For Those Left Behind
Via Suburban Guerrilla, the great political writer Matt Taibbi wrote on July 19th for Rolling Stone that our America era of “fantasy elections” is soon to inevitably end, for the howling pain from the abuse of our people just cannot be ignored forever. One might be justifiably surprised that the will of the American people is being ignored after endless elections in the 2008 political season, but the American process almost earns the title of fantasy, and there is disturbing historical precedence that, in fact, it could go on for a very long time.
Election 2008 is not a fantasy, there are true vital elements to the democracy at stake (judicial appointments start a long list) that must be preserved or put back in place. It’s absolutely vital that as many citizens participate as possible if for no other reason than to stay empirically in the American political process. Very true, yes, but if the galling and vehemently sickening disregard for the abuse being inflicted on the American people almost doesn’t earn the title of “fantasy,” well, a new word should be minted for this utterly dismaying political process of denial we call an election.
America of the 21st century is a society run amok on militarism and petrol-imperialism, while a Niagara of cash crashes upon lands half a globe away to maim and kill human life our own people are abused with a merciless cruelty that would, rightly, never be dreamed of being tolerated in any other modern democracy. There is no health care, no daycare, no wage growth when there are jobs, hell, there aren’t even any trains, yet we spend billions on cancelled stealth destroyers while our own American people horribly suffer.
There’s an insidious, hidden element to the perception of “suffering” that needs to be noted here. After reading Taibbi’s work I carefully and slowly walked through one of his small stories on a tired Tuesday evening, burning my mother’s furniture to stay alive in a desperate winter of killing cold and desperate measures.
How long has it been since there was any decent meal on the table, a night of simple fun with friends, no stack of bills of unpaid, any fucking sense of dignity as an American in the one life given to you, how long ago was that as children tried to hide shivers in the faint light and cloudy quiet breaths? Mother, of course, is still with you, how could she not be? All her dreams and her life are right there before you, whatever those might spill out in your soul in that moment, right before you get out a hatchet, smashing it to stay alive.
It is a terrible indictment to our country that such a thing be considered tiny in the litany of abuse inflicted upon our people. One doesn’t lose a foot to untreated diabetes or a leg in lying war and learns to stay quiet when looking at other crippled shuffles of American hell, but burning your Mother’s furniture is an unspeakable act of cruelty that can easily break an American soul. The so-called “tiny,” comparatively “small” acts of sacrifice our people make to survive are anything but, and occur with an unspeakable frequency every day, just as cruel and debilitating as the glaring wounds we see.
Out of this reeking, appalling miasma has arisen a worthy and good politician, Senator Barack Obama. He is deserving of my total support and fervent prayers for success, but he is obviously not a prince of peace.
Despite the utter humiliation and shambles of our pathetic journalism profession those odious, stupid, catty scurrilous god-awful total fucking scumbags still are led by the nose under the tutelage of Matt Drudge. “Journalists” are never going to be change agents in my lifetime.
History shows us that societies can undergo generations of unspeakable abuse and poverty before they finally rebel. If the last eight years have reinforced anything it’s the well-researched fact that humans are tragically very pre-disposed to following authoritarians. The great modern American chance is that electronics, the internet and the post-war investment play for the middle class can break our vicious political fantasy cycle, and almost immediately I will be in the thick of it with my hoarse voice and tiny wads of thrown cash.
Why this privilege was bestowed upon my life I do not know, but as I battle in fantasy my soul aches for those somehow, in this insane world, just left behind and shunted aside in countless unseen paths of muted howling pain. I have not forgotten you, and as I long as I breathe know I labor for a day when none of us are denied an American life, none left behind or forgotten.