reed0920

[reed0920]

The Destruction of Dreaming:

An Interpretation of the “Dream” metaphor in Ta-Nahisi Coates’ “Between the World and Me” 

On April 29th, 1992 I was nearly five years old and had just welcomed home a new baby brother. I was a small child then, born to working-class parents who believed themselves to be white, in a blue-collar neighborhood in the suburbs of greater Los Angeles. On that day while I played silly childhood games in the untroubled security of my suburban sanctuary five, Los Angeles police officers would be acquitted of the brutal beating of a black taxi driver named Rodney King, and that auspicious decision would proceed to ignite a violent and bloody six days of rioting and outrage that would burn a huge swath of south central Los Angeles to the ground.

I have vague half-memories of that time, of my parents watching the chaos unfold on live TV, the burning buildings and the pillars of black smoke that rose like hands to god from the ashes. I didn’t understand it then, it probably had no impact at all then, but I remember the conversations about it that I heard later. I remember family being aghast at the outpouring of violence, being shocked by the images of young black men pulling white people from their cars at Florence and Normandie and beating them in the street, I remember them being disgusted by the opportunistic looting, and I remember them  not being able to fathom why anyone would choose to burn down their own neighborhoods. In their minds, the officers had been brought to justice, had received their due process and were found not guilty by a jury of their peers and justice had been served. In other words, the system had worked just as it should, sure they may say it was a shame but King had been on drugs, he had resisted arrest, the officers were forced to subdue him and maybe things got out of hand but nobody is perfect right?

I don’t believe that they supported the beating and destruction of black bodies, I don’t believe that they were fully satisfied by the final judgment, maybe then they felt that uncomfortable twinge that something wasn’t right like when we dream and have brief moments of consciousness telling us that what we perceive cannot be real but the reality disturbs us so we surrender to the fantasy and forget again we had been dreaming in the first place. And they were dreaming, the whole country was asleep to a reality that communities of color have been all too aware of, the Rodney King tapes had disturbed that slumber violently shaking some to consciousness while many others closed their eyes tighter and chanted the mantra of frightened children when nightmares come to call, “it’s not happening, it’s not real, it’s not happening”.

I never felt comfortable with these questions or the narratives that supported them. I felt there had to be more, some missing piece that would sharpen the image and reveal something deeper and much more troubling. Much later in life, I would learn about the Watts riots of 1965, about the redlining that created south Los Angeles, about the war on drugs that targeted black communities and militarized the police force through the 1980s, I would learn about the countless harassments suffered by these communities at the hands of the police that were unreported or uninvestigated, and I would learn that the city refused to try those five officers in the neighborhoods where they beat Mr. King moving the trial at the last minute to Thousand Oaks, an affluent white suburb north of Los Angeles, guaranteeing an all-white jury. I would learn that the acquittal of these thugs was the predictable outcome of a racist hegemony that had persisted in this country for generations and I began to understand that it was not one man's broken body that had driven people into the streets that day, it was the shattered bodies of thousands of lynched, enslaved, raped, disregarded, and forgotten people that had come before. They didn’t burn down their own neighborhoods, those neighborhoods were never theirs to burn. Black people had not been allowed ownership, the streets didn’t belong to them, the businesses were not run by them, and the Rodney King tapes showed that still, their bodies were indefensible against the onslaught of a hateful master. Like a drowning man who flails and splashes and kicks at the water but does not disturb the ocean, these people shouted and beat against the only things they could reach hoping to be heard and seen but the nation slept on.

In his book “Between the World and Me” Ta-Nehisi Coates uses the metaphor of “the dream” to explain the cultural segregation of black and white communities in the United States. White’s or people who believe themselves to be “white” are referred to as dreamers creating an oppositional dialogue about the black experience in America. I believe that Coates uses the metaphor of “the dream” in two distinct ways throughout his book, firstly he talks about “the dream” as something unattainable for black people, a kind of paradisiacal existence from which they are excluded by racist policy and culture, something that is kept out of reach and not fully comprehended like a mirage, nice to think about but it doesn’t really exist for them. Secondly, he uses “the dream” as a metaphor to describe the unconsciousness of the white community to the plight of blacks and other minority communities. This second use has become familiar with the millennial generation of black activists who describe a coming to consciousness of racial issues as being “woke”.

Both meanings of “the dream” combine to form one powerful message that Coates uses to attack the state of modern American culture. He shows that “the dream” is a sedative provided to the privileged dreamer that prevents critical analysis and promotes the status quo demonizing anyone who might dare to contradict it. “The dream” is the myth of American excellence, the Normal Rockwell illustration of what we are taught America is supposed to be, it is a construct created by the white hegemony to hide the vast disparities and abuses of power perpetrated against our fellow citizens. Racial inequality is the foundation on which American society has been constructed, it is the insidious scaffolding that forms the skeleton of our nation, so wrapped up in our identity that we must create a reality for ourselves that justifies our own brutality and inhumanity. We have created a cultural binary, two distinct cultures with two very different understandings of the values and practices of the United States. On one side the privileged, white majority who lauds the melting pot and promotes the idea of American superlativeness and disdains the accusation of racial bias in such a wonderful modern utopia, and on the other, the continually beleaguered black community forcibly segregated from the majority culture forced to create their own then chastised for not conforming to those who didn’t want them in the first place. “The dream” is the demarcation line between these two groups; the dreamers and the conscious, the privileged and the discriminated, the plunderer and the plundered. Coates’ use of “the dream” metaphor is highly significant as a critique of white privilege.

Growing up among dreamers I was taught the lullabies of American mythology, about the greatness of the founding fathers, the exceptional quality of our constitutional values, about the great victories we have won. I learned about slavery but only as a blight of the evil south that was eventually brought to heel by the heroes of the civil war. I learned about segregation but only as a brief humiliation that was ended by the honorable Martin Luther King. I was raised to respect the police as the valiant protectors of our civil liberties and I was made to understand the fairness of our criminal justice system. All of these stories designed to sustain “the dream” to keep us from questioning, to keep us from shedding light on the true face of American society. I came to consciousness slowly and I still fight the drowsy delirium of “the dream” on a daily basis. There is a great unlearning that must take place as we begin to recognize the cracks in our system, as we begin to understand the double-speak of mother culture that applauds diversity yet harangues anything that does not conform to the status quo of the white majority. “The dream” is a metaphor for the cognitive dissonance created by two stories of America being told simultaneously the rose-colored one expressed by “the dream” and the harsh realities of those left awake and alone in the dark.

Like Neo in The Matrix, though raised in “the dream” there was always a constant nagging of curiosity about the things that didn’t fit and when offered a way to expand my eye and see further around my own privilege and comfort I took the blue pill and was ripped from “the dreams” pleasant torpor. Learning was the way out for me, in the same schools that fed me the stories of “the dream” I was also taught to be rational to use logic and to critically think about information I had been given. The tools to awaken are freely given by the dream makers but many refuse them in favor of an easier existence. Coming to consciousness put me in opposition to “the dream” and has created a duality within myself, the me that was raised in the dream and has benefited from that privilege and the me that recognizes the injustice of this and the stereotyped reactions of the other half. These two halves are in constant strife one trying desperately to destroy the other but the more I learn and explore and fight the stronger the conscious one grows and the other diminishes. I didn’t understand in 1992 that I was seeing the real world invading the sanctity of “the dream”. I didn’t understand that the reactions I saw from dreamers was the brief understanding and then swift redosing of “the dreams” powerful opiate lulling them back to their peaceful slumber. Since then I have traveled the world, I have fed on knowledge gained outside of “the dream” I have read the words of those that have been awake, like Coates and West and Said and X and Baldwin and I have strived to battle the Sandman of American culture and retrieve others from “the dream” and this has affected my relationships and put me in an uneasy place in the world. I have come to realize, however, that the struggle to wake can never be compared to the struggles faced by those in true opposition to “the dream” because being raised a dreamer I can always return to it, if I become fatigued or tired of the fight “the dream” is all too happy to welcome me back to the fold.

It takes time and great struggle for anyone to come to a fuller understanding of their own history, country, and self and recognize the good and the bad that rests inside them. Humans often think in only one or two dimensions because perceiving the unfiltered whole may be painful. It has taken an entire lifetime so far for me to come to a three-dimensional understanding of the US and I still am not able to see the whole picture. In his book Coates mentions a reporter asking him about hope when shown the picture of a black boy hugging a police officer and admits that he knew with that question he had failed because he was only talking to “the dream” then. I believe what he meant by this is that he realized that the reporter had failed to grasp the real point and that often when we talk about hope we are merely ignoring the core issues in hopes that we can retain our comfort and privilege, that the world will fix itself, that institutional racism doesn’t exist there are just a few bad actors that need to be culled. “The dream” is the great calamity of American culture, it prevents us from addressing the systematic disparities at the heart of our society. As Coates shows, when a police officer kills a black man in the street the system set up by the dream is working, we have said again and again after these tragedies that these acts are unamerican that this is not who we are, but that is just the overtures of dreamers who refuse to recognize the signs that they are dreaming. Racism is American, from the inception of the country through the presidency of Barack Obama, we have always been a racially divided society and “the dream” only serves to perpetuate the unconsciousness of the population. “The dream” is a calamity because it tears apart the fabric of the social contract, it divides the dreamers from the woke, and even splits up oppressed communities by those who wish to dream as well and those who refuse it. Until all Americans are willing to accept the ugliness of our reality and racial bias that has formed our systems of governance our great national calamity will continue. When we talk about hope, we cannot talk about the continued persistence of the status quo as we know it. “The dream” must be shattered and to do that will take a painful and destructive overhaul of our entire way of life. “The dream” is a calamity because it keeps us apart, only a consorted fight of conscious actors against the values that “the dream” promotes will raize these insidious institutions and the only hope we have is starting again wide-eyed and together from its rubble.

[reed0920]

Frozen in Time: Reflections on The Great Blacks in Wax Museum of North Baltimore

On a chilly Saturday afternoon in February a small tour bus from a local Baptist missionary church chugs along Baltimore’s north avenue coming to a slow halt in front of a white painted brick building that still retains its firehouse facade. Off of the bus pours the congregation made up mostly of teenagers with a few adults peppered in as chaperones, all black and all huddling close to the doors of the building for a bit of protection from the wind. Above the double glass doors in bold lettering reads “The National Great Blacks in Wax Museum”. Slowly the crowd is shepherded into the lobby and their tickets are paid for while an older black woman wearing a white beanie and thick glasses waits patiently to begin their tour.

Some introductions are made and then the patient docent begins to speak describing the wax figures of historical black icons that adorn the foyer. The adults in the group listen with rapt and respectful attention as she describes Hannibal’s journey across the Alps and to their credit so do many of the teens, but a larger majority of them either stare blankly about the room shuffling their feet or talk surreptitiously under their breath with friends darting furtive looks at their chaperones trying not to draw attention. The guide then finishing her initial speech calls for the crowd to follow her through the doors on the left and the real tour begins.

Through the thin, double swinging doors decorated with Coptic crosses and Egyptian symbols painted in the colors of the black power movement green, red and black and on to the main floor of the museum move the guests. On the left, they are immediately confronted with the starboard broadside of an old wooden slave ship and on the right and directly ahead several black figures in different states of torment with ragged burlap clothing and contorted faces harried by their pink-faced masters. Here the docent stops to begin describing the cruelties suffered by American slaves illustrated in their full graphic nature.

As she continues her lecture the tour group is quietly joined by a grey-haired white man, maybe around 50, the driver of the bus who politely stands at the back and looks on with interest. To describe the loss of identity faced by many Africans at this time the docent explains that the white masters would force them to adopt new names beating them if they did not respond properly to the new designation. Still, many of the teens seem only half interested giggling at the back or simply staring at the floor. To enliven her audience the guide attempts to demonstrate saying she will play the role of the master giving the crowd the new name “Toby” and instructing them to shout this new appellation when asked. In a shaky but clear voice she exclaims, “what’s your name?” but the crowd remains silent awkwardly staring back at her unsure of what to do. Again she shouts, “what’s your name?” and several people whisper “Toby” uncomfortably shifting from one foot to the other. Finally, one more time she rings out, “What’s your name?” and from the back of the crowd a clear “Toby!” is shouted by the older white bus driver eager to join in. The docent smiles and continues on with her talk, but several of the young black teens begin to glance at the bus driver talking behind their hands to each other and smirking to themselves.

For the past few months, I have been making regular visits to the National Great Blacks in Wax Museum of north Baltimore as part of an ethnographic field study exploring the way in which curation communicates a narrative through exhibits and how that narrative is received and understood by museum guests. Founded in 1983 by Dr. Elmer Martin, a professor at Morgan State, and his wife Dr. Joanne Martin The Great Blacks in Wax Museum is dedicated to the preservation and education of black history in the United States. Through a mixture of black empowerment and pan-Africanist symbolism, world-weary wax figurines, and a strong narrative this small yet plucky museum serves as a touchstone to black excellence. Upon my first visit in January I was instantly intrigued by the exhibits and the way in which they tell the story of black history. It seemed as if the main goal was to create a narrative that shown a light on the struggle and achievements of African Americans and the African diaspora throughout the world, however, in doing so I noticed a lack of nuance in the story being told. I wondered, whose version of black history is this? Who is the intended audience?  Is this museum still a valid representation of black experience? I wanted to learn more about their curatorial process and understand the intent behind what had been included and what had been omitted. Here we will explore some of these questions and attempt to understand the culture that created this unique institution.

Walking through the museum one will notice that most passageways or blank walls tend to be decorated with “African” symbols like Coptic crosses, Ethiopian runes, or shapes of the continent. There is clear placemaking going on here, cues that let you know who created this place and who it is for. Something particularly unique about this institution is that it has been solely created by African Americans for African Americans, a rare thing in a country dominated by white hegemonic power structures. This is not to say that the museum is unwelcoming to those outside of the black community, however, it does mark it as a black space with a particular set of cultural values. What I found interesting in this aesthetic was its dated fashion, a call back to the black power movement of the 1960s and ’70s. What I later learned from an interview with Dr. Joanne Martin was that her husband was actively involved in these movements which partly led to the creation of the museum and a clear reflection of his beliefs and values in its design. This is where I began to think about audience, at its foundation maybe the decoration of the museum was more representative of the wider black community, but now I wonder if it seems dated and out of touch to a younger contemporary patronage? Through interviews I conducted at the site most seemed happy with the exhibits representing black history, but there was not much said on whether they felt that they were actually represented in the exhibits.

For a small family operated museum, they are telling a nebulous story that spans thousands of years of history and within the space they have they are able to pack in a good deal of it. With this huge timeline to work with, there are thousands of characters and stories to pull from so looking at the figures that were not presented offers an interesting interpretation of the story being told. For the most part, the museum features black politicians, business leaders, inventors, authors, statesmen, and social activists with only a few performing artists, but none later than the 1960s. Again, I think this reflects the vision of the museum's creators who wanted to spin a different perspective of black culture in America, staying away from more frivolous celebrity. There is a clear desire in its curation for this museum to avoid negative stereotyping, another feature that harkens back to the days of black power when any image that contradicted the narrative of black excellence was unacceptable. This museum does a great job building up the story of black people in America, but in doing so it seems to lose the nuance of some of these characters making them more one dimensional and ultimately less impactful.

The most powerful thing about this museum, however, is its unapologetic and raw portrayal of the struggle that African Americans have faced in America. Clearly many hours of design and labor went into creating the replica slave ship at the beginning of the tour with the basement built to let guests see in great detail how Africans were shipped like cattle to the new world. There are many institutions that have told this story before, but what sets the Great Blacks museum apart is its theme of remembrance and empowerment that clearly reflects the culture of its founders. At the end of this exhibit sits a communion tray and guests may partake in a “west African ritual” called “libation” which involves a psalm of respect to the ancestors who died on the middle passage and the pouring out of a bit of sea water. I have never seen anything like this in a museum before and adds a different type of participation one that acknowledges the difficult nature of the narrative and allows guests the space for self-care. Juxtaposed to this somber and reflective portion one then descends into a second basement at the end of the tour into the lynching exhibit. The graphic content warning sign does not prepare one for the carnage that waits below, dozens of newspaper clippings along with gruesome, mutilated wax corpses and severed genitalia tell the horrific stories of the darkest part of American history. I was told by a staff member that I interviewed that “It used to be a whole lot more graphic than it is now” which is difficult to believe but must have been far too disturbing to force the change. Again I questioned what the curators had in mind, were guests meant to be disgusted? Sad? Angry? I would guess all of the above and as one exits this macabre scene there are words of comfort that talk of the resilience of the culture and the continuing fight against oppression. However, though you can easily be distracted by the grotesque images around you there is also an interesting editorial display tucked into the hallway in the corner. There above the glass pane reads a sign that says “Boulevard of Broken Dreams: now we lynch ourselves” the hall beyond done up to look like an alley with a dead body surrounded by needles and other scenes of violence clearly meant to depict drug abuse and crime plaguing the black community. These two exhibits and the way they construct their narrative again seem to reflect an older more austere telling of black history and seem to lack the sensitivity towards systematic racism and oppression that can lead to drug use and crime. This museum though distinctly black also has a strong influence of the baby boomer generation of its founders and may be alienating to younger viewers.

There are clear indications of a specific cultural perspective being represented by the Great Blacks in Wax Museum. The exhibits are powerful and convey a story of black excellence but in doing so they lack subtlety and nuance reflecting an older generation of black consciousness. One of the major challenges for this museum is funding and perhaps this is why much of the decor and displays seem a bit outdated, they simply have not been able to yet afford a remodel. Through my experience working with the Great Blacks in Wax Museum, I saw a dedicated community of professionals working to tell their version of black history here in the united states. They have clearly created a place that exemplifies their vision of black excellence directed at an ever-changing and evolving audience which seems to have outpaced their ability to adapt to changing times and values. As this museum moves forward I believe it will continue to be a fixture of the black community in Baltimore but may benefit from asking a question posed by Clifford Geertz when thinking about the narrative that they portray, “whose knowledge and for what purpose?”Representation is always tricky and even as cultural insiders to the black community they must still recognize that great shifts have occurred in the way that the stories they are telling are being understood and they must change with them or become irrelevant. Museums construct knowledge and perform history to interact with their audience creating a subjective view based on the perspectives and values of the curators. The Great Blacks in Wax museum is innovative, powerful, and important, but to remain relevant they must also learn to engage in new ways with a younger generation.

References

Garoian, Charles R. “Performing the Museum.” Studies in Art Education 42, no. 3 (2001): 234–48. https://doi.org/10.2307/1321039.

Korom, Frank J. “Empowerment through Representation and Collaboration in Museum Exhibitions.” Journal of Folklore Research 36, no. 2/3 (1999): 259–65.

“Reed_GBIW_InterviewTranscripts.” Google Docs. Accessed March 22, 2019. https://docs.google.com/document/d/1Plf4ih99MS9vJzJig6LoUhBuLE5YcZyK2eBvsEJvpPk/edit?usp=drive_web&ouid=113266620950327120395&usp=embed_facebook.

Visit Baltimore. Baltimore’s National Great Blacks in Wax Museum. Accessed March 22, 2019. https://www.youtube.com/watch?time_continue=274&v=LTSbtZTu_eU.

[reed0920]

Day Zero: Crisis in Cape Town

Apathy and indifference are infectious diseases that often detrimentally affect the best efforts of conservationists and environmentalists. The fact that we even have separate categories labeling people who are “conservationists” or “environmentalists” as opposed to non-conservationists is problematic. For most people, it is difficult to accept their culpability in the causes of environmental degradation and resource waste. For the privileged few of us raised with running taps, we rarely need to confront the idea that potable water is a finite resource, so we rarely heed the warnings of these conservationists and use municipal water as if its source is guaranteed. However, this is magical thinking, and much like other resources that the wealthy, urbanized, modern middle-class take for granted such as meats, fresh fruits, and veggies, or fossil fuel there is a limit to the capacity of earth's fresh water supply and our obscene overuse of these resources is causing irrevocable change to our climate which only hastens the depletion of them. In recent years climate scientists, geologists, and meteorologists around the globe have agreed that we have entered an unprecedented era of global warming and climate change directly caused by human activity. The changes wrought by humanity on this planet have been so drastic that some geologists are calling for the naming of a new era, the Anthropocene.

Around the world episodes of environmental calamity have become more and more frequent, more severe flooding, droughts, wildfires, and famine and more often disproportionately affecting poorer populations. However, as these disasters continue to occur even large urban cities will no longer be able to hide behind their privilege. The “Day Zero” water crisis of 2018 in Cape Town, South Africa is a perfect case study of this. Cape Town is the fourth largest city in South Africa, it is home to nearly four million people and is known as a desirable tourist destination around the world, offering spectacular scenery and million dollar listings for those able to afford it. However, over a three year period from 2015 - 2018 Cape Town suffered its most severe drought in over 80 years, and with the recent population explosion began to deplete its water supply at an alarming rate. By the fall of 2018 the municipal water supply levels had dropped to only 10% of its usable capacity and after months of compounding water restrictions the city imposed a 50 liter per day (about 13 gallons) per person limit and declared “Day Zero”, the day the city would turn off all taps except for necessary services, for sometime in March of that year. The “Day Zero” campaign was meant to sound ominous and communicate the weight of the situation to encourage conservation and thankfully, along with the return of the rains, it was successful, Capetonians banded together and temporarily avoided “Day Zero”. However, Cape Town's outlook is still precarious, rainfall alone has not been enough to recover the dams and the 50-liter restriction still stands with “Day Zero” possibly looming sometime in 2019.

There have been a myriad of causes attributed to this water crisis, many blaming the city for not acting early enough, with warnings of an impending crisis occurring as early as 1995, and then when the issue became apparent city officials were sluggish due to political in-fighting and only approved expensive short term plans to create 3 new desalination plants and possibly even tow a 300 ton iceberg from Antarctica. City officials have argued that the responsibility of bulk water supply falls to the national government, and conservationists blame the overuse of water on the Capetonians themselves. Ultimately, however, though all of these causes have certainly played their part there are much larger issues behind the “Day Zero” water crisis namely severely altered meteorological weather patterns due to climate change, and a vast social disparity between the suburbs and the townships of Cape Town. This paper will look at these two issues through the frameworks of climate change and social justice to see how they have contributed to the water crisis, why they are compelling arguments, and how to use Cape Town’s “Day Zero” as an example for other major cities around the world.

Where Have the Rains Gone?

Arriving in Cape Town for this first time, I was blown away by its picturesque vistas and stunning views of the Atlantic Ocean and western cape. Driving in through tunnel after tunnel offered no rumor of South Africa’s seaside gem, and when you finally burst through the mountains and begin the descent into the city, with Table Mountain looming overhead like a benevolent giant, you are instantly charmed by this urban paradise at once a bustling city and a sleepy beach town. When I arrived in the city I was instantly reminded of my home in Southern California, as they share a similar Mediterranean climate though Cape Town typically sees almost three times as much rain as Los Angeles. Like most of southern Africa Cape Town’s rainy season lasts from mid to late January through the month of April with a large population of subsistence and large scale farms operating around the region. The city’s water supply is dependent on several dams that collect this rainwater with only a few water storage facilities to back them up, and 4 million people dependent on this water supply. Therefore, when drought hit in 2015 the threat of a citywide water emergency became rapidly apparent, the city had done very little to prepare for such a crisis though they had been warned one was imminent some 17 years before and immediate water rationing was implemented. These severe drought conditions continued for the next three years and even though the rain did come in 2018 the accumulation remains far below average and water restrictions have been forced to remain in place. So, where have the rains gone? Why has this drought persisted so long and does it appear to be permanent?

Many researchers and city officials, as well as, regular Capetonians have been asking these questions ever since the “Day Zero” scenario was successfully avoided last year. According to a leading meteorological researcher on the topic, Pedro Sousa at the University of Lisbon, Cape Town’s water crisis is most likely “due to an expansion of stable conditions in the subtropics that pushed rainfall farther south.” In other words, due to global warming, weather patterns that would normally pass over the cape are migrating south as those regions heat up creating more frequent drought conditions across the tropics region. This “migrating moisture corridor” has been devastating for the region not only creating Cape Town’s water crisis but due to the imposed restrictions, farmers have lost nearly a quarter of their crops forcing mass layoffs of thousands in the agricultural sector. The danger is that these conditions are likely to persist and according to Sousa, “the likelihood of an extreme meteorological drought, such as that experienced by Cape Town, has increased by about a factor of three with the present rate of atmospheric warming associated with anthropogenic causes.” Not only has human activity created the conditions to allow droughts like this to happen, but our exhaustive demand for water has only served to exacerbate these mounting problems. Like a snake eating its own tail our current responses to the growing demand for water are clearly unsustainable, short term measures are no longer good enough and more realistic long term solutions must be enacted.

As the climate changes drier conditions in regions where rainfall was once reliable may become the new normal and our responses must match the reality of that situation. Along with keeping the 50 liters a day per person restriction Cape Town has also begun to diversify its water supply, creating more storage locations, building new desalination plants and encouraging citizens to use more rainwater collection technology for personal use at their own homes, however, many of these solutions are prohibitively expensive at worst or simply stop-gap measures at best not to mention the more hair-brained ideas like cloud seeding or towing over an iceberg. Solutions need to be local and sustainable to keep cost down, but also to ensure the future not just the present. One such solution has been offered by Christine Colvin, a water expert with the World Wildlife Fund. Colvin has been pushing the government for years to eliminate invasive species like pine, eucalyptus, and wattle, which are extremely water intensive and deplete dam reserves. Until the current crisis, she has been widely ignored as “there really wasn’t a case for it”, she has shown that these plants are sucking up around 38 million cubic meters of water each year and if eradicated would save Cape Town 7% more water annually which is significant when every gallon counts.

Cape Town is suffering the indirect effects of our worldwide climate change problem and it will certainly not be the last major city to experience extreme water scarcity. While the city and South Africa continue making plans and new strategies to stave off another “Day Zero” there is another huge battle to be fought over this water crisis and that is the social injustice of water disparity that falls heavily on native South Africans living in Cape Town’s townships.

Water: The New Apartheid

As restrictions on water usage mounted and “Day Zero” loomed life for suburban, mostly white, Capetonians began to change dramatically. Limited to a mere 50 liters of municipal water a day bucket baths and not flushing became the norm, many found it hard to adjust and stores sold out of bottled water almost as soon as the trucks arrived. For those that could afford it, they paid astronomical amounts for large water storage tanks and rain catchment systems sold by enterprising opportunists or dug boreholes on their property or simply paid others to stand in line at communal taps. They were banned from refilling their pool water and their once pristine lawns began to go dry and turn brown. Meanwhile, in the townships, those vast impoverished mazes of clapboard sheds with tin roofing and no plumbing where a majority of the population lives, life continued on much as it always had transporting water in 20 liter buckets from communal taps by hand at least 20 times a week, the only change being the lines had gotten longer as did the wait and more of their affluent neighbors were now there too. Communal taps in the townships remained unrestricted during the crisis and the city even sent crews in to address leaks or other damages for free to ensure their continued use, but what this shows is the deep disparities between the haves and the have nots and that water use is an issue that has divided this city long before “Day Zero”.

During apartheid urban black South Africans were forced to live in townships while the white minority became the established middle class and moved to the suburbs. Consequently, townships are historically extremely underfunded and pretty much left to themselves while Cape Town invests heavily in its suburbs and nicer areas developing them into the postcard ideal that we are all familiar with. Even before the water crisis townships have had to rely on free but scarce communal taps with the work of queueing for water and lugging it home falling disproportionately on women and children and even though half the population lives in these townships they only account for 5% of the city’s water usage. So, as the water crisis increased an undue burden fell on these citizens, although they were not the cause of this situation they now were forced to spend hours in water lines while these rich suburbanites flooded the taps or those they paid to do it for them did. Mother’s had to miss work or find babysitters and children began missing school as someone had to provide water for the family, while white families complained about bathing from a bucket or dug their own wells becoming the “borehole bourgeoisie” families in the townships were once again paying for debts they had not accrued.

Another front line in the fight against water apartheid has been sparked by large bottling plants like Coca-Cola or large scale farms who draw municipal water to make their soft drinks and bottled water. These are some of the biggest users and they are taking water away from families who need it and turning a profit to boot, and since most families in townships can’t afford to pay for bottled water these communities are forced to shoulder the burden once again. In response township community members along with others have called on city officials to force these goliath companies to either cut back production, pay more for the water or give some of it back to the community. Naomi Klein in her book “This Changes Everything” points out that fights against large extraction projects be they oil, strip mining, or other intensive productions often come down to fights over water rights. The “Day Zero” crisis in Cape Town is no different, a rich minority population along with larger corporations have been allowed for years to use communal water sources indiscriminately increasing the likelihood of a major disaster, while the poorer population has struggled to get by. Now, when crisis hits the burden falls squarely on those that did not have a hand in causing it and white Capetonians are asked to sacrifice the bare minimum of luxury and blame the city for not having more water while some buy their way out by digging boreholes or importing their own supply of water.

Water is a human right and as a finite resource, we must all take care to share what dwindling supplies of it we may have left. For more than half the population in Cape Town, buying their way out of this mess is not an option. Inclusive and democratic frameworks for governance must be established and communities must reject privatization keeping water supplies the responsibility of the commons. Water apartheid privileges a minority and creates waste burdening already struggling families, this burden affects public health, the ability of children in the townships to get a proper education and put a strain on child care. The roots of this unjust system trace back to the darkest parts of South African history and only add to an already volatile racial climate. Inclusivity and community investment are sorely needed to right this social injustice.

Finding the Solutions

Due to meteorological shifts caused by climate change Cape Town has faced its most severe drought in over 80 years and is still reeling from an extreme water shortage exposing deep social inequities and increasing racial tensions. For now the citizens of Cape Town, through their conservation efforts, have avoided a “Day Zero” scenario although that possibility has not been completely defeated. Their is much to learn from this water crisis since “ominously, it is the world’s largest cities like Beijing, Delhi, Karachi, London, Los Angeles, Mexico City, and Tokyo, that are most water-stressed” it is very likely that some of these enormous populations will soon face the same issues as Cape Town. Cape Town has shown us the need for preemptive planning, especially when the science and evidence backs up the likelihood of these environmental crises. It also shows us the power of conservancy, as well as a diversified supply of water. Resilience is key to dealing with issues caused by climate change, we must change our culture of extraction and sacrifice luxuries we take for granted for the benefit of the common good. Cape Town’s situation shows us that climate change is also directly linked to social justice and that governments must think of all of its people, creating inclusive bodies to oversee development and community programs. The Anthropocene has already left an indelible mark on the planet and we may be past the point of no return, however, our legacy has not yet been written and Cape Town shows us that change is possible if perhaps drastic and uncomfortable. We have now seen the issue, we must acknowledge it exists and fight together so we all may avoid our own “Day Zero”.

References

Al Jazeera. Cape Town Is Running Out of Water. Accessed March 17, 2019. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hg6cwdc19Rw.

“Cape Town ‘Day Zero’ Water Crisis Due to Migrating Moisture Corridor.” Physics World, January 22, 2019. https://physicsworld.com/a/cape-town-day-zero-water-crisis-due-to-migrating-moisture-corridor/.

“‘I Knew We Were in Trouble.’ What It’s Like to Live Through Cape Town’s Massive Water Crisis.” Time. Accessed March 12, 2019. http://time.com/cape-town-south-africa-water-crisis/.

Klein, Naomi. This Changes Everything: Captilism vs. The Climate. New York: Simon and Schuester, 2014.

Kolbert, Elizabeth. “Welcome to the Anthropocene.” In The Sixth Extinction: An Unnatural History, 92–110. New York: Henry Holt and Co, LLC, 2015.

Mahr, Krista. “How Cape Town Was Saved from Running out of Water.” The Guardian, May 4, 2018, sec. World news. https://www.theguardian.com/world/2018/may/04/back-from-the-brink-how-cape-town-cracked-its-water-crisis.

“Opinion | Cape Town Has a New Apartheid.” Washington Post. Accessed March 12, 2019. https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/theworldpost/wp/2018/07/10/cape-town/.

Pulitzer Center. Cape Town Water Crisis: A Timeline. Accessed March 12, 2019. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=orhC83o-S1Q.

Sousa, Pedro M., Ross C. Blamey, Chris J. C. Reason, Alexandre M. Ramos, and Ricardo M. Trigo. “The `Day Zero’ Cape Town Drought and the Poleward Migration of Moisture Corridors.” Environmental Research Letters 13, no. 12 (December 2018): 124025. https://doi.org/10.1088/1748-9326/aaebc7.

[reed0920]

Change the Story

Dear White America,

I would like to talk to you about racism, about the cancerous plague of the soul of this country. I hope that this conversation makes you uncomfortable, I hope that it makes you squeamish and I’m sure your cursor is already hovering over the “x” in the upper right corner of your screen, but you must not look away. Your discomfort will be your saving grace and it is the impetus for change.

If our recent election has taught us anything, it is that we are not a United states of America. The great fuck you of our time has thrown over the rock to reveal the maggoty rot at the foundation of our society. We have tried to ignore this problem for years, we tried to convince ourselves that if we replaced the white oak beams with ebony, painted over the wear and tear in the walls, and greased the hinges of the doors, the problem would go away. Over the last eight years we have stood outside, arms akimbo, patting ourselves on the back for the good work we’ve done while underneath the frames were rotten and the foundation cracked, and now with the winds of change blowing the threat of collapse seems immanent. 

You may think that I am exaggerating, you may believe that I’m catastrophising, that we are not as broken as all of this, and if that is the case I know, like me, you are white. I want it to be clear that I am not writing this from direct experience that I am not attempting to appropriate the suffering of POC or that I am saying I understand their struggle, I do not and I never will, but that is the whole point. Selfishness on the part of white allies and liberals is what blinds us to the reality of the insidious nature of racism. When I see movements like “Black Lives Matter” or posts from good friends on the injustice of white america I want to stand tall and say, “but not me, I stand with them and would never be a party to such things.” but this is the basis of the great lie we tell ourselves. Regardless of my personal beliefs, as a white male I have been afforded privileges that others have been denied simply based on race and gender and sexual orientation. As a white male I have been raised in a world that has said, “you are normal, you are the benchmark by which to judge everyone else, you are special” I have seen superheroes with my features who said “you can be this”, I have read stories about people like me and have laughed at jokes made at the expense of those that aren’t like me whether I realized it or not. I am not guilty of starting this fire or stoking it but I have been warmed by it, while others stood out in the cold. Pointing out racism inherent in the system is not an indictment of white individuals, it is a wake up call to realize it is not about you! When a POC is angry at an unequal system it is not about you. When “Black Lives Matter” marches in protest against the murder of young black men, IT IS NOT ABOUT YOU!

However, this is not your fault, you were raised in a society that has been all about you, the media, entertainment, education has been all about our story. Sure, in February every year your teachers would talk about the civil rights leaders and maybe read a poem by Langston Hughs or Maya Angelou, or lead a book discussion on W.E.B Du Boise and maybe even praise the inventor of Peanutbutter, but this was obligatory to satisfy some perceived social agreement so the school wouldn’t be labeled as discriminatory and we could all live with ourselves. If you are white inclusion has always been a given, this has been painfully clear to those who are not white for a very long time.

The point is that we, as white americans, have inherited the authorship of an oppressive and unequal narrative. We are the heirs to our own racist past, and unfortunately we are on the hook for the sins of our forebears. So what can we do? Are we doomed to perpetuate an unjust system and become the monsters we wish to destroy? Only if we can not let go the reigns of power and privilege and realize that we may not be the heroes of our own salvation. As a volunteer I have worked in some of the poorest most underserved communities in the world, and I have seen the direct result of the lasting destruction and cultural devastation caused by colonialism. I have seen people who have had their entire identity deconstructed and rebuilt in servitude to foreign oppressors, I have been a racial minority in these places and instead of being excluded or treated as inhuman, due to the legacy of historic defilement, I was still handed privilege and accommodation that I did not deserve. Having an elderly man, a village leader, drop to his knees and call me “bwana” “boss”, a man who should have been venerated, a man who’s wisdom I would come to rely on, to see that beaten down servile dogged look in his eye, because I was a white man and he was from a different time was the most humbling experience of my life. I realized then the only way to change the story was to relinquish the pen.

It is not good enough to simply pull others up behind us, to stay at the top and share the platform to continue writing the story with added characters, It is not acceptable to just add an acknowledgement or asterix to the history that we no longer want to be associated with, inclusion and equality is blowing up the platform all together, it’s passing out pens and ink and letting others contribute without condition, it’s about us stepping down and supporting our fellow human beings. The only way to move forward is to accept that the system is broken, that we as white people have benefited from an unfair history. The point is not to share the spotlight but to give it up. 

The burden of equality does not fall on the shoulders of the oppressed, but on those of the oppressor. It is not a person of colors job to make you feel included in their movement, or to congratulate you on your fandom of hip hop or that Nelson Mandela book you just read, or to acknowledge your endless posts about “NoDapl”. It is not a person of colors fault or problem if you felt offended that they hashtagged “black lives matter” or didn’t say thank you to you for showing up to the rally. The take away here is not to keep you from doing these things listed above, in fact, do those things and do them 100 fold. Devour books by non-white authors, seek out the works of native artists, learn everything you can about these social justice movements, and by all means march arm in arm in defiance of the status quo, but do so humbly! Recognize your support is wonderful but you do not deserve a pat on the back for treating people with basic human dignity. You shouldn’t stand with “black lives matter” or “Standing Rock” because you want to make a personal statement, you should stand with them because OF COURSE YOU FUCKING SHOULD! Take your pride out of the equation, IT IS NOT ABOUT YOU! Save your righteous anger, use it to hoist up those whose voice has been smothered, you have been heard don’t shout so loud about oppression we can’t hear the voice of the oppressed.

Empowerment is you offering your shoulder as a step up over bigoted obstacles, its your blistered hands tearing at the foundation of racial injustice without praise for your effort. Equality is you acting with human decency and expecting nothing in return. Support is you shutting your mouth and listening, it’s taking the abuse of a frustrated generation while offering your hand regardless. Real change comes with the acknowledgement of our own sins and sacrificing our own privilege for the greater good. Injustice against one group sets a dangerous precedent and opens the possibility of injustice toward anyone, which should be reason enough for anybody to fight against inequality.

White people, we have had a seat at the table, now it is time to push back our chairs, tie on the apron, pick up the ladle, throw wide the doors and SERVE.

In humility,

A white man

[reed0920]

Once I was a Sailor

Nearly a year ago, while sitting on a thin foam mattress, listening to the dull whir of the fan vainly attempt to stave off another hot Nsanje night, I felt compelled to write having spent the day immersed in Walt Whitman’s classic “Leaves of Grass”. Walt’s passion for life and unadulterated self recognition inspired me and through the joy of creative expression what follows is the product of that happy labor. Enjoy!

Once I Was a Sailor (Ode for Uncle Walt)

 That my songs may live and sing, I was once a sailor!

A sailor says I, a man of mast, and sail, gunwale, and prow,

And rigging threading aloft like the sinewy strands of muscle

Hidden deep in my knotted, wayfarers hand,

My tattooed breast offered to the mighty burning orb

Under whose august gaze I delighted in my manly chores.

 Captain, mates and I all strong men and true;

We were majestic, we were courageous, and we were terrible!

I at the helm, the breath of Aeolus curling my untamed beard

Bare feet gripping the hot deck as my vessel swings starboard,

Now back to port, the mighty gusts billowing the canvas,

Valiant men shout from the topsails, Ahoy! Avast! Aye, Aye!

My captain, stalwart and hardy, he was Nelson and he was Teach!  

He barking orders, noble seamen fearful to obey or be lashed!

 Yes, I was once a sailor, a sun kissed, wayward Sinbad

My mother the fathomless deep, my father the ceaseless firmament above!

Ethereal beings of the heavens sparkling in the vastness

Guiding me, they wink and say to the left hand or to the right

Or, not long now sweet child!

Lead me wither you will my celestial brethren,

I love you; you are my compass and my sextant I follow without question!

 Like the sea, vast are the lives of man, stretching

Forward and aft to the deepest reaches of primordial histories

A thousand times we exist before we come to our present nature,

A thousand times we shall go on after, to the endless march

Leading round and round in the evolutionary cycle of ages!

I have been kings and paupers, porters, engineers, warriors,

Thieves, saints, libertads, and hangmen and I shall go on to be

Journeymen, presidents, masons and scholars and poets and

Composers and like eternity I and all of me shall continue on, oh, such is life!

 The glory of it all! Of all the things I’ve been, that much more have I seen!

I was there at the sack of Rome, London burning, the battle of Troy!

I marched with the myrmidons as we tread down the fields of Priam!

I stalked the rear of the barbaric hordes at the gates of Caesar!

I cried out in pain and terror as I was consumed by the conflagration!

Legends they have told of the lives I’ve lived, and I have met you,

Yes, I have met you a thousand times as friend and enemy,

As lovers and as children, and I feel you now still in my heart,

The shadow of ruined passion when we pass as strangers,

The lingering phantasm of our epic cosmic journey!

 But of all the times my errant shade has rambled ‘long

This rotating disc of rock and sea and wind and flesh,

Of all the times my roving specter has graced this awful, wonderful planet

When I sailed the tide under colors striked, those are the times I loved best.

Even now I feel my arteries, my capillaries pulse with life, the blood pounding forth like savage drums when I catch the smell of salt on a seaward breeze.

I sleep bitterly without the sound of crashing wave and I dream only of

My briny wet mistress and I long for her, I cry out in passion to her name

She was my first love and I called her Calypso and she called me Ulysses!

I thirst for her, I beg for her for she is a bitter drug that only leaves the helpless abuser with a hunger and burning desire for more.

 I find no satisfaction; my spirit’s lone directive is on, on, on!

To another shore, to another time, our journey is not yet reached its end

On, on, on, we are slave to adventure my soul and I, but I do not regret it!

I find little comfort in my home but traveling far I have sweet memories there

You are there and here in mind, and I carry you with me always, oh, sweet reader

Do not hate me or think yourself forsaken, I do miss you so,

Alas, I’ve grafted my humble ghost to the mizzenmast and figurehead

And look away to the impossible horizon in wonder.

 I dream of Avalon and Elysium as I travel to worlds end, my heart rests

On some forsaken windward isle, never shall I find!

Oh, dear one, I am the boatman, the fisherman, the whaler, the pirate,

The homesick marine, the demented sea-captain searching for my pale leviathan!

Somewhere in the endless reaches of space and time my ultimate terminus

But my quest goes on, on, on, and again I tilt, for doth not yonder windmill

Remind thee of giants?!

 Oh! Lovers, artists, singers, composers, and children, romantics all!

I hold you to my bosom and say, sweet rangers follow me, to my lofty tune comply

Let us trip this mortal plane till the end of days; do not fear the tolling of the bell!

There is still mystery in the world dear hearts, fantasy is real, magic exists

Let us not tarry long, come dear hearts, for I was once a sailor,

Let us away with the tide, once more unto the breach my once and future friends

Together we fly in endless pursuit of that wily temptress adventure!

[reed0920]

A Friend To Know One

My last post was kind of heavy so I want to share a short story I’ve been working on, on-and-off for a very long time now, but I finally feel like it is finished and would like to put it out there before it gets yet another rewrite. I love story telling and believe it is the truest form of self expression, the way we talk about our experiences is an insight to who we are as people. So without further ado, please enjoy!

           It happened one night in Paris, a curious collision of conscience and fate, a chance meeting that would change my life forever. The circumstances of which return to me with a gilded clarity, with the accuracy of memory at once both precise and irrevocably changed by the passage of time. For the purposes of its retelling we can say what follows is true, the timeline and occurrence of events are actual, if somewhat strange, and their outcomes real as evidenced by the man I am today. However, if your skepticism upon reading this would name it fiction then let us not confuse terms, fiction allows for a creative distortion of reality to expose a truer understanding of experience, thereby making fiction far more useful than strictly reported fact. That said, further epistemological pontification on the subject shall be left to the philosophers and I shall get on with the telling of my story and let the reader judge its value.

           That night I was among friends in an apartment near the Bastille in the eleventh arrondissement. It was a simple flat, two small bedrooms, a cramped living area with a small nook for a kitchen equipped with a dilapidated range, dripping faucets, and too close to the loo for anyone to be truly comfortable. It was small, overpriced, and shabby, but it was a Paris apartment like I’d always dreamed, right in the heart of the city, the glint of neon lights dancing on the wall, mismatched bohemian furniture scattered about and the casual chatter of passerby floating up through the open window.

I sat hunched in the corner fiddling with the dial of an ancient wireless attempting to find the clearest station playing the best American sing-alongs, attempting to hide my gawky awkwardness while watching my companions primp for a night out. Between songs or sips they would strut past, in yet another ensemble, asking my opinion of the new outfit, hardly waiting for my response before quickly dashing off to ransack the closet just one more time. We were young then, sojourners in the city of light, newly acquainted with a wider world bereft of cautious parental overtures, for the first time set free on that urban stage and where they grasped at the new experience I shrank and cowered from it. I see them now, Kelsey, her long red hair flowing down her back and over her shoulders in loose curls, her sharp green eyes darting around the room for her misplaced bag, and a welcoming smile never far from her red painted lips. Corrine, only nineteen then, dancing to the music I’d play, her nut-brown hair merrily bouncing about her elegant face as she sang along, Geri, dragging at the end of an American Spirit (her social habit after several glasses of wine) with Taylor and Megan cracking jokes as they blew the curling smoke into the night, and Nicole, her clever eyes peering over the edge of her glass as she casually sipped the blood red liquid within, her blond her hanging softly on her shoulder one finger beating time on the counter, ready to be off. This was my routine, a comfortable pattern to feel a part while not truly taking part. I would arrive around four or five in the afternoon when classes had ended and pass the time chatting and playing music while they would cook the supper, after eating they would go out and I would walk alone back to my apartment in the nineteenth arrondissement. It was a lonely imitation of experience; I was painfully shy, entrenched in my own self-loathing and doubt. They had been good to me and cracked my shell enough for me to sense the rumor of light beyond, but not yet enough to come out into it.

That evening had been a particularly jovial one, filled with laughter and interesting conversation made so by several bottles of cheap French wine. I was sad to see it pass for I reveled in the safety of their company and the comfort of their generosity and grace, but, after a few more songs on the radio, they were ready and we passed around the bottle one last time, “Come with us!“ was the usual refrain but I stammered and complained, “you know I don’t like clubs, I’ll see you tomorrow.“

“Oh come on, have you ever even been?“

“Well, no. . .“ I had to confess, “but I know I don’t like dancing, I’m just not the type.“

“But we want you to come, come on just for us!“

“No, I’m ok, really, I’ll see you tomorrow.“ and as usual that is where I took my leave, they pouted at me again to stay but as always I made my apologies and excuses and departed anyway. It’s funny how sometimes the very thing that is the worst for you is the easiest thing to do.

           I left them at the entrance of their building and walked off down that lonely street, I passed a small bar along the way where few people sat drinking and stopped in for just a moment. I liked those dive bars because I knew the people were more focused on their drinking than on me, I never liked to be noticed much. I sat down at the small hardwood bar and ordered an Irish porter in broken French. As the barman shuffled off to pour the brew I noticed a dark figure in the corner wearing a pea-coat and blue jeans who seemed to be staring at me, I say seemed for I could not see his face in the shadow. At first I was startled, but I quickly gained my composure and nodded in his direction hoping the acknowledgement would break his interest, however, he only stared at me harder. This made me uncomfortable for I didn’t much like being noticed, but I decided to ignore him and drink my beer anyway.

           I finished rather quickly and went to wash before leaving, as I walked toward the lavatory I chanced a look over my shoulder and noticed the shadowed man, whom had not moved or shifted, still staring in my direction. There was something uncanny about him but I could not place why I should be so put off. As I ran my hands under the faucet I thought to myself who was he? Was I just being foolish? Maybe he wasn’t looking at me at all, as I thought; I caught a glimpse of my own face in the dirty mirror, my own deep blue eyes staring out at me through crooked spectacles. I never liked mirrors much, I’m not really sure why. Mirrors were just disappointing then and I had to turn away from that blue-eyed stare, quickly drying my hands as I left the bathroom. When I pulled open the door I immediately glanced to the corner where the shadowed man had been standing but he was nowhere to be seen, my mind seemed to ease and I quickly put him out of my thoughts as I left the bar and began to walk home.  

           It was a chilly night and I hugged my coat close to my body, from café entrances and shadowed balcony’s I could hear laughter issuing all around me and I smiled a sad smile that I was not among them. The happy rangers of the night and the lonely denizens of the barstool passed me on the streets, sometimes with a kind grin haunting their lips as I passed, their eyes seemed alight with the prospect the young night offered and I envied their courage and daring in attempting to conquer it. I was a coward, I feared the powers of the night, the vulnerability of losing inhibition, of allowing passions to rule, of finding possibility in the last drop of a dirty glass, my heart faltered at these wild potentials and I did not allow myself to partake of that moveable feast.

           As I walked on I decided to take my leave of the main avenue, I did not feel I belonged there among those cheery souls. I turned down a side road that cut to a backstreet that would lead, without distraction, home. Then as I came out of the alley gaining the street I was taken by surprise with a softly spoken “Bonsoir” from behind me. I stopped dead in my tracks, I was sure there had been no one in the alley, I turned slowly on the spot ready, to fight if I had to. There, in the shadows, stood the young man from the bar leaning against a nearby building, one leg propped against the wall his hands deep in his pockets, with the pale light cast by the street lamp I still could not make out his face. However judging by his clothes and mean stature I could safely guess that he was about the same height and build as myself. At first I said nothing to him I simply stared. He stared back for a moment before he spoke, “running away again?” he said in a sly voice, a voice I knew, though I could not remember from where. “What’s it to you?” I retorted defensively but a bit curious, for this seemed an odd way to start a conversation with a complete stranger, he looked back for a moment then said, “you always run, don’t you?” again I was taken aback for what did this man know of me, but then again he seemed to make a point. For it seemed as though I had been running, for how long I could not remember. “Who are you?” I breathed; the man in the shadow did not reply he simply stared on, I wondered then if perhaps this man was blind. It seemed as though we were silent for a long time, finally I questioned him again, more forcefully this time “who are you?” again he said nothing. Then as I began to turn to walk away I heard him speak from out of the shadows, “a friend.” he said plainly.

“What?”

“You asked who I am. I am just a friend.”

“No friend of mine” I answered surprised by the tone of my own voice. I did not know why then, but I did not like this man and to think of counting him among those I considered friends turned my stomach. He said nothing on my churlish response, but answered under his breath, “not yet. . . no.” again an answer I had not expected. “What is that suppose to mean?” his silence disturbed me more than anything that he said, then suddenly he turned, if by whim or by invocation I could not tell, and began to walk away down the alley. I was confused, I wondered where he was going, I wanted to call after him, to chase him, but why?

           “Come, and I will show you.” I heard him say softly over his shoulder. I did not know why I wanted or rather had to follow him, yet I did. We walked in silence, his boots lightly slapping a languid beat upon the damp cobblestones and after what seemed like an eternity following that would-be apparition, I urged him “where are we going, then?” and again he stayed silent for a long moment before his maddening reply, “Come and I will show you.” I still don’t know why I continued to follow, why did I not just turn and leave him there down that damp, dank, Paris alley, but I did not, I continued on just behind him drawn by his casual indifference toward me. Soon, that small byway opened into a much larger boulevard where the lights of Paris glared at me from all sides. We walked on, through large city streets and tiny back alleyways. I continued to follow in silence. I did not ask again wherefore our journey would end, I simply followed my ghostly escort.

           Then, still wondering to myself and longing to leave the presence of that hateful specter yet all the time lacking the ability, I nearly ran in to him for he had stopped dead. “Is this it?” I gazed about me in the semi-darkness; I surmised we were behind some sort of dance club or discotheque by the muffled thudding of an amplifier coming from somewhere inside. He made no reply, only lingered a moment before heading straight for the back door. I assumed the door would be locked and I smirked to myself watching his unchecked determination, but to my surprise when he rested his hand upon the door it gently creaked open. He made no sign that I should follow him; he didn’t even look back, yet something told me I should, and held captive by his invisible hand, I followed.

           As the door swung closed behind me, I realized that it was a club, made apparent by the deep reverberating bass and stink of failing cologne. I could not think of any reason why this stranger would wish me to follow him there, though to speak fairly I could think of no reason that I did. We walked serenely through the packed dance floor, no heads turned as my faceless guide led on. It was strange for me to be there under the blaring glint of strobe lights, the relentless pounding plundering its way through my eardrums like a thousand heart beats all around me, watching the mad melee of sweaty bodies jostle for position around the hardwood floor. There was something animalistic in the way they moved, so basic, so free. At times I could not tell if they were man or beast, yet it did not seem to matter. Like some sort of ancient ritual or jungle chaos they let go of all sort of inhibition, civility and pretense, they were as one great creature beating its heart out to the night.

           He led me to a far corner of the room where he turned as if to watch the intense insanity that was the dance floor, making no acknowledgement of my continued obedience to his every move. In that dark hall his features remained wrapped in an enigmatic air of mystery though for some reason I was glad of it. Perhaps I felt a man who wished his face to be hidden wore a face one would not want to see or perhaps I was afraid of what revelation that shadow may conceal. At any rate, again I attempted to discover his intention in leading me there, the pulse was deafening, “why are we here?“ I shouted, though I doubt he heard me for he did not reply. His stubborn disinterest in me angered me to the point of madness, I wanted to throttle him, to hurt him, though I had chosen to follow him and perhaps that is what stopped me.

           Once more I tried to shout above the din of that uncontrolled cacophony and again he appeared to simply ignore my cry. As I stood there fuming, agitated by his carelessness he nodded, almost imperceptibly toward the dancers. I was stunned that for all the cloak and dagger, all I was meant to see was a dance? I became angry, I felt as though I had been duped, like this man was mocking me, what was so important that this fiend had decided to lead me there? I could see this anytime, my friends could be here now I thought, I could have come of my own accord had I wished, but I knew it would be fruitless to yell for no one could hear me, so I turned and I too watched the dance before me.

My mind was cloudy with frustration and between the flashing lights and the pounding bass I was dizzy and disoriented. In the muggy heat of that place my head ached, as I tried to make sense of it all. I closed my eyes; it was as if I were going insane, my mind racing out of control and that thunderous noise ever-present beating against my skull. Finally, feeling as though my head would burst I surrendered to the repetition of the music and let the pounding juggernaut drive away all conscious thought. I stopped trying to understand it, I let my body be moved by the invisible siege of sound that surrounded me, it felt liberating to give in to its lusty temptation and let go of pride and vanity. Opening my eyes, at once I saw solid bodies and spirits alike moving together neither questioning the others existence. There was only being, or life or death I could not tell which. Though no bodies touched it was like some grand roman orgy, the sweat dripped from the bodies and I could not tell if they were one or many, some cried out as if in the throws of ecstasy while others clung to sanity, as they seemed to pirouette on the very brink of madness. What once were strangers danced so close they could feel each other’s breath on their faces and the heat of their body’s pressed upon one another like lovers, their eyes meeting without pretense, honestly staring from one soul to look in another, and I felt they could see it. They could see everything in me too; the fear, the lust, the need and I stared back unable to hide from them. I wept openly and unashamedly though I could not understand why, crying for joy, for love, and for sadness all at once.

As I stood mesmerized by the revelry, from those restless forms a woman appeared, her sable hair falling in gentle waves about her face, her deep walnut eyes locked in my gaze. Her skin glowing a soft hazel, hips swaying in time to the beat, she was radiant, and like a penitent man standing in the presence of angels I bowed my head in fear and reverence to her beauty. Her movements were slow, deliberate and thick like cloth through water, but light and fluid like a strand of hair caught in a summer breeze. She was poetic and terrible, violently calm, yet sparking madly like an exposed wire; she electrified me with her crackling incongruity and stunned me into panicked inactivity. Suddenly, I felt her hand on my cheek and raising my head I found her face close to mine. Her body pressed in to me as my body mimicked her every move melding into one being. I could smell the sweet perfume of her breath as her lips gently parted, her fingers slowly pulling my face closer. In a moment of ecstasy I had not known her lips pressed in to mine as my consciousness slipped in to the deep valleys of her eyes. We spent a lifetime in that moment, and as I felt the release of her body I caught a last glimpse as she disappeared back to the crowd. Swallowed by the press I stood alone wondering if she were real or the fancy of my dazzled imagination, but I could still taste her tender kiss and feel the heat of her body and my heart ached at her going. I continued to watch the dancers, my eyes now opened to the majesty of it all, they were wild and they were free but beyond that they were happy, happy for that one insane moment when time stops and in a dingy, humid back alley club one could find bliss, if only for a moment.

           Then just as suddenly as before I noticed that the stranger had begun to move back through the crowd, I chased after him but no one took any notice of him or I, it was like we were not part of that world. Through the back door and back to the alley I followed him, though I wish I could have stayed. He did not turn to see if I had come or gave any notice that I did he just walked slowly off in his same careless swagger. “Where are you going?” I called after him; he did not turn or acknowledge that I had spoke at all he just walked on. As before I kept close behind him still not knowing what sort of power it was that this man held over me. “Why did we leave?” I prodded him, for some reason his answer meant everything and again he did not give it. Then the question I longed to ask burst forth “Why have you shown me this?!” and he stopped dead.

           We were under the same street lamp where we had met under curious circumstance not long before. However, it seemed as though more time than was possible had passed for the sky around us was growing paler and the metro still appeared to be running. Still I could not see his face, for once more he stood in the cold dark shadow as if in a lovers embrace. “What did I show you?” that listless voice again, however something about it seemed to have changed for it did not offend me quite so much. “A club. . . we, we were at a club?” I stammered curiously for I suppose I did not truly understand the question.

“A club? What kind of club?” he replied in that cool voice.

“Um, a dance club, people were dancing there. Look, what was the point?”

“Point?” he responded, and I was not sure if he mocked me. “Yes! What was the point,” I groaned almost begging, “what was I suppose to learn, what did it all mean?”

“Talk of points and means is practically pointless, unless you mean there was something you were already missing, that you didn’t want to miss.” His voice was calm and the words dripped from his invisible lips as if each one were marinated in a deeper sentiment. “I don’t understand. . . there was a reason for this right? Something I’m supposed to get?” I pleaded; staring in to the void where I knew his eyes stared back. “You know that answer, you’ve already seen it,” He said calmly, “but if you need a hint. . . what have you been missing?” I was not sure what he meant by this, but I thought to myself. In the distance I could hear the chatter of many tired voices drifting up from the nearby metro stop and wished that the silence would return so I could clear my head. I could not imagine what sort of answer this man was looking for though I was determined to give one, all the time the voices grew louder.

           Again he questioned in that calm tone “what have you been missing?” I tried to think, but I couldn’t, the voices grew ever louder and my attention seemed to ebb in the struggle to comprehend this seemingly easy question. Then as if by a stroke of genius or pure luck I stopped trying to think, a vision flashed before me of the mob of dancers and the woman and the rapture of her kiss, my mind cleared and I could see the answer as if I had always known it. As I stood there and the truth of it washed over me the stranger asked one more time “what have you been missing?” the answer I then gave in one sad, wonderful moment, “The dance.” the stranger gave no indication that this was correct yet I knew that it was. He said nothing, but I think he may have smiled then.

           The voices were now very close and I could hear the hurried footfalls of a group of people. As I listened I looked around to see the strangers retreating back, “Wait!” I called after him. He stopped. “Who are you?” I had to know. He turned and walked back, for a few seconds he lingered in the shadow before finally stepping in to the feeble light cast by the street lamp. I was forced to catch my breath as a face was revealed to me that I knew all to well, but had yet been afraid to truly look in to. I knew those deep blue eyes and high arched nose. The eyeglasses that he wore were mine and down to the stubble on his chin I recognized. I could not believe it, he was I, or I was he. I did not know if we were separate or one.

“I told you, just a friend . . .” I was speechless, I dared not believe that it was true yet something in his eyes told me it was.

           Just then, from behind, I recognized those voices clearly as a group of girls began emerging from the metro, heels in hand, their bare feet gingerly tripping along the dirty sidewalk. I could not think of anything to say, but words were not necessary now. The stranger said nothing, he too had noticed the girls at the metro and his eyes sparkled as he watched their progress down the street. Then he smiled a sly smile and turned vanishing back into the shadows. It’s funny, how before I thought him blind when he helped me to see. I peered off into the dark alleyway for a second trying to catch one more glimpse of him but he had left me for good and I smiled to myself.

[reed0920]

Thoughts on Patriotism and the Pledge of Allegiance

It’s 8:00 am somewhere in America, and bright-eyed students stand at attention among their finger paints and macaroni art. At the front of the class a 30 something teacher, hair pulled back in a messy bun with a slight crease at the corners of a pre-aged mouth and eye, stares out over her pupils as she tells them to place their right hands over their hearts and repeat after her. “I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America. . .”, the words ring out in a monotone chorus, some of the children stare at the flag vacantly, day dreaming of lunch, others swing their left arm at their side distractedly, and some simply mouth the words vaguely that they have repeated every day since entering the public school system. Do these tiny patriots realize the gravity of the pledge that they so diligently recite? Do the words “liberty and just for all” and “one nation under god” have any meaning to them? Did they have any meaning to you as you labored through 12 years of school, repeating them every morning?

They surely didn’t for me, but every morning there I stood, shoes untied, chocolate stains on my new shorts, and repeated them with gusto. I have not uttered the pledge since I graduated high school and no one has ever expected me to, and I’m not completely sure I even recall all the words. Does this mean I have broken my pledge, or somehow become less patriotic? Of course not, since graduating high school I have earned a bachelors degree, I have been a productive working member of society, and I even served my country volunteering 2 years of my time to the Peace Corps. I am no better or worse for ever having pledged my allegiance to the United States of America. As one travels one will discover how odd it is to the rest of the world that American children are forced to utter an oath to their country every morning as if they are dangerous insurgents on the brink of a communist defection the moment they leave the classroom. As far as I’m aware the only other country that expects this is North Korea, because if given the chance they may actually defect and get the hell out of that bonkers country.

The point being that having children repeat the pledge of allegiance every morning is not a show of patriotism, rather it’s a superfluous act of indoctrination held over from cold war era fear of soviet communism and nuclear annihilation. We could have children repeat hamlets “to be or not to be” soliloquy and get the same results; nothing and maybe some heavy eye rolling when the teacher says “please stand”. Patriotism is about pride in one’s nation, it’s about service to your country in spite of personal interest, it’s about leading by example. Sometimes these things are difficult to live up to. Sometimes when you see the inequality and injustice inherent in the system, the value of one group held up to the detriment of another, it is difficult to feel patriotic. Sometimes it is easier to be angry, jaded, and mistrustful of your country when your value as a citizen has been overlooked, discriminated against, and belittled because of your gender, race, creed, religion or sexual orientation.

However, being Patriot does not mean that you remain blind to the mistakes made by your country, or the persistence of racist ideology there in. Being Patriot does not mean that you do not fight against unjust laws, or face down corruption head on in a picket line while fighting off retching fits brought on by tear gas. Being patriot does not mean following the lock step of jack booted politicians who preach conformity, tradition, and morality to the tune of nationalism and flag waving American Values. A patriot is one who fights for the betterment of one’s nation at all cost and equality for all its citizens. A patriot is able to analyze history and see the good and evil that has brought their nation to its current state, and reconcile those things in a healthy manner that allows that individual to go out and work for positive change. In America the agitators are the true patriots, for they have dedicated themselves to changing what they see wrong in their society. We are a nation of rebels, we are a nation of progress, and the true enemy to America is stagnation and the status quo. Benjamin Franklin said that we are working towards “a more perfect union” we are an unfinished work and those that stop tinkering because they are satisfied to be on top while others struggle on are the enemy, they are the oily build-up of sludge that slows and rusts the gears of our pursuit towards greatness. Society is constantly evolving and perceptions, values, and norms evolve with it. Those in power wish to remain in power and it is a constant struggle with each generation to oust the old from their worn thrones and make their mark on the world.

I respect any man that can speak plainly, even if I cannot agree with the words that he says. I am a man that says what he means and stands by what he says. I love my country like I love my Father. When I was a child he was superman and could do no wrong, as I grew I was angered to discover his faults and his foibles, when I became an adult I was able to accept that he was not superman but just a man who did his best to raise me, that he helped make me a good man and now for all the scars and missteps I love him even more because every once in a while I am able to make him a better man. I am an ardent patriot and sometimes that means lighting fireworks or holding your hand over your heart as the national anthem is sung and sometimes it means taking your Uncle Sam by the collar and shaking him to make him see what is wrong in his own house.

The pledge of allegiance is a symbolic act of solidarity with the nation; however, it is by no means a requirement of citizenship. School aged children are to young and lack life experience to understand what this means, and to have them repeat it on a daily basis is simply a futile display of rote memorization, or as George Orwell put it “so much quacking of ducks”. Vows, pledges, and oaths are such that they only need to be made once, one who is married does not repeat their vows every morning, a catholic does not repeat the ceremony of catechism or a Jew bat mitzvah every day to reaffirm what they’ve already vowed to do or be. Honestly, the pledge of allegiance in schools is barely worth arguing over with the litany of other problems currently faced in this country, it’s an issue hardly worth the time spent composing this, however, if my belief that it is superfluous and unneeded makes someone question my patriotism and love for my country then maybe this has not been a waste. If you want to say the pledge then by all means go ahead, if you want to drape yourself in an American flag, whilst toting a shotgun chugging a pony keg of bud and jerking off to a picture of Ronald Regan while Lee Greenwood plays in the background, by all means and with the blessings of freedom do it, but don’t dare to impugn my patriotism because we don’t agree on how to show it. The educational system should provide kids a balanced and holistic view of U.S history without prejudicial bias toward nationalism that allows each individual to decide how best to serve his or her nation or not to, this is the essence of freedom; choice.