American History: a Snippet

Be ashamed, America. Be ashamed for the decimation of entire countries, including the one called the United States of America. U.S. citizens should not need to be reminded that our colonizing motherfuckin’ forefathers (and mothers) are responsible for the genocide of countless Indians, and the forced removal and displacement of the survivors. These we prodded at musket-point on towards small packets of land. Then, told them to farm. An alien practice to the Indian mind, for the most part.

Should not need to be reminded.

But how many of us do need a reminder?

American Colonizer: “The Earth is not your Mother anymore. Here, have a ho. Plant some wheat.”
Indian: “No.”
American Colonizer: “What??! You Satanic Savage!”

American Colonizer smacks Indian across the face with the butt of his rifle

Indian: (silence)
American Colonizer: “Here. Have a Bible.”
Indian: “No.”
American Colonizer: “What?!! You are soooooo burning in HELL!!!”

sound of gunfire, a village burning
women and children screaming
bones popping
“Christians” rejoicing, giving praise

Farther away from the colonizer’s stolen “home,” the Iraqi people had a taste of self-determination in 1958, when, on July 14th, the pro-British monarchy was overthrown. Later, in the ’80s, the good ol’ U S of A supported everyone’s favorite person to hate, Saddam Hussein, in his instant, just-add-American-firepower rise to power. This was a big FUCK YOU to the Iraqi people, to be sure. So they were happy when, in 1991, American planes bombed the living hell out of their country in a bid to push Saddam back from his in-progress invasion of the oil-rich country of Kuwait.

Cut to the White House, where George Bush I is illuminated by righteous power halos and carries a big stick

George I: “Saddam–invading oil–wouldn’t be prudent.”
American Media-Mediated Chorus: “Yeah, you camel jockey raghead tyrant!!”
George I: “Oh, that’s it! Release the bombs!!”
American Media-Mediated Chorus: “Free Kuwait!! Free Kuwait!!”

sound of bombs dropping, a village burning
women and children screaming
bones popping
“Christians” rejoicing, giving praise
much self-congratulatory back-slapping
the sound of oil prices deflating
“ahhhhhhhhhhh…”

And the Iraqi people were happy again when, in 2003, George I’s imperialist son, George II, decided that the “War on Terror” gave him as well a license to stick his militaristic dick in Iraq and probe for oil. Of course, the marketing agency media sold this unprovoked invasion to everyone, including the Iraqi people, as a minor inconvenience, just a small pin prick before the actual liberation and freedom of the Iraqi people. Democracy.

So imagine the Iraqi people’s shock and dismay when, four years later, America still is parking its ignorant (for the most part) goddamn (for the most part) occupying military all over a crumbled, broken-down, fucked-up Iraq.

Not happy with the situation in the homeland, those Iraqis. Who can blame them?

Unfortunately, way too many Americans seem to be okee-dokeee with blaming them. Terrorists, Extremists, Insurgents are the labels applied to justify the continued presence of an unwanted military. “Secular violence.” What the goddamn hell did anyone expect?? Tea parties, crumpets, and instant parliaments or congresses? Or better yet–a “Christian” nation?

Give me
a goddamn
fucking
break.

The children of Iraq have a message for anyone who cares to listen:

WAR

IS

A

TRAGEDY

Shame

Shame.  I am ashamed of my white skin.  The deeper I go, the more I probe, the more I read, the more intelligent non-Hollywood movies I watch, the more music I delve into, the more the shame shines.  Shines?  Yes and I will radiate it, tempered with knowledge of how I can live differently than how the system would have me live. 

Picket fences from the 1950s.  Dichotomous gender roles, dichotomous values of good and evil.  A dichotomous god looking down on us all with lightning bolts of judgment.  On the flip side hell of that god, the mean old devil, hungrily scratching for our souls, snarling.  “Grrrrrr.  I eat you up forever.”  Evil laughter, flames.  Close curtain, and god’s up there, shaking his head and washing his hands of it all.  “Ye had your chanceth.  Now in my ever-loving wisdom, I cast you into eternal torture for all eternity.  Eternal eternity of hell.  And then again when that’s over.  So long, sucker!”  And then back to the choirs of angels and the complacent masses of human spirits wearing sheep costumes.

Absurd vision.  Digression.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad for my education in a way.  It taught me to write.  Gee, I wonder if my moms and pops could have taught me that themselfs?  They be college educated, but they been too busy pushin those gears of them machines in Mister Smith’s fear factory of insecurity.  But hey, they got insurance benefits and under them, me.  So that at 17 after spending the past five or six years isolated in my room, talking to myself, listening to Led Zeppelin, Nirvana, Dinosaur Jr, Van Halen, Faith No More; after smoking cigarettes out the window during summer when moms was off at work and daddy, too; after kicking holes in my walls and talking hate, crying, frustrated, yelling–after the symptoms got way out of hand, well thank god for the insurance that allowed me to start through a progression of psychiatrists and psychologists. 

And enough about me.  This story isn’t about me.  It’s about a planet out of whack.  It’s about people slaughtered all over the world, ongoing, in the name of progress.  Tin cans, microwaves, DVDs, Nintendo Wiis.  Cancer.  AIDS.  Racism.  Homicide.  Death penalties and executions.  Nuclear weapons.  It’s about Nablus, Palestine, the latest military push and punch of an apartheid government.  Iraq decimated.  Sick, sick people hooraying at the hanging of Sadaam Hussein.  Cheers, folks!  Live it up in the land of plastic shacks, boob jobs, crack and meth.  The land of ecosystems decimated by unsustainable agriculture as well as the land of neatly-packaged, market-savvy organic foods.  Hooray for social responsibility and Starbucks, for pharmaceuticals.  Hooray for Calvin Klein and your kid’s happy meal. 

Why the hell would anyone feed their kid a happy meal?  What’s happy about that?  Poisoned cow, bleached bun.  Sugary ketchup, Freedom Fries.  Yeah!

Pardon the vitriol.  I’m not always like this.  My heart burns with joy, too.  Somehow this criticism is its fuel.  Wish that rainbows and butterflies could be my joy’s primary fuel, but alas, there is work to be done.

Work.  Work. Work.  I ain’t gonna work on Maggie’s farm no more.  But I work, oh yes.  I sharpen my heart, shape my mind, make connections, strive for peace and nonviolent change. 

Anyone remember the American dream?  What was it?  All I could find was this mechanical toy, covered in spit and grime.  And then even that was gone, but I think they put the reruns of the commercial advertising it on TV. 

Done with toys, I’m going to take a shower, try to scrub some more color into my skin.