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.