“I shuddered to think that while we wanted that flag dragged into the mud & sullied beyond repair, we also wanted it pristine, its white stripes, summer cloud white…” ~ Maya Angelou { All God’s Children Need… }
I’ve been in enough abusive situations with a loved one to know what it feels like… The constant looking over your shoulder & inability to relax even when you are alone, the discomfort of contorting your body to suit the posture of the moment, the consequences of ignoring your needs to the point of regular physical malfunctioning, the insomnia & frequent nightmares whenever you finally do manage to drift off, only to be awoken by raised voices again. I’m no expert on the matter, merely one more survivor. Yet I hope my experience is sufficient to merit me an ounce of credibility when I claim that, as citizens of the United States of America, we are in an abusive relationship with ourselves.
It is tempting to word this otherwise. I could say, for example, that we’re in an abusive relationship with our country. Or call this tyrannical government our abuser (which it absolutely is), but those narratives shift the blame solely onto the powers that be, which rest out of reach & seem relatively untouchable. If we are victims is not the question, but rather, what type of victim we choose to be is what interests me. In an abusive dynamic, the one who speaks out is often labeled a black sheep, the scapegoat, or a troublemaker. They must be taken care of by intimidation, manipulation, or ostracization… Interestingly, it is rarely the abuser who does this work, but rather the victim’s fellow victims.
These types of victims, better known as enablers or (a more devious variant) flying monkeys, become the wall of bodyguards surrounding the more supple tyrant at the center of the hivemind. A victim who goes rogue becomes a lone survivor who must endure the coldness & disdain of those who remain silent out of fear or a lack of support. It is little wonder that so many survivors tend to conveniently disappear after taking their story to the media, with nothing left but rumors of there having been someone who once dared to speak. Even our current tyrant president is followed by his fair share of whispers about the corpses buried underneath his copious rolling hills of expensive golfing turf…
Now we find ourselves, the citizens of this country, being held hostage by a bully scratching at death’s door to provide cover for his enormous pincushion of a posterior whenever he decides to dance a jig or let out flatulence on the world stage. Far beyond being embarrassing, it’s downright dangerous, & has been since the first day of his flatulency. Living in the U.S. feels like smelling the hot breath of a predator on the back of your exposed neck at all times. It is, in short, a terrifying experience… But most of us seem to have convinced ourselves that it is, somehow, worth the torture. Or we simply can’t afford to leave, because we lack the support & resources. I, myself, got out for a while.
I lived abroad in a democratically socialist country for half a decade, & if I’m being honest, it was every bit as beautiful & blissful as that sounds. Except I suffered survivor’s guilt the entire time, because I couldn’t bring my family with me, & I carried their experiences everywhere I went. My parents already endured the immigrant experience once, so that I could have opportunities they never did. They had already learned a foreign language so that I could have a better life. Being overseas & becoming trilingual felt like repeating the saga, except I had no child of my own for which to care. Meanwhile, my sister was giving birth to babies in the country I’d left without a backwards glance.
It became clear to me that I couldn’t abandon my family, even if I could leave my country, so I returned without regard for the nostalgia I would surely feel for the time I spent living only for myself. In essence, it was too late for me. I embodied the spirit that this bastard country imbued me with from an early age… A gritty determination to make things right for my people, even if right is largely subjective, & my people are the scattered diaspora of dreamers who remain broken-hearted at the failed promises & faulty dreams they were sold, which they already abandoned their respective families & homelands for. For better or for worse, I loved the America (& the Americans) that I called my kin.
It has been five years since I came back, & not a day goes by that I don’t think about leaving. Yet I don’t regret my decision about returning for a moment. It has proved to be a powerful homecoming & period of restoration. I seem to have grown far stronger, even as the surfaces surrounding me show cracks to reveal their fragility. There is good earth here ripe for the planting. In the Old World, I felt flimsy & decorative, as though my spirit were being siphoned out of me by powers I didn’t quite grasp. In the New World, I know the ghosts by name, & can befriend even the most frightening ghouls. No demon is so scary that I don’t know the spell to cast it back into the pit. Ancestors speak to me…
I can’t blame the place for having become disconnected from my own magic. I can only blame myself & my choices. Suffice it to say, I feel safer in the arms that held me as I grew, even if they squeeze too tightly & strangle me from time to time. Trauma reshapes the body & brain in ways we can’t really even begin to appreciate, so I’ve stopped trying to fight it: At least, from a distance. Keep your friends close, your family closer, & your enemies right where you can see them. Within the line of sight, which is also to say, within firing range. My weapon of choice is my words, each poem a protest to chant in the face of despair. I refuse to bow out quietly, even if I choose to go down with the ship.
American Flag
America, I have pledged allegiance to you more times than I can count, but what has my loyalty given me except blue balls? My cheeks redden at the thought of us going steady, yet you draw lines in the sand, sun-bleached white & scorching from having baked all day long. You were once beautiful, America, but now you’re just damned ugly from the botched facelifts & flagrant disregard for your own failing health. I could pick your flag out from a line- up at the station: The blue of your eyes squinting at me through the swelling of your shiner, as if daring me to point you out. The red stripes like the streaks of blood streaming down your face, & the many stars like white scars bursting across your knuckles from the fights you’ve picked with anyone who will listen to you insult them long enough. America, I pledged my allegiance to your people: The names you tried to erase, the bodies you made disappear... America, you were once beautiful. Clean up your act, you still could be. Oh America, I still love you—can’t you see? The blue of my bruises has faded, the storm clouds have cleared back to white, & a red sun has marked the end of another day that was difficult for the both of us. Yes, America, I’ll hold your hand while you cry.
American Doomsday
“More than a decade after the first strong signals of the collapse (or at least the twilight) of the American empire, there is yet to be a melancholic reckoning with the decline of empire…” ~ Anis Shivani