I live in a little one dimensional upper income coastal town in lower Connecticut. From my second floor bedroom window…sitting high above the wires and tree line,
I can look out onto the Saugatuck River that feeds into the Long Island Sound that feeds into the Atlantic Ocean. Life to some, outside of this quaint hamlet, see a slice of heaven, a piece of the American dream – To some, it appears on the surface, a safe haven, untouchable to anyone that lives and breathes below the wires and tree line – just one town over.
I don’t blame “God” for the violent acts we commit against one another. I mull them over. I dream about them. I absorb the painful images and find myself tear soaked, questioning my own sense of reality and the powers of the universe. The questions I pose bounce off the white walls of my bedroom; they bounce off the high walls of a predominately white community with or without some sense of consciousness.
I find myself shaking my head, mimicking the act of shaking a rattle to soothe a child, hoping to fall into a deep dream-able sleep…but no one is sleeping peacefully.
I shake the cobwebs from my thoughts to clear a path, to find a way, to find a thread, a silver lining that is somehow attached to the last remaining bit of fucking hope and fucking optimism that I can barely manage to hang onto – trying to remain optimistic and loyal to the belief that we are innately a loving species. We don’t eat our young or kill our lovers after mating. We don’t take our old and our sick and send them out into the wilderness to die alone; we are a compassionate people – aren’t we?
I look out above the wires and tree line and wonder how a person could take their fist and beat it into the flesh of another person with such force that the wounds from a single blow, a single moment in time, that split second could spill more than their blood and scar more than their body – but also the soul; altering a life’s path and journey for generations to come.
I look out above the wires and tree line and can’t fathom what transpires between a white person and a black person that is so vile and explosive that it shatters a life, a family, a community, a race. And on some abstract level there is an attempt by those to justify away the hatred because of their juxtaposed positions in life and/or the color of someone’s skin.
I look out above the wires and tree line and I’m stupefied by the inequality of one person to another simply because of gender. That some misogynist with a deeply rooted angst or some other self-loathing can and will project their need for control onto an entire species. Treat your children well; the past has the power to send the future into Hell as the wounded child in us leads the way.
I look out above the wires and tree line and on bended knee I pray that the savage senseless murders taking place in the world will stop – stop! Stop because at the end of the day it doesn’t matter what God you pray to or what entity you believe in; it is how we live our lives…isn’t it? Isn’t that what we are judged by when we take our last breath – if we believe in something…or not; but are faithful to that belief?
There are times when I can hear the outrage and the gasps, but I don’t hear a solution or feel a softness in a community’s reaction. I don’t hear empathy in their voices. I don’t see positive actions being taken to change the emotional drain we inflict on a daily basis.
We cry and we mourn.
We scream, raising our hands to the heavens in anger each time we hear about a child or woman being abused.
We march for the sake of our brothers and sisters of color and those that love one another of the same gender.
We march and parade carrying banners and we light candles; a symbolic memorial for those taken – by friend or foe…
We place flowers and leave notes scratched in the dirt, soaked in the blood of those we view as somehow less fortunate than we are – those that were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Those born…over there.
We pray and mourn not privately but under the microscope of social media.
We continue to share the worst and hide the best and the cameras continue to roll and the questions continue to flow as the interviewer aims for high ratings and recognition; the human aspect is secondary…Emmy glistening in the distance.
We watch the 6 o’clock news as events are sensationalized – your life in ninety second sound bites and we become more and more desensitized.
We stand solid within the parameters of our societal moral compass but we don’t fucking remember what it feels like to truly grieve – to truly feel the loss.
We see images of mothers and fathers weeping at the loss of a child; and the long lens of the world looking on, dissecting, projecting – we are waiting for a real tear to fall, waiting for a real trembling lip – some sign that what we are watching is real pain and sorrow –
We don’t recall authenticity, we don’t recognize it any longer. We step back and we don’t believe it’s sincere. We don’t believe they are truly honest in their suffering. We can’t believe because we have become skeptical and prejudice.
Who is the perpetrator?
Who is the victim?
We question quietly because we have become immune and forgetful of our own humanity…
And do we even care?
…sitting high above the wires and tree line, I can look out onto the Saugatuck River that feeds into the Long Island Sound that feeds into the Atlantic Ocean. Life to some, outside of this quaint hamlet, see a slice of heaven, a piece of the American dream – To some, it appears on the surface, a safe haven, untouchable to anyone that lives and breathes below the wires and tree line – just one town over.
© 2016 TrilbyYates