Part 2 of Tying the Ribbon
Truly, I live in dark times! The harmless word is foolish. An unfurrowed brow Points to apathy. He who laughs Has not yet heard The terrible news.
What is a mistake? There are a few official definitions in the English language, and all of them carry at least a faint whiff of fault; making a mistake implies that there were options, and at least one of those options was the correct one and the rest were wrong. Is something a mistake when there are no correct choices? If all I ever knew was the wrong choice, was I at fault? Could it have been a mistake when I never knew an alternative, a different way of being?
I was born in the Free State of Michigan, where I learned how to be a good man, a good husband, a good citizen at my father's knee. He named me George, as his father had named him, and his father before that. My mother's name was not important to learn, when I had so many other important things to learn. I learned how the Left destroyed the country, and that we had rebuilt it. I learned that our way of life was built on the strength of our backs - the hard workers - and that the gay people, and black people, and the atheists were the means of its destruction.
What times are these, in which A talk about trees is all but a crime For it implies we say nothing about so many others. He who goes quietly across the road, Is surely no longer reachable for his friends Who are in need?
My country gave me clear examples of right and wrong, so that I could know the difference between them. This thing was good, that thing was bad, and it is only right and just to hate the bad thing and love the good thing. Other countries embraced the wrong things, so they were bad, and I hated them. Other kinds of people were not blessed with my strength, color, sense of duty or ethics, and so they were defective, and so they were bad, and I hated them.
It is true: I merely earn my keep But, believe me: that is just a coincidence. Nothing That I do gives me the right to eat my fill. By chance I have been spared. (If my luck does not hold, I am lost.)
The world that I knew treated me well, I thought. I am a strong, intelligent, hard-working man and I was doing all of the right things: I married a good, obedient woman and started a family. I worked hard at the factory, and so I earned good money. If I saw something or heard something concerning, I reported it. If I witnessed someone behaving immorally, I would report them, and whatever or whoever the problem was would be removed. I would be rewarded, and I was, when my country sent me to The Netherlands.
They tell me: eat and drink! Be glad to be among the haves! But how can I eat and drink when I take what I eat from the starving and Those who have died of thirst go without my glass of water? And yet I eat and drink.
I left my wife, pregnant and silent, alone at our home when I was sent to Utrecht so that I could learn and teach my countrymen about the Wrongness of the outside world. I was proud to be chosen for this honor, proud that my words would be used to educate a new generation of men on the chaos of the outside world, and proud that I would have a son - who I have already named George - to teach when I returned.
I would gladly also be wise. In the old books is written what wisdom is: To keep oneself out of the strife of the world To live out the short time one has Without fear To dispense with violence To repay evil with good - The wise do not seek to satisfy their desires, But to forget them. Yet these things I cannot do: Truly, I live in dark times!
I am adrift in Utrecht, where my country sent me to learn, stateless, now that the country has fallen. Perhaps it is risen, rather than fallen - the camps are without their fences, the "undesirables" have taken back the world that was rightfully theirs to share in. They have taken it back with blood, and violence, and with balance - they have taken it back with no less violence than we have done to them, with no less blood than we drained from them. And I, watching this unfold from another world, feel as though that I too have been the host of revolution, that an army of tiny men and women have waged desperate war inside my brain, and left it to its own uprising. I was sent here to learn why letting women, and queers, and blacks mix with the "regular people" was wrong, and to learn that socialism was a moral failing, and to bring these lessons back to teach the young. What I learned instead was that I was less than a cog in a vast machine of lies and violence.
Into the cities I came in a time of anarchy As hunger reigned. Among men I came in a time of turmoil. And I rose up with them. And so passed The time given to me on earth.
A week into my stay here, my guide brought me to a museum in which machines made music. Antiquated, quaint, and utterly pointless, but it felt like an absentminded effort on my guide's part to distract me for long enough that he didn't have to keep as close an eye on me or the servant they assigned to me. While I absently watched an automaton mimic playing a violin, I noted the servant's increasing agitation; her eyes found me, then the guide, then the open door, and seemed to vibrate with indecision. When the first shout from the street outside reached our ears, she seemed to make a decision and bolted toward the sound. I was right: the guide was distracted enough to make not even a token effort at stopping her. I followed because he didn't, and what I found on the street was a scene of shocked silence.
My food I ate amid the slaughter. To sleep I laid down among the murderers. I was wont to love with abandon And I regarded nature with impatience. And so passed The time given to me on earth.
People watching their phones paused mid-stride in the street as they gaped at the scenes coming across the video feed - the White House in flames. A woman at a cafe table watching her laptop's screen raptly with a coffee halfway to her lips - people pouring out of Boston's prison camp. The decreasing sound of the servant's footfalls echoing in the distance was my only anchor to my own reality, and I realized that I was free of my minders as she was: I knew that the Netherlands had an unrestricted press, and for once, I wanted to see outside of the Civic Net. I entered the cafe, purchased a coffee, and asked the woman outside with her laptop if I could join, that she was watching my country burn, and that I'd like to see.
The streets led into the swamp in my time. The tongue betrayed me to the slaughterers. I was capable of little. But the rulers Sat more confidently without me, that I hoped. And so passed The time given to me on earth.
I learned her name - Milla - and that she was a professor in the local university. She learned that I had never had an equal conversation with a woman before, and took pity on me, and taught me some of what I had been ignorant of. I learned that the gulf of ignorance was too wide to ford without help. She learned details of my country that had been carefully hidden from the world, from what she called "The Hermit Country." She asked if she could interview me, formally, so that she could write a paper. I learned that she - despite all of my expectations - was more intelligent than I am.
We watched as my country fell to revolution.
The powers were limited. The destination Lay far off in the distance It was distinctly visible, though for me Scarcely to be reached. And so passed The time given to me on earth.
My guide eventually found us and seemed unsurprised that I was sharing a coffee over the destruction of our country. He explained that our hotel was paid for indefinitely, that spending money would not be a problem, and that nobody would be coming for us. He said that I was free to stay as long as I liked or go wherever I wanted to, advised me to keep the credit card that gave us unlimited funds, that I was now on my own, and that he would be joining distant family in Germany.
You, who shall emerge from the flood In which we have gone drowned, Remember When you speak of our weaknesses, Also the dark time That you have escaped.
Was my existence a mistake? Was my belief in the state of things a mistake, so absolute in my certainty that I was right, and the rest of the world was wrong? Or was it something else, something more insidious, and I was just another victim of the wider wrongness? I stayed in Utrecht, watching my country first fall, then rise more beautiful than it was before. I watched it drown in a flood of fire, to be reborn from the ashes, and wondered about my wife, and if she had birthed my son, and if they were alive. I spoke as a lecturer in Milla's university courses about my country, about what I was taught, and what I have learned since my country fell.
Go forth we did, changing countries more often than our shoes Through the wars of the classes, despairing When there was only injustice and no indignation.
Was my existence a lie? I surely lived the life that I believed I was living, but the walls of my life had been held up by secrets and lies and horrors. My world, as pretty as it had been, as comfortable as it had been, had been a pretty house built on a hill of bones, and I had been told that the bones were the spoils of a war waged against evil. I know better, now.
And yet we know: Even the hatred of the reprehensible Distorts the features. Even the anger at injustice Makes the voice grow hoarse. Oh we Who wished to sow the seeds of brotherhood Could not ourselves be brotherly.
The battles waged, dark and bloody, for months, and I made the hotel my temporary home. Stateless, but with the remainder of the state's money, I found new footing and began to piece together a life in the shadow of my country's ashes. As the fighting at home settled, I watched in exile as the former prisoners took up the bones of the old nation and began building something new. I found work to keep my hands busy, and Milla used me as a case study for her new book. Through her words, I learned about myself and my countrymen and came to see the truth with new eyes. She convinced me to join the university as a student, not just a lecturer, and I learned what freedom of choice truly meant, and how twisting it was the ultimate root of my country's evil. I learned Dutch, and found in its unfamiliar rhythm found a language to name the colors of a life richer in diversity and freedom than I had previously imagined possible. As the prisoners rebuilt using the ashes of the country that I knew, so too did I rebuild myself. It was then that I learned the fate of my wife - the silent and obedient woman that I left behind - and my son, George, who had never drawn his first breath. They were gone, killed by a bomb in a desperate attempt by the government that I once loved, dropped in an ultimately futile effort to quell a local revolt. The grief came as a hollowing of my own soul - my wife was never mine to love as she deserved; I had failed her long before the fire consumed her. My son would never carry my name, and for that, perhaps, he was spared.
I have learned of my mistakes, and of my thoughtless evils, and how to exist in a world without the lies. I have learned of accountability, and of injustice, and justice, and how the world is built not in absolutes but with shades of grey. I have learned that I am no better and no worse than any other soul cast adrift in this life.
In the rubble of my past, I pieced together something new. Not a monument to regret, but at the very least, a foundation on which to build. I am still learning: how to exist without lies, how to face the echo of my own thoughtless evils, and how accepting accountability is not the end of a journey, but its beginning. I have learned that justice is never clean, and never simple, and always painted in shades of shadow.
But you, when at last the time comes That man is a helper to his fellow man, Remember us With leniency.
The concept of "home" is all that I have left after the learning washed the rest away. Home is not a place. It is love. It is the fragile, resilient web of other people. It is beauty found in the flaws and cracks, it is love expressed by the people who help each other share the weight of existence. It is the act of reaching out, and rebuilding, and choosing to create something more. Home is other people.
I wrote the above after I was approximately halfway done with an entirely different version of it. The intention was to write in the same universe - and the same style - as the first one, which had been written from the point of view of a person classed as undesirable from inside one of the many internment camps in a hyperbolically-authoritarian (for now) near-future version of the US. What came out, at first, was not in the same voice. It's incomplete, but I like this more, and it was easier to write, but also much more difficult. This is the first version, below:
George frowned into the pile of socks on his bed, confused.
"Honey?" He paused, waiting for a response. When one did not come, an annoyed look brushed across his face like he'd smelled something foul. Turning to the door, he yelled more forcefully.
"Honey?" He paused a moment more, each passing second clouding his face with anger by degrees until he eventually had enough and walked through the bedroom door in order to find his wife. By the time he found her, sweating lightly and pink in the face as she finished stacking more wood onto the log pile in the carport, he was furious.
"Honey, I expect you to answer me when I call for you. I am missing a sock."
Wiping her brow and looking down at the feet she could no longer see through her gravid belly, she said nothing, waiting silently while she caught her breath. The small, fast clouds of her panting breath punctuated the silence while George fumed. "Look at me when I speak to you. Why am I missing a sock? I have an uneven number, and I should have enough socks for this trip."
Knowing that no justification would do, she merely looked up and, staring at his chin - never his eyes - said, "I'm sorry, both for failing to hear you, and for your missing sock," and absently rubbed at a sudden cramp under her thick woolen coat.
Slightly mollified, George grunted at this and stared for a moment longer before turning back around to finish packing for his trip. He had been awarded a great honor after five years of honorable, dedicated service to his country - he was going to The Netherlands! He would finally see his name on the front page of The Liberty Chronicle when he returned, and he would finally be able to give a first-hand account of why The United States is better than the rest of the world. He would finally be able to put words to his distaste of other countries. Well, The Netherlands, anyway.
Sent overseas with a journalist, a servant, and a guide familiar with the destination, only three people in the entire US were granted this leave, so that they could tell their countrymen about the rest of the world's indolence and flawed understanding of what makes life great. This year, after five years in service to The Free State of Michigan, it was George's turn.
As he packed, his mind wandered to questions of practicalities. Would he still be able to eat his Sunday Roast during his trip? Would he be forced to interact with undesirables? Who would be doing his laundry? He searched for these questions and others on the Civic Net nearly as soon as he was notified of the trip, but of course, that information wasn't available. The best information he got was the typical party line - Europe forces its citizens to be vegetarian, and they let different groups mix willy-nilly, and the rot destroys their countries from the inside out.
He would meet with his guide later today, when the car came to take them to the airport. On the flight, he would receive a briefing about what George can expect on his tour. Until then, he couldn't help but worry that he would have to interact with queers, or black people, or take orders from women. He supposed that the important part was getting through it, despite these potential challenges; George is made of stern stuff, a proud American, and would get through it so that he would be able to come back and tell the world just how backward it is Over There.
A week into his trip, George finds himself in Utrecht, staring absently at an automaton playing cheerful music at him. His guide, in the corner of the room, has been distracted all day and to George, it felt like this museum was a way to safely keep him occupied and out of the way, not asking questions. Whatever his flaws, George wasn't stupid, and had noticed that the spare bits of English he heard were all discussing the US. It's a great country, of course, and why shouldn't everyone be discussing it? But in hushed tones, in a place that spoke primarily Dutch in daily life, and unprovoked? The servant, too, seemed to know that something was amiss. She kept glancing between the guide, George, and the open doorway, seeming to vibrate in place with agitation.
George absently shuffled into the next room, and as he took his first steps, the servant seemed to make a choice and bolted for the exit. When nobody - not security, not the guide, but nobody - made a move to stop her, George knew for certain that something odd was happening. Thinking that he would do the duty that his handlers were neglecting, George ran after her out of the door and onto the street, where he shortly stopped dead in his tracks.
Everyone in sight was motionless, save for the servant's footfalls making ever-distant thumps on the pavement as she ran. An unattended woman at a cafe table was watching a current events broadcast on what was presumably her laptop, and almost everyone else was staring at their phones, watching the same events unfold - there, on the screen, were images of the White House in flames. George turned, aghast, walked back into the cafe, and ordered a coffee. Knowing this might be his only chance to receive unfiltered information, he asked the woman if he could join her and watch the broadcast.
It wasn't just the White House, he learned. The world would have been interested in that alone, but it wouldn't watch this raptly. No, George's entire world was being upended - in a coordinated series of events, The United States was under attack from itself. The prison camps had been overrun by the prisoners, women were walking around not only unattended but armed, bombs were going off everywhere, and it seemed like the world was ending.
George and his erstwhile tablemate discussed the events as they unfolded. She was a professor at the local university. She'd been born in the US, but her family fled with her when she was born to escape the - as she called it - MAGA cult. She explained, when George didn't seem to understand what that was. They spoke over several hours, and by the time George left, George felt like his world had been upended and was now permanently tilted.
Finding himself alone for the first time on this trip, George purchased a small tablet on his way back to his hotel, where he set it up and connected it to the hotel's wifi. He'd grown up with the Civic Net, but he was determined to get unfiltered information on the wider Internet, and so he learned.
Eventually, his guide returned to the hotel and spoke with George in a weary, nervous voice. His guide explained to him that they would be staying in Utrecht indefinitely while things sorted themselves out at home. That - not to worry - their money was still good, and that there would be plenty of it to keep them comfortable and safe while they sheltered in place. While the guide spoke, George thought of his wife, back home, and the child she carried. He thought of his job, and his friends, and the utopia he thought he lived in. He thought of the intelligent woman he spoke with at the cafe, and thought of his wife again, and how he maybe should not have been so careless with her.
George thought, and he considered the life he knew back home, and the one he found here. He felt his world move beneath him, and he thought some more. As the weeks passed, he became more comfortable in his temporary home, and picked up a little bit of Dutch. He read books that he'd never had access to before, and in one poetry book, he found his world moving again.
Look in the mirror: squirming, Scared blind by the burden of truthfulness, Skipping the trouble of learning, abandoning Thought to the wolves, A nose ring your favorite trinket, No deception too stupid, no comfort Too cheap, every new blackmail Still seems too mild for you.
George felt that this captured things quite succinctly. George wasn't stupid, no. George was just asleep in the same way his countrymen were asleep. He's awake, now, and witnessing revolution.
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