essays?

With the answer comes a rush of something close to envy. She must get these reactions incessantly, yet places herself where she knows she’ll get more. Or she has little self-awareness. With a laugh like hers, I’d take those responses personally, probably avoiding similar situations all together.

Her booming enthusiasm is in direct defiance to those that mutter and whisper. They are taken out of their comfortable position listening to an author they admire. They choose to focus on her booming laughter instead of their own.

The Writer keeps on with his readings, remarking and recounting comically, causing rumbles of laughter and applause. Her laugh mingles with the others, quieted, more reserved. I wish she hadn’t noticed the people who grumbled, started to control herself and became one of them.

lacerated

I roll onto my back, start to sit up and my side explodes. Everything goes white. All of me aches, throbs or yells, protesting every slight movement. For a moment there is nothing but pain.

I close my eyes and lay still, going over the night before in my head. She was gorgeous, with large, dark eyes and near black hair. We were flirting, but only just. We walked outside with a group before a call for pizza. Then there’s an image the concrete sidewalk.

She was friendly but shy. Infatuation was immediate. We talked about our week helping repair homes and other random things. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Again, my daydream fills with the hard, cold sidewalk.

The arrival of the pizza was announced and I offered to give her a ride on my back. I held her up easily but something was wrong. I stepped off the curb, leaned too far forward or she shifted her weight more than I could compensate. Whatever it was, I saw only concrete.

Then I was leaning over her, asking if she was alright. Others were around but I don’t know who, everything happened so quickly. She was holding her hand or her wrist, explaining through halted breaths that she was fine. She must have had the wind knocked out of her.

I helped her up and we went over to the picnic tables, each grabbing a slice or two of pizza. My side was scraped and it screamed in pain. I must have bruised it. I couldn’t finish my piece of pizza.

Once I had tossed the remainder of my slice in the trash, I walked back to my sleeping bag. I slowly laid down, ignoring everything around me. I slept well, better than I had in quite awhile. I woke in the same position as I fell asleep.

Either the pain subsides or I grow accustomed enough to get to my feet. Just as a hurricane of nausea rips through me. Quickly as possible, hunched over and ignoring the cries of agony from my insides, I walk outside. I promptly regurgitate the half-slice of Pizza Hut pepperoni.

I look down at the grass, waves of pain running from my toes to neck, punished for the retching. I brace myself against the side of the school. Through the throbbing comes an urge to urinate. I walk to the second door to avoid having to step over others.

Few are awake but a man I don’t recognize is in the bathroom. He steps away from the urinals as I walk in, washing his hands behind me. Urinating intensifies the throbbing, making my legs quake. I put a hand up against the wall.

I glance down, breathing through the pain. Expecting the normal, the burgundy color gives me pause. My mind reels with questions. I carefully, trying to keep the pain at a hum rather than a scream, gather myself.

I find the youth leader, explain I may have blood in my urine and how I vomited earlier. He knew about the night before and is concerned. He leads me to a bench outside and goes to talk with other adults. He comes back with keys to the van and my jeans.

We head to the hospital, talking about anything but the pain tearing through me at every bump in the road. No one saw me leave and only has second-hand information as to where I am. What if no one tells her where I am?

I learn from a bearded man in his forties, while he stares at my commuted tomography scan results as one would a fine string of diamonds, that I’ve lacerated my kidney. I picture it having been cut into, like the breaking of a sack of hummus. Later, I learn it’s in three pieces.

I spend a few days in the hospital, in varying levels of consciousness and pain. The television is uninteresting and my mind constantly turns back to her. Is she worried? Does she think it was her fault? How is her hand?

My parents come down quickly and drive me back home when I’m finally released. Mother talks incessantly, curious how it happened. Father just asks, “How you doing back there, bud?” repeatedly. I lay back on the reclined seat, listening to my CD player, thinking of her, feeling every bump of the three hundred mile trip.

There’s an arrangement of flowers from work on the kitchen table with a “get well soon” balloon. My parents take a picture of me holding it, to send to them in thanks. I ease downstairs and lay on the couch.

After a few hours, some pain medication and a nap, she calls. Mother yells down, I grab the receiver off the table beside me and hear her voice for the first time in days. I recount the hospital in brief, hear she was worried about me and invite her over.

She accepts. Time crawls. The minutes between hearing her voice and the sound of her arrival are days. I listen as Mother welcomes her and points her downstairs before closing the door.

She turns the corner and her eyes light up. For an instant, just a fraction of a second, the pain is gone. There’s only her smiling face. I could ask her a dozen questions.

Instead, she meets me on the couch and we talk quietly about nothing. Mother comes down and takes a photo of us, then leaves us be. She starts the movie I pick and then lays back down.

Here in the basement I’m cut off from everything. Reality, that I’m headed out of state to college within the month, have no job and can barely walk, is distant. Even the pain, otherwise constantly humming, is far away when she’s here with me.

humanity

What if he was just a man, like any other?

What if he traveled in search of something more, like so many, and found enlightened teachings? He may come back and tell others those ideas, piquing their interest. If they were popular they would spread easily.

Those teachings would have been new and threatening had the establishment recognized them. He would have been punished severely. He would have been used as an example to all those that would defy.

Maybe those teachings were similar to those in the East. Lessons in holistic medicine or finding happiness helping others or from within. They taught of zen and reincarnation over worship and devotion.

The teachings would have interwoven themselves with conventions of the day. Communication was rudimentary, filled with exaggeration and misunderstanding. Traditions would have meshed or overlapped. Stories would have developed around his words.

If his punishment resulted in death, those stories would be far more powerful. They would be passed to successive generations, modified only slightly, compounding from one to the next. Myths would manifest themselves within the stories.

Moral tales would be added or derived from the stories. Others would have added their own interpretations, manipulating details or adding stories to clarify. Even if unintentional, these manipulations, exaggerations and additions would create entirely new stories.

At the time, too many things were beyond comprehension. Most of the world was undiscovered, natural processes were unexplained. The mutated stories would supply reassurance to those afraid and confused.

In death, he would have no control over these misinterpretations. To distinguish themselves from others his followers would aggressively spread their renditions. Multiple versions of his simple tales would extrapolate into entire books only superficially similar.

Over the years the scaling would be inevitable. Each recounting of his teaching would be heard and told again differently. How often and by how many the stories were told could mean more fancy than reality. The stories would grow into legends.

Hundreds, then thousands, then millions of people would learn from these legends. The man himself would dissolve into myth. The meanings of the stories would shift or change entirely with political and emotional climates in which they were translated.

Once they were able, people would write the stories down, penning them in dozens of languages to spread the legends and myths of stories born from his teachings. The abstract morality within the pages would be lost to literal interpretation.

His words, so simple and universal, would no longer be his. His intentions would be lost in a sea of interpretations and manipulations. His teachings, meant for good and thoughtfulness, would justify oppression, war and extermination.

The population would have grown exponentially since he was punished for his teachings. The lessons, turned to stories and grown to myths, would spread faster, building a belief system for many. Soon, what people knew of him would be almost entirely fabricated.

What if he was just a man; like any other?

progress

We are increasingly governed by fear. We’re told we’re threatened, that we need to hold true to failed policies. We’re manipulated. Our fear is aimed in the wrong direction.

We fear attacks from terrorists and hope to increase our military strength. We’re twice as strong as the next strongest, Russia, and spend eight times more than the next biggest spender, France (and half of all global spending). We’re warned of Iran creating a nuclear bomb. China is painted as an economic threat. We’re afraid of an economic crash, hoping a bailout will stabilize the market.

Without fundamental change and rethinking of the current economic model, we won’t be able to reverse our catastrophic effect on the planet. We are, among industrial nations, dying more often from preventable causes. Our educational system has slipped in rankings and fewer can afford higher education. Our national debt is more than ten trillion dollars, an incomprehensible value.

What if we start to fear what is truly frightening?

Reports tell us terrorism-related deaths are up four hundred fifty percent since nineteen-ninety-eight. Just seven years ago we sustained the most devastating attack on domestic soil by foreign entities in our history. But, if we omit Iraq from those numbers because it’s a war zone, deaths are actually down forty percent since two-thousand-one.

China would rather borrow to us than Europe because we offer a single leadership to negotiate with. Economically, we’re twice as strong. They are just now coming out of an industrial age we abandoned two decades ago.

The market will crash. There’s no way to change that course without fundamentally changing the equation our system’s based on. Whether we buy out mortgages, grant loans or let massive international banks fail matters little. The system needs readjustment to continue.

What if we start to fear what is truly frightening?

The current model creates massive barriers of entry into the foundation of not only business, but government, the market. Its theories ignore resource consumption or waste production and rely on a population of informed consumers who are losing access to information. Entire ecosystems, even isolated ones, are decaying without explanation.

Among “First World” nations, we are worst in preventable deaths. Access to health care and education are the main reasons one hundred thousand people die of these causes each year. Just last year, in the United States, four hundred fifty thousand people died of coronary heart disease alone.

Nationally, about seventy percent of Americans graduate high school. That percentage is on the decline. Far fewer go on to higher education, less than thirty percent. Our economy is post-industrial so the work these non-graduates do is too often at or below a living wage without benefits.

Each American, beyond taxes, social security and living expenses, accounts for over thirty-three thousand dollars of the national debt. The debt is scoffed at, ignored. Recently, another four trillion dollars were added to its total. Like ecological collapse, this will be a problem that generations after mine will have to address.

What if we start to fear what is truly frightening?

The president will have little effect on any of our fears, yet even the candidates simplified policies are ignored in favor of more simplistic character flaws or associations. That a candidate spent time in the living room of someone who was temporarily labeled a domestic terrorist thirty years ago is mentioned more than the largest mass extinction in our history on Earth.

Until we start addressing things that are truly frightening, we will never see real progress.

dangerous

He manufactured his own myth with remarkable success. He manipulates his points and shifts alliances with is own aspirations. He flares, yells and cuts down elderly women, fellow congressmen and commanding officers who argue with him. He’s selfish and spoiled.

He finds solace in fatalism. He’s most inspired when he’s up against the ropes or down and out. He’s uncomfortable with victory. He erupts derogatory remarks based in truth and needs to be the underdog. He suffocates under the pressure of success.

He compensates for his small stature with grandiose goals and arrogance. His youth was wasted, filled with disobedience, idiocy and trying to please his idols without learning from his mistakes. He’s taken advantage of nepotism with reckless abandon; it kept him in school, got him his posts, made him his friends and saves his life.

His idols are bold individualists, idealized by time. He speaks of fictional characters, like Robert Jordan of For Whom the Bell Tolls, similar to Theodore Roosevelt. He ignores symbolism, racism or faults. President Roosevelt was exponentially more bright and motivated and Jordan is fictional.

His views are extreme. He’s fundamentally authoritarian, believing government is infallible and should be trusted without question. He sees America as a great nation, one that should spread its greatness globally using military might and aggressive tactics.

He traverses elite circles, prefers talking to hand-picked groups of supporters or high-paying constituents to large gatherings and diverse crowds. His campaign strategy turns that into an asset, trying to combat his opponent drawing massive numbers of supporters.

The media leave him to his own. He jokes incessantly, especially about his faults. The jokes disarm the media, deflecting any questions about those failings. He claims “straight-talk” to mask not saying anything.

He claimed to desire a respectful campaign, rather than the typical mud-slinging. His declared strategy is far different than what’s materialized. His ads scrape the bottom, make wild accusations with little basis and attack character as much as policy. He uses guilt by association to inject doubt in voters, ignoring his past and its numerous scandals.

He downplays references to his being tortured and held captive. He says he doesn’t bring it up. He does. He mentions his two years of torture and five years as a POW so frequently it’s losing its weight. He uses it to redirect unrelated questions or cut down any opposition. He lets supporters inflate its effect on him when, in reality, he’s changed little.

He built a reputation being open with the press, who then ignore his real reputation. He’s always been short tempered and arrogant. Before and after Vietnam, he’s been irresponsible and sophomoric. He hasn’t changed but for his message.

Since returning with numerous injuries, his sites have been fixed on the seat behind the desk in the Oval Office. He’s used his connections and positions to further that goal, changing allegiances and policies at will as political winds have shifted.

He promoted the “Domino Theory” before mending ties to the country that held him captive. He was against regulation, defending his original contributor and good friend Charles Keating, before pushing for it, save for the market that is now crashing, after his face appeared alongside Keating during the scandal of the late 80s.

He’s changed position on everything from torture or tax cuts. He sought the endorsement of a man he labeled the face of intolerance, falsely claimed he warned of quagmire in Iraq before anyone else and attacked his opponent for inexperience before nominating a running mate with less experience and more extreme views.

He actively views voters with contempt. He worked to make campaign contributions by average voters more difficult while larger groups found loopholes easily to keep their contributions flowing easily. His nomination shows profound disrespect for the office of Vice President as well as for the voters who support lifting him to the Presidency.

He claimed the economy was fundamentally strong two hours before he said it was in crisis. He says his associations with controversial pastors don’t affect his judgment while his surrogates attack his opponent about another pastor. He turns the other way or supports attacks by his supporters on his opponent, allowing them to call them bitches, terrorists or threaten their assassination.

He’s too frail to trust he’ll hold office an entire term. He knows no line between his own ambition and the national good. He’s flaunted his flaws to garner sympathy without changing his aspirations even slightly.

The economy seems on the edge of collapse and he’s openly professed his financial ignorance. He refuses to lean on more adept associates, choosing to inject himself into talks he didn’t understand to give the obtuse impression of action over discussion. He shows little restraint or forethought in his campaign, or his life.

He created a myth and persona he’ll never live up to around a story he claims not to tell. He grows furious at knocks to his bravado or opposition to his unpopular believes. He refuses to give respect to those that give him just that, like a petulant third grader.

How will he lead a faltering nation? How will he change the outlook he’s had his entire life to a diplomatic one with an over-stretched military? Will he choose associates with progressive views to advise him through these difficult times? All but the Mainstream Media believe he shouldn’t and he won’t.

Most believe, as I do, that he’s fundamentally dangerous.

deign

She stands behind the podium, smiling incessantly, reading prepared answers from the teleprompter scrolling on her neurons. Her accent ebbs and flows depending on the severity of the topic, or how ill-versed she may be on it. She stares into the camera talking with the people on the other side of it.

He, a week before, stood behind a similar podium, uncomfortable and shifty. He refused to meet eyes with his opponent, snickering, mocking and berating. He joked and blathered, showing no respect for the man opposite or the audience.

Both simplify their points to the point of stupidity, redundantly repeating themselves, no matter the question. Both emphasize their being one of the people, just like the average Joe Six-pack staring at them on his television screen between handfuls of Fritos. Both are the down-home folksy type you'd like to run into at a bar or PTA meeting, full of stories, anecdotes and clichés.

They're vying for the two highest offices on the planet, to lead the largest empire ever known. They joke and prod as if unaffected by the pressures of those positions. They talk to their audience as though they're small children, needing everything explained to them to relate.

He stands behind the podium with the nervous confidence of experience. He misspeaks occasionally but knows the important names, countries and policies. He's firm and succinct, relying on facts and anecdotes many relate to. He's personable and professional.

He stood at his own podium six days prior, confident and calm. He spoke eloquently with passion and fervor. He conceded points of agreement, listening closely to his opponents points, but was strong in his responses. He talked without simplifying past a point of comprehension.

Both exude the confidence of knowing where they wish to take the nation. Both choose not to dumb down their rhetoric or spew canned responses. They speak from close to their heart—or at least the political equivalent—about issues they seem to care much about.

They, too, are vying for that same office. They approach it with seriousness, joking only to emphasize their points or deflect attacks. They're poised and friendly. They speak to the audience as peers, hoping those that agree with them will be emboldened and those that are unsure will be swayed.

The two pairs talk to different populations. The First speaks to those that are down and out but too ignorant to realize their policies helped get them there. They speak to those that believe they are wealthy and strong, that believe our nation is entitled to its global dominance. They also speak to those whom are wealthy, offering them more wealth and less regulation.

The Second speaks to those that are tired of being oppressed, realizing the current policies make it difficult for them to lift themselves up. They speak to those who have compassion, to those that believe our country must earn its place atop the global power pyramid or that we're squandering that position. They speak to those that feel gifts to those already blessed will only create more hardship.

When over ninety-percent of the nation earns less than one hundred thousand dollars annually, a number seen as middle class, how could those within that percentile vote for candidates that advocate giving the other five-percent more financial freedom? Because they feel they know the candidates. They feel the candidate sees things from their perspective.

Most don't realize that the same candidates who pander so easily with the working class—more accurately, the working poor—are far from seeing things from the same perspective. Votes against minimum wage increases, for tax cuts to the richest five-percent and for unlimited military spending show a disconnect that must be hidden to garner votes.

While the Second Pair appeals to those aware and frustrated with the current conditions, the First must talk down to another America. One that fears unpredictable attacks from ambiguous others. One that doesn't believe in the eroding ecosystems, has strong racist views and wants a President he or she can relate to.

I want a President smarter than I am. I can't run a nation and would never want to. I don't want someone I'd take shots with behind the desk within the Oval Office. The folksy, lowest-common-denominator rhetoric is embarrassing. To think someone with regressive ideals should lead a nation on the precipice of economic collapse is laughable.

But, I am not the one the First Pair sees when they stare blankly into the camera. I am among the vast minority. I've been through college, have a salaried job and follow news from multiple sources. I question the motivation behind reports and don't trust opinions to be fed to me.

With less than a quarter of the nation graduating from four-year universities and large cuts to federal funding to colleges decreasing while financial strain on many families grows, my minority will only grow smaller. More folksy candidates, with their brazen lies and low-brow tactics, will come to replace the others and they will speak to the same imaginary sea of infants the First Pair does.

Unfortunately, there will be smaller and smaller numbers to resist them.

accused

My hand is clammy, sweating against the metal of my trumpet. Heat radiates from my face like asphalt after an afternoon in the sun. The conductor stands impatient, shifting his weight from right to left. The men scan the room, their faces show no emotions.

When they walked in a few moments ago I thought they looked right at me. Someone told them. They knew already and were disrupting the class to make a bigger statement, to make an example of me.

They just finished their plea for the perpetrators to admit their guilt. I sat through the talk with my lips pursed trying to push any reaction to someplace behind me. The row in front of me hears every rapid thump of my heart. It’s a wonder they haven’t said anything.

My left knee’s bouncing slightly. I stretch my legs straight, cross them at the ankles and then straighten them again. I bring my feet under my chair. My knee starts bouncing again.

I don’t know what came over me or why I did it. I was in the restroom just before stepping into the band room. One of the paper towels fell into the sink, growing dark with moisture immediately.

The Vice Principal, his eyes still scanning the crowd of students, catches my gaze. I know he knows, sees right through me. But his eyes move away, off to the right. He’s toying with me.

That he hasn’t called me out, dragging me out of the room by my arm, is more proof he’s waiting for me to give myself up. For him to miss my sopping wet shirt and that I’m shaking like a twig in a tornado is unthinkable.

I reached down in the sink and grabbed the soaked towel, balled it up and tossed it at the wall beyond the stalls. It made a satisfying, wet thwack against the tile, adhering itself.

Then things got out of hand. I put more paper towels into the sink, let them absorb to saturation and then held them in my hand, letting the water drip through my fingers. I set the pile on the shelf, peeled one off and tossed it at the wall above the urinals.

I peeled off more, one at a time, tossing them against different parts of the room. One hit and stuck to the mirror, another a stall door. I don’t know how many I threw, a half-dozen or so. I trashed the rest and finished rinsing my hands.

I turned to leave and heard two fellow band members walk in. Their eyes darted from wet paper towel wad to wet paper towel wad. I walked between them and out the door, sweating my anxiety.

The other man, an assistant coach of the football team and geometry teacher, starts to talk again. My ears have grown larger and are sweating. He says something about how the punishment will be worse without admission. I can’t hear his words through the throbbing of my ears and the rapid dudump of my heart.

The conductor’s face is swollen, red and shiny with sweat. His foot taps rapidly. Why is he furious? One of the students that walked into the bathroom is two rows up on the other side of the room. He looks my way.

Without thinking, I stand. I’ve grown heavy, my knees shake under the added weight. I raise my hand and set my trumpet down behind me on the chair. I wheeze, I did it but few notice. Only the girl next to me turns to look at me, a laugh forming at the corners of her eyes.

I threw them, I say louder, stepping away from the chair and toward the door. Eyes of the students are instantly on me, a hundred sets feel like thousands. The trombone players move their instruments from the walkway, letting me pass.

I realize there is no way they would have pinned the paper towels to me. The two that had followed me would never have known for sure. The one may never have spoken up.

The two men meet me at the door, following me out. Vice Principal told me to collect the towels, watching me as I did so. In his office, he explained that he’d never heard of me and that was a good thing. He let me leave with a warning.

My lack of faith in others had me walking back to my locker ashamed. I could have avoided the whole mess by denying or lying. Not throwing the towels would have done the same but I decided my admission was the issue.

Later, I learned to be better at just that.

fortuitous

He was sitting, slouched and frail, in the chair he’s been sitting in every time I’ve visited since he moved. She’s sitting on the bed, only a few feet from him, next to me. He looks over at her and then around the room, not looking at anything. Far away.

“I was lucky twice in my life. That the Germans surrendered before we crossed the Rhine was the first and the second was Dort here.” His eyes focused on her as she smiled and nodded though she probably hadn’t heard his words.

He was born in the late twenties, the eldest of more than ten children, and saw the depression first hand. He was in WWII and worked his entire life. He used to hunt and play baseball. Now he sits in that chair, day to day, barely able to walk.

There’s much made of the current market fluctuation, complete with haste, exaggeration and scare-tactics. As soon as I heard the first exclamation of our pending doom, I think back to that day, sitting on that aged twin bed.

He has been a provider for his entire life, first for his sisters and brothers and then his wife and children, one of which now provides for me. His dry wit and sarcasm poked fun at his mediocrity but I never once heard or heard of him being down on himself. Only now, after his body has failed him and his wife’s mind is distant, has the spark in his eyes faded.

Such a simple statement. The weight of it hit me that day and is probably why it comes to mind now. It puts so much in context without complaint or explanation.He’s lived through so much and yet sums it easily.

In contrast, the media fills with fear, dark predictions and confusion. The world is falling and action must be taken immediately without debate or absorption. The country is crumbling and we need to understand the direness of the situation without discussing alternatives.

Those in power now ask directly for the masses to sacrifice thousands of their own money to hand them hundreds of billions to relieve companies that have made short-sighted, ignorant and outright greedy decisions for decades. They have assisted in this power and money grab, taking away checks to their power. Now we must realize their error and save them from inevitable failure.

That man, sitting in that chair that day, lived through a depression and worked to provide. In the thirty years since the absurd concept of “trickle-down economics”’ first reared its demonic head, he has yet to feel the smallest.

No one I know has directly benefited from an economic theory that’s now failing. The top one percent of our population controls almost forty-percent of the nation’s wealth. The top is growing heavy on the back of the other ninety-nine percent. It was bound to crumble under its own weight eventually.

How will I fair if the economy actually lives up to all the black-cloud predictions? Will I be able to earn enough to keep my head above water and reach the goals I’ve roughly outlined? Can I be the provider I’d like to be?

Will I be able to provide a summation that’s reflective, thoughtful and poignant? Or will I rant about everything I wish I’d done or how I was subtly oppressed?

forgetfulness

We forgot the three branches of government were meant to check one another, creating a balance of powers. We forfeited privacy rights and taxes while one branch was politicized and another handed its power to the third. Instead of balancing power, it was gladly defaulted.

We forgot outsourcing labor to compete on a global stage does nothing for national wealth. Corporations did as designed, working for their share holders, leaving their workers in the dust. Millions lost jobs and millions more struggle, underpaid and oppressed.

We forgot unilaterally invading a country has far-reaching, long-term economic consequences and global implications. The cost of dismantling a foreign government with no replacement, using contracted forces, hasn’t been calculated. Billions go to rebuilding a country ripped apart because of faulty intelligence, pathetic media or unseemly motives—likely a combination of all—instead of domestic programs.

We forgot caring for our neighbor, even through an indirect increase in taxes to fund social programs, benefits everyone. We cut funding to millions of charity and community programs, education and alternatives to costly health care. We ignore union-busting in large corporations and the working poor are excluded from any national discussion, reduced to ambiguous and easily misinterpreted statistics.

We forgot how media hold the powerful accountable, providing context and perspective while informing the public. Our media outlets are enablers, giving knee-jerk infotainment in place of real commentary. The fall or death of a celebrity has the same weight as thousands of dead soldiers or corporate corruption.

We forgot having many voices is better than few. We let media merge until only a handful of companies control almost all the voices we hear and all the words we read. Their power is vast but they don’t have reason to be responsible.

We forgot that greed, unchecked, encouraged even, would lead toward insensitivity and disproportionate wealth. Everyone working in their own self-interest leaves millions without. Corporations strive to increase profit, individuals work to increase wealth. Those that can’t work, don’t have the education for high paying jobs or can’t break through barriers of entry are ignored.

As the market falters, the wars rage indefinitely, many can’t afford to become sick and a microscopic percentage control the vast majority of national wealth, I wonder if we’ll remember next time.

words

We’re sitting around in a circle, all the desks facing toward the center. Across from me is a girl who I’ve shared class with since Kindergarten. We don’t talk often. Most are shuffling their papers or waiting impatiently for something to do.

I sigh, push myself against the back of my chair, using the top of my desk for leverage, and crack my back. We’re reviewing four or five papers today. I read three of them last night. Hopefully the reviews will fill more time than expected and I won’t be put on the spot. I glance through the two I missed.

Teacher finally gets his things organized and comes around from his desk to sit in an empty student desk. I assume he’s trying to give the impression of being one of us, relaxed and friendly. The suit gives him away. He spreads papers out on the desktop and quickly chooses one.

He glances my direction; I’m up. I clear my throat. I have to give a brief explanation of my topic and why I chose it. I have no idea if the paper has been well received.

For the first time I feel people are reading what I’ve written. It’s an odd sensation. I’ve always written but only reference papers, the ones I felt no attachment to, have been read among a class.

I don’t have a writing style and everything I’ve written lacks narrative but it’s relaxing. There’s no metaphor, symbolism or message but putting things to paper has always organized my thoughts, been therapeutic.

I don’t know if I followed the assignment closely but I thought my time in elementary school was an important experience for me. I wanted to talk about my progression from grade to grade and those changes.

The stories within may not be completely accurate. I look at the faces around me and wondered if there are glaring mistakes. I smile awkwardly at the girl across, thinking she may call me out on some ridiculous detail. I tried to be as factual as possible but some memories are more clear than others.

Teacher pans his gaze around the circle. “I liked it, how you wrapped things up in the end. And it was funny,” said someone. “The stories are entertaining,” said someone else. Most of the comments are similar.

When one person refers to an event from second grade my face flushes. I’d urinated in my jeans because the teacher refused to let me in to use the bathroom. I wrote about it to demonstrate my stubbornness but have second thoughts. My cheeks begin to boil.

Most of the class laughs, even Teacher.

I lean forward, then back, uncomfortable with being watched through my words. The paper is longer than I want and doesn’t flow easily but people seem to like it. The comments slow. The students that don’t talk much or haven’t read it repeat earlier things said with slight variation. Teacher takes this as a cue.

He turns back to me, smiling. I keep the same smiling, awkward expression. I don’t pay close attention to his words because I’m sure my ears have caught fire.

He compliments my writing style, says he enjoyed reading it and mentions some parts of it for examples. He asks something about how I’ll translate this into reference papers without really asking a question. I nod back without saying anything.

The paper gets an “A.” The rest of the semester is filled with bibliographies, style guidebooks, references and research. These things bore me. The highest grade through the rest of the year is a “B-.”

elected

There are two strong candidates vying for the most powerful position on Earth with bold proclamations. Despite my hopes, the victor will most likely be old and white. The liberal media is a myth, both candidates mislead and manipulate and we don’t have power to control the outcome. But that’s not why the old one wins.

The mainstream media is impressively conservative, the most influential voices being too rich for objectivity. There’s no sense of context or rationality within the commentary. One candidate’s words are painstakingly dissected, the other claims our economy is strong while banking giants fail. The liberal whispers are easily generalized, disregarded or mocked and the progressive voice of the nation is muted. But that’s not why the old one wins.

One candidate claims the other will raise taxes while proposing the same programs. He doesn't explain how he’ll fund them but emphatically claims he won’t raise taxes. Both claim they’ll solve the same issues. One pushes advertisements that distort the truth, smearing the character of the other. The other runs on a wave of optimism that can’t possibly make it to shore. But that’s not why the old one wins.

We’re under the assumption we have control over our representatives while some would argue otherwise. Multinationals move off-shore, cutting off new money to the economy, and receive subsidies. The money invested in lobbying and candidate support is astronomical. Health care, suddenly a hot-button issue, was not a federal concern until large corporations saw their bottom lines effected. But that’s not why the old one wins.

We are content in being uninformed. A wealth of knowledge sits at our fingertips but we’re still fed opinions through radio and television. Some still believe one candidate is Muslim and that the other is a maverick, even with ample evidence to the contrary. We believe one candidate can do the same as the other without raising taxes or cutting essential programs because we’re told he can. We don’t exert ourselves learning about the candidates’ stances or policies.

The old one wins because we’re voluntarily ignorant and competing against interests with more resources for influence. Our media enthusiastically fails us, feeding us opinions as fact. We fear an ambiguous other and don’t hold our leaders accountable. We don’t vote in large numbers and let media ignore us. We view politics as boring.

We’ve failed to be vigilant and cynical. The old one wins.

authority

Intern and I walk down the hill toward the perimeter. We’re to meet coworkers outside of a bar downtown. We round the curve, the arena comes into view.

Chain-link fence cuts through the median. Just days ago it was a busy artery to the center of town, now void of cars but for the sheriff and police patrols and the occasional military Humvee. Within the barrier at the corner closest to us are a half-dozen men and women in varied uniforms.

Encircling the arena, in a three-block radius, are different levels of security. For a mile radius there are police and sheriffs from all over, some from out of state, with their eyes out for threats. Most of the city center is on lock-down.

We walk a bit further, joking along the way about the assembled force on the other side of the fence. Ahead there’s a sheriff patrol unit. There are seven or eight uniformed officers on the opposite side of the car, in a half circle facing another who stood alone. He’s in the middle of recounting a story.

The others stand, watching intently. Most of them have their arms across their chests and are leaning against posts and barriers. Their beige uniforms are standard but they also wear knee and elbow pads and there are black helmets strewn about.

Still too far to hear, the storyteller becomes animated. He starts to shift back and forth, pivoting and darting, pushing against an imaginary wall. It’s quite obvious he’s reenacting.

His voice rises and he pushes an unseen assailant to the ground. Storyteller then leans over and starts punching the invisible attacker violently. He kicks slightly then dances back punching the air. It’s like the elaborate dance of a bee just returned to the hive.

The officers laugh at some comments, smile at others and nod at the rest. They are an attentive audience. Storyteller’s actions are dramatic and strong but the chill between my shoulders has nothing to do with that.

Recently I read about how the security forces have been told of imaginary riots at previous conventions. There have already been raids and arrests on ambiguous charges. The fences and forces are just the physical manifestation of fear.

A cold hand that isn’t there presses against my back while I look at the Storyteller’s face. Like a child playing spaceman or finding an unexpected gift, his face is painted with joy. Paired with the violent display, the look is unsettling.

These are the ones assigned to keep everything secure. The look on his face reflects more enthusiasm than responsibility. Put in front of an aggressive mob, how would someone with his mentality react? Would he calmly keep the mass at bay, fending off pathetic attempts at bravado? Would he return the belligerence?

Storyteller finishes his scene and the group continues their jovial conversation. We walk through the park, over a pedestrian bridge and along a couple streets on our way to drop off our shopping bag of supplies for the coworker’s beyond the fence.

Men in suits wander about in all directions. Most people have credentials of many types strung around their necks. We wait for someone to come to our side of the security line for our supplies and watch hundreds of people. Something occurs to me.

Storyteller is surrounded by trained security personnel, wears protective vests, pads or helmets and has the authority to detain with only vague charges anyone he wishes, at least temporarily. These men, the ones in the suits, surrounded by other suits and media and cameras, have far more influence over the nations opinions and direction.

I’m not concerned with Storyteller or the suits mulling about within the perimeter but with another set of suits, rarely on camera, unaccountable and beyond credentials.

benefaction

“Hi, I’m from the College of Design and I was just calling to update you on some changes here at the U.” says the female voice on the phone. She sounds young. I’m not that far out of school myself; I should talk.

I guess they finally found my new number somehow. I’m doing alright, no complaints.

“Have you been to campus recently or heard of some of the changes here?”

Odd how I was just there for the first time in months just last weekend. Strangely, yes. I was showing the campus to a cousin of a friend of mine.

“Really? Did they like the tour?”

Yep. I’m thinking he enjoyed it. We just wandered around though.

“That’s great. Is he in the College of Design? Did you fill him in on some of your experiences here?”

Come to think of it, I didn’t really spout accolades of the school while wandering around the vacant buildings. He’s only about sixteen. He happened to be in town but I don’t know if he’s leaning toward the U or not.

“Oh, okay, sounds good. Another reason I was calling—”

Here it comes...

“—was to ask if you’re working within your major. Do you have a job around here?”

Yeah, pretty much. It’s working out pretty well and close enough to my major.

She pauses a second, maybe reading off her cue cards. “Good, good to hear. Do you still live at N88—”

Well, that’s my parents address but you can leave that down. I’ve been moving around a lot and I still go there fairly often. I don’t want them flooding my mailbox with all the junk mail that’s handed to me by my parents whenever I see them.

“Okay, I’ll keep that down as reference. Where are you living now?”

I’ve been in the metro almost the whole time, just move quite a bit within.

“Oh, that makes sense. Another reason I was calling has to do with making sure other students can afford to graduate within the College of Design like you did. With tuition as expensive as it is, we need to provide more scholarships. We’re having a pledge drive tonight and I was wondering if you’d like to donate...”

Don’t you mean the only reason for calling? You definitely caught me off guard though. Well played Alumni Cold-Caller, well played.

“You can donate a one time sum of $150 and—”

Um... sure, why not?

It’s my turn to catch her off guard. She obviously picked up on my slightly sarcastic tone and expected the brush off. “Really?” she asks, too excited. “I can either mail out a pledge card now or you can provide a credit—”

The first one; you can mail it over.

“Okay, that’s great. What’s your address?” Nice try.

You can mail it to my parents, the address on file. I’ll be there in a couple weeks as it is.

“Definitely. I’ll send that out tonight and thank you so much for your donation. Have a good night.”

Same. Memories of a friend from freshman year rush back. She had so many complaints and frustrations sparked by constant rejection by alumni barely older than herself. Other friends later into school reminisced about having worked behind those phone lines.

smarter

She’s smarter than this. I know she is.

We met many years ago. We shared a computer programming class. She was funny, articulate and entertaining, the distraction was welcome. She lived just a few left turns from myself, less than a mile.

Our friendship grew through high school and more so in college; we attended the same school. We saw each other occasionally on the large campus and knew some of each other’s friends. We shared rides back home and talked about many things—some serious, most not. Her intellect was attractive. She became a confidant.

She let for the east after college. We rarely see each other now. We chat through instant messages and email. Lately, probably because of the too-long campaign, we’ve been discussing politics regularly.

I don’t want her to see things how I do. She doesn’t deserve that. She’s smarter than this.

She feeds off assumptions, that I’m far-left with my head in an idealistic cloud. Or she thinks I’m a pessimist who cannot be swayed by her undying optimism. Or that I’m a socialist trying desperately to corrupt her perspective.

Her arguments are hear-say, trite and unrelenting based on the same opinion-filled spin mine are. She makes her points based on Media influence; small solutions for issues that are never painted into a larger picture. Her optimism is impressive, if slightly disappointing.

She’s smarter than this. She believes in the “invisible hand” and bases many of her points on the imaginary rules of the market. The market is working well. I try to tell her it’s working too well, that the fundamentals of that market are flawed.

She’s jaded to the lofty dreams of the left, rightly fearing a forfeiture of influence to the government. She sees more governmental power as the ultimate in personal-freedom assault. I try to tell her we’re already forfeiting ourselves to the unaccountable corporate elite and an imperialist regime based on unending fear.

She feels corporations are obliged to the consumer, that they will always work in their self-interest and thus in the interest of the masses. Without consumers there is no market and thus no profit. I try to tell her uninformed consumers cannot make decisions in their own self-interest; they are playthings of marketing juggernauts.

She refuses universal health care as an option, knowing that there are alternatives out there. Health care is expensive and thus the insurance should be expensive. A government option will only push us toward socialism. I try to tell her how terrible our health care is and that its costs are increasing faster than other areas of the economy—save national defense.

She believes the population still has control of the elected officials, that the government is working for the people. The economy is corroded but it’s fundamentally sound and those that can’t help themselves are helped. I try to tell her those that can’t help themselves are ignored and if current trends continue they will be factored out completely, a large peasant class in the richest country on Earth.

She thinks the media is working to inform the public. The Media is there to translate issues to the average view, to keep them up to date on what’s happening. Media is liberally biased and against the government, keeping it in check. I try to tell her Media has reduced itself to knee-jerk info-tainment with a strong conservative lean that almost unanimously supports the imperialist doctrine and facilitates the fear it’s based on.

She knows the earth is warming and change is necessary. There’s a shortening time-line that needs to be addressed. The market will compensate and bring about that change. I try to tell her the market omits resource consumption in its basic equation, that relies on ever-increasing consumption to impress imaginary progress.

She knows we consume too much and fears what will happen when countries consuming at a fraction of our pace catch up. We have no reason to thwart consumption and that such things will hinder our economy. I try to tell her basic population growth means our current consumption levels will grow anyway, that we already consume more than Earth can produce daily.

She’s smarter than this. She sees the system in a slow-down. She knows the issues and has great ideas which direction we should to go solve them. She knows change is necessary but sees only superficial connections within the failures. The chasm between rich and poor is exaggerated and will correct itself in time. Our administration needs to be tough on terrorism and strong enough to incapacitate any threat. We need a smaller government.

The market will adapt to the changing economic crises more efficiently than any government could. The corporations will supply all the wages and benefits everyone needs and reduce their environmental impact to match social trends. She sees a bright future built on the crumbling present.

I see the entire system imploding. Cutting costs in education creates pools of consumers with more interest in celebrity gossip than international affairs and who buy products that are barely inspected by low-paid workers because of smart and expensive marketing campaigns. The giant structure of national security has failed on every occasion to prevent threats to security and the War on Terror is a trumped up slogan to justify human rights violations and neo-colonialism.

The voter doesn’t have any real influence on government. Corporate interests create policy. Consumers, both in government and the market, are left without say or access. I see the same bright future built on the ashes of the current ideology.

She’s smarter than this. I don’t want her to see things through my distorted lens. I don’t want her head to ache during the news, to feel the crushing helplessness. I admire her blind optimism and faith in the system as is, the devotion to the simplified views that taught us our country was the greatest on Earth.

I only want her to realize each small piece of the crumbling facade is part of a larger collapse. I don’t want her to fear countries one-tenth our economic might because the frightened media does. I wanter her to read articles and watch broadcasts with an open mind, more open than what manifests itself chatting with her.

Sometimes, out discussions get heated but she is one of the few I really talk to. No one else allows me the freedom to argue against the current state of affairs. Her views are refreshing. Brought up with others, my points are disregarded, laughed at or agreed with easily.

Her view of things is fundamentally different. She takes for granted her opportunities and privileges and so do I. I can only hope she’s able to see truth in what’s handed to her, hope she pushes to the front of change and doesn’t fall back into the blissfully ignorant throng.

It’s been just over a decade since we first sat next to one another facing computers. We still stare at screens but are now many miles apart. We grew up two-thirds of a mile from one another but our discussions make it clear how far apart we’ve grown. That we still have discussions is something I’ll always appreciate.

Because she’s smarter than I am.

core

There is no moment, no instant of slight pause, like in the movies. There is no impetus. There is no catalyst to point to as an origin. It is fluid.

It is easy. It grows without attention, without effort. It just is. Then it washes over me. Without an idea of where or when it started or where it will lead, I can’t be without her.

The awareness has little effect on its growth. There’s surprise but it’s not startling. It’s welcome, like waking up on a cold couch being carefully covered by a blanket.

With every smile, giggle, gift, hug or kiss it grows slightly. It grows in increments too small to notice but soon the shear size is impossible to ignore. Still, it grows.

It’s different than the others. The others came with a sense of foreboding. They grew in dramatic stages, always constrained against the next invisible barrier. There was uncertainty, insecurity and apprehension at each phase. They were finite.

She gets up and checks something on the computer. Her eyes are fixed on the screen. The screen casts light across her cheeks. She brings her leg up onto the chair. Her black pants hug her curves and her t-shirt hangs loose. A stunning contrast.

She stands and walks to the bed. She hops onto it, kneeling at the edge, straddling my shins. “What do you want to do except lay here doing nothing?” she asks.

Nothing? I want to ignore everything for just a bit longer, watching mundane television, feeling your head on my chest and your hair against my neck. I could lay here until the dull thumping of my chest stops. Dunno, anything you want to do?

She sighs through a half-irritated smile. “It’s annoying when you answer a question with a question.”

Even her exasperation is cute. Well, I don’t really have anything I’d like to do; it’s too late for the movies.

She crawls toward me, shifts to one side and lays her cheek on my chest. Her breath blows across me. She throws her arm across my stomach and one of her legs over one of mine. I turn back to the television.

Later, we get up for a snack. It’s already after nine. We ready and change for bed. She stops the fan from panning from side to side, halting it directed at me. She snaps the light off and climbs under the sheet.

I move to kiss her. She wraps her arms around me, hugging slightly. I pull away and roll to my side, gathering pillows. She turns to face the television and I ease next to her, wrapping my arm around her and a leg around one of hers.

Still, it grows. My priorities adjust because of it. My goals shift and change because of it; new goals manifest themselves because of it. My perspective shifts because of it. I’m happy because of it.

speech

On the television the crowd is immense. The screen cuts away to a video, framed by the station’s brand.

It’s cheesy, filled with token photographs deep in thought and glowing testimonials. Even trite and sappy, it’s effective. It sets a tone. It’s an introduction. It builds momentum.

The screen cuts back to the massive crowd surrounding an empty podium. It’s red, rimmed with white, standing atop a circular stage, ringed with stairs. There’s a raised walkway from the podium to the entrance. The entrance is built into a large display, flanked by giant screens and Greek columns.

He walks out. The camera jumps closer. He’s smiles broadly, waving casually. He strolls confidently toward the waiting microphone. Before reaching it, he turns around in a slow circle. He waves to every corner of the stadium, seemingly to every one of the over seventy-five thousand in attendance.

On screen, he’s larger than life. His dark red tie compliments the podium, under a dark suit and white collar. It all drips of overt patriotism. He steps to the podium, smiling in every direction.

Finally, after he laughs quietly at the overwhelming elation, the crowd subsides, settling back to listen intently. He gets directly to the point, to what everyone is there for, why they’re spending their Thursday evening sitting in a stadium on a cool, clear night in Denver.

“...and to all my fellow citizens of this great nation, with profound gratitude and great humility, I accept your nomination for presidency of the United States.”

The immensity of the moment is almost palpable. Not since watching two monuments fall on television in an empty dining hall seven years previous have I watched something so historic. A black man has just accepted the candidacy of the United States of America.

The US is a country built on slavery and thriving on the exploitation of the poor. It’s a nation that was a leader in civil rights and prosperity that has fallen to a corporatist agenda. A nation where those same people are disregarded, reduced to a tally on a bar graph of economic progress.

It’s a nation that symbolizes freedom but runs as a surveillance state. The richest nation the world has ever seen has its largest gap between rich and poor since World War II. A nation that strives for equality ignores under-the-breath racist comments and ignorant stereotypes.

He’s more aggressive. He details a new direction for the country. He outlines his goals and ideas. He antagonizes his Republican opponent, attacking his being out of touch, his lack of strong judgment. He discusses how he will lead us to lift up our fellow man, united in making our country better through personal responsibility and accountability.

His record is short but filled with smart judgment and an ability to move people. He speaks to the eighty-some percent of the country that aren’t represented in media. Those that don’t fit in with the extremes of the left or right, that just want national progress and effective government. He speaks to them.

In a media climate rife with sports analogies and reflexive gossip, without the necessary contextual analysis, he is reduced to a myth. He is an idea. He is a symbol of possible change. He is the physical manifestation of the faltering American Dream.

He finishes his speech, waves to the throng, smiles wide and is joined by his wife and daughters on the bright blue stage. Likely, few of the changes he speaks of will come to fruition. The corporate interests are too strong and abundant. His resolve and policies will soften. Still, he’s a voice for change and for that, for the first time, I feel the itch of what could be optimism.

Or maybe hope.

news

He stands next to the stone wall, stoic, silent. The unmanned television camera is five or six feet away, facing him. His eyes are closed. His arms are crossed in front of his navy blazer. He holds a microphone in one hand.

The train leaves the stop and passes him quickly. He could be thinking, outlining his to-do list for the day or the remainder of the week. He could be rehearsing his piece, word by word. Maybe it’s live and he’ll only have one attempt.

There’s no one around, just him and the massive stadium behind him. The paths around it are empty. It’s cloudy and gray.

I don’t recognize him, which is to be expected. I can’t recall any local news anchors or correspondents by name and don’t watch their broadcasts. Occasionally I won’t be motivated enough to turn the channel when they come on.

They attempt to compete with cable programs and 24-hour news outlets. What’s left are hollow offerings and uninteresting stories.

Before my time, local news, whether print or television, were the main source of information. National headlines were translated into a local perspective. Deserving smaller happenings were highlighted.

Things are different. To force interest, broadcasts start with horrific events. Then the necessities like weather and sports highlights are covered before a heart-warming story. Cable news has taken over as the main television news source.

On cable, the three main news channels volley and pander and manipulate to bolster their ratings. Little attention is paid to the quality of reporting. Celebrities are covered with the same import as foreign relations. Irrational conclusions are jumped to as pundits try desperately to have a better sound-bite than another.

There is no perspective or judgment. Information is tossed at the viewer with reckless abandon. Context is ignored and consequences aren’t considered. Global events are reduced to repetitive fifteen-second clips.

Typical consumers are confounded, ignoring pressing facts that are supplied alongside trivial nonsense. Uninformed viewers rally behind ignorant and reactionary policy, leaving us hopelessly behind. Information delivered in this way is easily manipulated and manufactured.

Local news is left to fend for itself, competing with this incessant noise. It paints a violent, dark landscape. The focus is overwhelmingly negative. More people lock their doors, afraid of what lies on the other side. Neighbors don’t know each other and any sense of community is left neglected, decomposing.

The train rounds the corner and the news man disappears. I wonder what his piece is about.

offense

Every seat is full, a crowded bus, but there’s no white noise. No one—not even those who boarded together—talks to one another. The quiet is simultaneously comforting and the opposite. It’s normal. I fight the silence with music through my headphones.

In more and more places, we isolate ourselves. We don’t talk about things we’d talk about in private and find endless humor in those that talk loudly into their mobile phones about their diseases or woes. We are careful of those around us and are stunned when others don’t similarly filter themselves.

Censorship of a community isn’t handed down through mandates. It manifests itself through self-restraint. The fear of offending rules conversations, the fear of criminals rules habits and the fear of failure rules lives; silence resonates.

“Whatever you do, don’t talk,” cuts the driver.

His voice over the PA slices through my aural fog. Some around me smirk and some laugh but most shift uncomfortably in their seats, looking around or trying to ignore the comment completely.

The driver jokes a bit more. He says something about being allowed to smile, something about trying to be a good bus driver. The crowd starts to loosen up, their reactions more pronounced.

We pass under the freeway and enter downtown. The bus stops at the light beside an intercity elementary school five or six blocks from the heart of downtown. It’s four or five stories with a playground a few levels above the street.

“How many of you think it’s cheap to go here?” the driver asks over the PA. Many people shift uncomfortably or smile uneasily, most pretend not to have heard.

I wonder what he meant. It sounded inane, slightly derogatory, just something injected into the vibrating quiet. Maybe he meant the school was cheap or the education was poor but that conflicts with his tone.

At the next stop, a woman stands and walks from the back out the front. She hesitates next to the driver. She says something I can’t hear with a raised hand, pointing, obviously scolding him.

“I hope I didn’t offend anyone else. I meant it’s a school downtown so it wasn’t cheap,” he says over the PA.

He cuts the PA and talks about high-rise apartments selling for around a half-million dollars nearby, justifying his ill-worded comment to no one in particular.

macro

The engine roars under the wing, behind me out the window. The seat vibrates lightly with soothing consistency. Were it not so cramped it would be incredibly comfortable.

We ascend through the clouds and level out at tens of thousands of feet. Looking down, the clouds cover everything like a thick white quilt, down spills from hundreds of holes in its surface. The quilt reaches as far as I can see.

A summit in the distance stabs through the blanket of clouds. Further east the clouds spill over a range of mountains like frozen rapids. The mountains, standing thousands of feet, look small, insignificant. They’re jagged stones in a giant, foggy, white river.

On the other side of the mountains the clouds are scattered and thin. Through them, acres and acres of crops look like the green and beige squares and circles of an immense board game. The fields and cities cruise from one side of the window to the other quickly.

Men and women care for the fields and drive through the cities. They think much of themselves and their families. The things they do are urgent and necessary. They are important to those around them. From up here, they are indiscernible, too small to see, insignificant.

Ahead, night is falling. The plane hurtles toward the Earth’s shadow, the sun falls behind me. Directly below, tiny lights turn on and the clouds turn from white to gray to navy. The lights within the plane’s cabin grow brighter as the scene beyond the window blackens.

Up here, there is no dusk. There’s no pink at the edge of the clouds, no slow transition into night’s darkness. Instead, there is just blue to black. Day and night collide at a diagonal, only a thin line of dull gray between them.

Night wins out. The window is washed in black. Only small dots of yellow or white or red break the onyx sea. There are few dots, close together like a swarm of fireflies frozen in puddles of oil.

Those that sit behind the headlights or under the lamps are invisible, too small to see. They are just wrapping up a day filled with urgent and necessary things. Their lives are their first concern, as well as the lives of their children and loved ones.

Major highways and the parking lots of mega-shopping centers are saturated with white or yellow light. Ebony serpents flow across the land, soaking in the pale light of the moon. They are scars, darker than the dark land on their banks.

We near the metro and the giant black lake flairs like a firestorm. Everywhere is covered in yellow or white. The downtown comes into view. The skyscrapers stand like tiny torches against the night, lit at the tops and sides, clustered tightly together.

We descend and the light comes closer, brighter. The buildings grow and their illumination intensifies. Tires hit asphalt, passengers grab backpacks and bags spew out of carousals. Each person walks quickly to the doors to resume their lives; back to the lives where everything seems so significant, so urgent.

Why is it we see ourselves as so important? Is it selfishness? Ignorance? How can we be as essential as we think? Would things be different if we accepted our negligibility?

Would we go back to being more in tune with nature and stop trying to defeat it? Would we medicate less, release some self-induced pressure? Would we grow together?

Would we feel compassion for those without access to conveniences we take for granted? Would we reestablish our social conscience? Would we redefine globalization as creating a global community, not a way to bolster economic rivalries or increase the gap between ultra-rich and ultra-poor?

We toss our bags in the trunk and drive along the freeway and cross streets. Only a handful of cars have more than a driver within. Each person sits within their shell, closed off from most things around them.

As the global population increases exponentially and premium resources reach peak levels or continue to decline, why is it still so easy to insulate oneself? So easy to see oneself as isolated or unaffected or individually significant?

cabs

Over to the right, behind the car my co-workers, some other volunteers and I are washing, a crowd gathers. We’ve been cleaning cabs for almost two hours. I wipe the squeegee with the towel while the most recent airport transport starts to drive off.

The cab wash is set up in the stadium parking lot. There are four stalls in two rows, using the parking lines and cones as markers. Cabs wait at the entrance and are directed to the next available stall.

It would be more efficient to put the stalls alongside one another but the hoses won’t reach. Instead, crews have to wait while the crew in front or behind them finishes before another cab can enter. To make things worse, there is no process.

Cab drivers pull in, step out while the cabs are being cleansed, park them to the side after they’re clean and then walk to a tent to get information. They walk past two tables of food and drink for the volunteers.

Despite being composed of men and women over twenty, the washing resembles a middle-school cheerleader fundraiser. I was assigned the squeegee arbitrarily. Someone drying the top of a door smears their towel against the window I just wiped clear, leaving lint and streaks. More often than not, a tire is left dirty or the car isn’t completely rinsed.

Most of the day a man in a yellow shirt has been belting out spontaneous “let’s here it for—” and other loud bouts of encouragement. Intermittently he berates slow crews or uses a PA system. Among our crew he’s almost universally reviled.

Grown men and women having trouble with a pre-rinse, scrub, rinse, dry strategy is embarrassing while someone yells pathetic attempts at encouragement to speed things up. And now the cameras are on us and we need to rush through actual cabs to make room for the three cabs waiting for the press event.

In the other row, two of the staged cabs sit already. They’re waiting patiently as the crews for that row are off under the tent with the media cameras and the just-arrived mayor. The third cab waits to the side.

The crowd disperses, moving to the two staged cabs. The mayor enthusiastically grabs a hose like he’s been under the baking sun for hours. Two television cameras move around the crews as they clean the approved cabs. I wipe a few windows and our crew sends another cab off into the parking lot.

I see another man and the mayor playfully spray one another while rinsing the second cab in the other row. The entire scene becomes surreal.

For two hours I’ve been washing the cabs of men who drove around the city as their livelihood. Some spoke only stuttered English and wore unkempt beards, most were obviously poor. Some appreciated the free wash and others scoffed at being taken off the road during lunch hour by their dispatchers.

Now, in a pre-approved media stunt, the mayor and others are jovially prancing around cabs that were in wait for almost an hour before cameras arrived. The cabs—which already looked clean—are being soaped and rinsed by a dozen smiling faces.

I stand, staring at the scene in the row next to us. Our crew rinses another car. Soap dries on my forearm. I walk over to a co-crew member and hand her my towel and squeegee, muttering that this is where I end my day. I mention my leaving to a woman that came with me originally and she decides to come along with.

We walk past a few cabs parked to the side, their drivers in the tent getting information about a cross-city agreement. The third staged cab, a minivan shuttle, is to our left as we walk back toward the train. I turn toward it as the mayor jumps from the other side and sprays the man washing the rear fender.

I’m only here because it was deemed near-mandatory by the office and there was the promise of free pizza. I keep walking and catch the train back to the office.

I won’t watch the news and don’t know if I’ll appeared there, squeegee in hand. I imagine how the story will be broadcast and printed. The hundreds of cabs that navigate the four represented cities won’t be mentioned. That a month will pass before the reason for the cab wash materialises will be glossed over.

There will be a snapshot and short video of the mayor soaping a car or spraying some bystander with his hose. Likely, one of him crouched, hose between his legs, ready to react, with a childish look of pure glee painted on his face.