Why So Serious?

(An Explanitary Note: While reading this essay, there are a few things to keep in mind. Firstly, I understand that the view I espouse changed drastically from the beginning to the end of this brief piece. My opinion stated at the end is more strongly heald than the opinion at the beginning. Second, if the tone of this piece feels weird, that is intentional.... I've been reading a lot of horror fiction, and that has been influencing a lot of what I write. Given that this is about American politics, I thought the tone was fitting. Third, this essay also uses a lot of metaphor and allusion, and I understand if it seems vauge and disjointed. Personally, I find this tack of writing more artistic. However, if you have any questions about the meaning of this essay, please just post in the comments below.)

* * *

Ok.... time to offend people, not necessarily intentionally, but I feel like this needs to be said. Let’s see... how do I put this.... 

I’m not voting.

Yes, I said it. Let the name calling begin! “You’re not Christian! You’re un-American! You’re lazy! You’re racist! You’re not fulfilling your *insert random cultural affiliation here* duty!” Yes, yes... I am a terrible, horrible human being.

But before we burn the witch, let’s give him a moment to state his case:

What got me thinking about this whole thing in the first place was not the partisan, but the non-partisan, ads. The partisan ads have been stupid enough, what with the name calling, the wiretaps, the lies and blatant hyperbole playing upon American fear. Those have actually toned down quite a bit. I can only assume that both parties realized how distasteful those ads have been in our collective mouths.

For the past two weeks, however, I have seen a dramatic increase in non-partisan ads. These ads are not really directed at one party or another, but simply encourage the general public to “do their civic duty” and go vote. Many of these are directed at twenty somethings; those who (like me) are struggling to just get their footing and figure out their next move. They take the tack of “if you could take the future into your hands, why wouldn’t you? Are you too lazy? Do you just not care? How selfish of you! You could help your fellow Americans and the children of our beautiful nation by voting!”

After hearing several of these ads, I suddenly realized what a load of malarky this is. I am looking at the billets, and I see one dog turd being touted as superior than the other dog turd. My voting for one of the dog turds is supposed to make life for my fellow Americans better? I don’t follow.

Non-sequitur. Literally; that is what this election has become. There is no point anymore. All we are allowed to choose from are the better of two turds. The candidate that I would LIKE to vote for has been removed from the playing field. No matter how long and hard I point at him, our beautiful judicial system will simply shake its head and point back at the two turds on the sidewalk. 

“Choose one of these, the future of millions depends on it!”

At first I stare in confusion and utter disbelief. Then I start to snicker. It bubbles over; snorts coming out like an insane pig that has huffed too much EX. Then I cannot control it any longer. I break out into gut-tearing guffaws and keel over. It’s too much! The joke, they can’t see the joke. 

I’m the Joker laughing at Batman’s self-important scowl. “Two turds....*phhhhh*,” my joke has trouble coming out between the wheezing. I try again. “Two turds walk into a bar...” I lose it again. It’s too much... simply too much.

Batman mutters gutturally; something about how he’ll kill me if I don’t tell him where they are. I only have one reply:

“Why so serious?”

......... a long pause. Then he finally responds:

“What about the children?”

The Joker in me stops cold; choking on his own laugh. I finally sputter and spew some semblance of a response:

“What about them?” hostility in my voice.

“Are you really going to laugh this off? Millions of kids?”

THEIR BLOOD CALLS TO ME FROM THE EARTH. Another voice rocks the sidewalk I’m standing on, knocking me back and ripping holes in my nice purple suit. 

“Hey! That was my good--”

SILENCE, FOOL! 

I am cowed into submission; my lipstick red grin all but rotted off my face. I find myself looking back at the two turds on the sidewalk. At first they appear to remain unchanged, but there is...something off. Then I see it: a string as fine as spider silk buried deep in the blue turd. Walking over, I trace the string down the road. Suddenly I find myself at a strange Rube Goldberg machine of epic proportions. Its purpose seems to be well hidden amongst the levers, pulleys and gears. Marbles the size of my fist, all set to rocket into action... but for what purpose?

Then I see it: a small child strapped to a guillotine in the center of the massive contraption. He is crying... screaming. Why had I not heard him before? Suddenly, I realized the gravity of the situation. If I hadn’t heard the child, how many more could not hear him? The “choosing of the poo” was nearly decided. Millions were gathering around the two turds.

Could they not see? Could they not hear?

I was wrong... so, so wrong. Millions of lives WERE at stake. So wrong. Dear God... what have we done...?

Tales from the Nursing Home, Part III

Over the past year or two, I've written several times about my trips to and from a local nursing home that me and several of my friends attend every Tuesday evening in order to sing hymns and chat with the residents. Those first few visits were challenging because it was a new and scary thing; something that was definitely outside of my comfort zone. I have always had that struggle with not wanting to be pushed outside my little bubble. Everyone does, to some extent I believe, but mine took a few visits to get over.

After getting over the weirdness of being there, I began to rather enjoy going. We got to sing a lot of songs that I didn't get to sing in church anymore; old Baptist hymns and the like. I've actually never visited the home around Christmas time, but I'm sure carols are part of the repertoire. The residents were kind, loving, and almost always smiled ear to ear when we came in... although many of them didn't remember us I'm sure. The fact that we were there was enough.

But after about a year of visiting on a regular basis, it happened. I should have known that it was coming, this being a nursing home and all, but I had lied to myself for so long that it couldn't happen. People don't die. They just don't. I was a naive sod of a 20something. Our culture tells us that we will live forever, the next product will make you harder, better, faster, stronger. Buy this and you'll be a man, buy that and you'll have that perfect nerd appeal, put on this shirt and you'll get the ladies, watch this movie and you will finally fit in with the cool crowd. Death? Death is nowhere on the radar. Death is some sort of gag to be laughed at in the movies; not something that actually comes up and smacks you in the face when you are least expecting it.

There had been plenty of death in my past, but none of it had directly effected me. It had all happened behind closed doors and in dark corners... whispered about in hushed tones. Well I had just walked behind that closed door, I had brought a flashlight and I was listening very closely. Death could not remain a secret from me any longer.

Jim, one of the vocal Christians in the nursing home, whom I had seen attend my church more than once, was the first to go. He smiled the widest, laughed the brightest, and always thanked us whenever we were about to leave after singing. I felt his absence acutely. The next two that I saw fade and disappear were George and Marianne, a couple who were a transplant from Hungry. George had driven tanks in WWII, and they both loved to talk about how they met at a dance. They were never without each other, always clinging to the other's hand, never letting go. Marianne died in the late spring of this year... George managed to stick around for a week before he followed her.

After that, I couldn't bear to go to the home for quite some time. Months passed after I attended Jim's funeral, and I didn't go back. I had finally seen death's face, and I didn't want to look at it again anytime soon.

Summer came and went, as did money, friends, and the economy. Coming back for my senior year, I hadn't really thought about going back to the nursing home that much. That is until I was accosted on the street. Maybe 'accosted' is too strong a word, but I was approached. The guy who had been organizing and leading the singing at the home, himself having just got married, couldn't really take responsibility for coordinating the visits to the home anymore. He asked if I would be one of the regular attenders this year, and if so, would I be willing to actually lead the group, send out emails to invite people to come, etc. I told him I'd love to, and there I was... back at the nursing home every Tuesday.

The first challenge came in the form of trying to connect with the new residents. There are usually several categories of people there: (1) The people who don't know what's going on and love people, (2) The people who know what's going on but can't communicate it, and (3) the people who know what's going on, but are too filled with joy and Christ to care much about complaining. Jim fell into that last group, and my trips to the nursing home have never really been the same. I aspire to be like him when I am on my death bed.

But on my return to the home, I discovered a fourth type of resident: the person who knows exactly what is going on, and desperately needs to talk to someone about it. This came in the form of on Bonnie King, confined to the home because of an infection in her legs and no one wanted to take care of her. She had no mental defects that I could see, and from the first time we met she was very adamant in reminding me that she wasn't like "these people." She would gesture around her and point at the other residents, deaf, incoherent, needing love to be sure, but unable to communicate exactly what they needed on a hourly basis.

I first met Bonnie one Tuesday afternoon when I just walked up to one of the tables (we usually visit right as or after the residents are eating supper), plopped down a chair and began with my usual small talk.

"How are you all doing? How's your week been?" I asked in my best sunny day voice. Some nodded, some laughed, some said "just fine" and turned away. Bonnie mumbled under her breath.

"Big things, but can't talk... can't talk about them. Shouldn't talk about them."

I latch onto any verbal response I can get, so I pulled my chair in closer to Bonnie and asked, "Well, if you can't talk about those big things, can you at least talk about something?"

"Things aren't good," she looked at me pleadingly. Our relationship was on the fast track from there. After several minutes of talking with Bonnie, I got the impression that we were living in a 1984 world... where Big Brother was around every corner. She told me about financial pushing and rip offs, how the home owed several companies lots of money and then began jacking up prices for the residents. She detailed how little the workers in the home actually cared, how little they did to help the residents. She would quiet down or simply stop talking altogether when anyone else dared walk by, be they one of the workers, another resident, or even one of my peers come to bring some music and encouragement to the people sitting in the room.

The worst came right before we were going to sing though. While many of the things Bonnie tried to explain to me got convoluted and confused as she tried to explain them and I wouldn't understand, or she would lose track of where her train of thought was going... one part of the conversations stood out. Preceded by nothing, she gave the most damning critique of the home with her tears. She began crying and repeated over and over: "And I night, there's no one here. No other resident in my room... they're made for two people. At night I'm all alone... so alone..... so alone..."

I felt like a can of mace had just been released into my nostrils. I finally knew what was so wrong with this place. No one cares. I am often accused of caring too much; but I must admit, it does have its advantages. I go back and talk to Bonnie every week now. We just talk... about whatever she wants to talk about: politics, conspiracies, the hymns that we sing for the residents, my faith, her faith. And I resolve to never let this happen. My parents will be in my home till they die. They will not be alone. No one deserves to be alone. No one deserves to be abandoned.

JSTT