Help is never on the way
American culture always includes the heroes journey, because (narcissistically) we can't accept that we took this beautiful continent and ruined it as badly as we have. We can't understand, similarly, that the rest of the world thinks we're somewhere between hideously and comically deformed as a society. Ugly and loud and dumb. We think Harvard is Eton, and don't realize the hatred Eton engenders amount every Brit who wasn't sent there by mum and dad.
I need help now from my family. Even from my country.
Help will never arrive. It's America. When we should be holding our friends close, and tending to their wounds, we create gods out of manure and swallow our own bullshit.
Then, as blood runs in pools on the ground, and pain and suffering mount further beyond the inconceivable mass of common despair we all share from our shocking births to our last mortal breath, my family and my country focus on what they care about the absolute most:
Hair color. Shutting the door in the face of those who are crying for love and acceptance. Raiding our safe spaces to remove strangers or the furniture we treasure the most. Kidnapping our pets and subjecting them to abuse that eventually kills them.
We share this myth. The cavalry will arrive at the very last second. We believe it so strongly that we don't see the glint of the murderous swords. We are the Indians. As Lenny Bruce and anyone with radical politics knows, "who's 'we', white man?"
My ex-wife is the grey-haired ugly American. Her hair is ruined from all that toxic shit she's absorbed. All the hatred and denial she practices. The fact that she can’t see her best friend sobbing in pain. I know one thing: help has never arrived from that quarter, and I will die alone, waiting eternally for Godot.
I need help now from my family. Even from my country.
Help will never arrive. It's America. When we should be holding our friends close, and tending to their wounds, we create gods out of manure and swallow our own bullshit.
Then, as blood runs in pools on the ground, and pain and suffering mount further beyond the inconceivable mass of common despair we all share from our shocking births to our last mortal breath, my family and my country focus on what they care about the absolute most:
Hair color. Shutting the door in the face of those who are crying for love and acceptance. Raiding our safe spaces to remove strangers or the furniture we treasure the most. Kidnapping our pets and subjecting them to abuse that eventually kills them.
We share this myth. The cavalry will arrive at the very last second. We believe it so strongly that we don't see the glint of the murderous swords. We are the Indians. As Lenny Bruce and anyone with radical politics knows, "who's 'we', white man?"
My ex-wife is the grey-haired ugly American. Her hair is ruined from all that toxic shit she's absorbed. All the hatred and denial she practices. The fact that she can’t see her best friend sobbing in pain. I know one thing: help has never arrived from that quarter, and I will die alone, waiting eternally for Godot.
Comments
Post a Comment