Friday, October 24, 2008
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Pearls of Wisdom
There is a small shabby trailer tucked away in the closed down RV park on the south east side of Marion. A Dodge truck parks permanently next to it, its engine lays under it, shaded by its flatbed and encroaching weeds. The screen door blows open and shut in the wind, and the unmistakable smell of sewage swirls upward from the underbelly of the faded yellow home. I feel abandoned here.
A man comes to the door. It bursts open. "Oh that darn screen!!! Hello, come in come in come in." He wears a worn and mismatched sweatsuit, his skin is falling from his bones, his smile is bursting across his face, and his right hand is outstretched. "Hi I'm Chris! This is my son. Well thanks for comin! Glad you could fit me in."
And so I learn that this little inhospitable corner of the world, is home to the most loving person I will ever meet. Hanging from the ceiling in little drawstring bags are his treasures. Quartz crystals, small pearls, knickknacks which he finds beautiful and enjoys. The corners of his living room hold his guitars, relics of his past, and on his coffee table are countless bottles of poisonous medication, which will determine whether he will have a future.
We quietly assess the home while he asks us about our lives; about what we love to do; about who we love. He shows us pictures of family, and sings some of his favorite tunes. He becomes faint from the excitement but even after sitting talks himself silly. Four cracked windows, no smoke detector, no CO detector, no carpeting, only two rooms (the kitchen and the living room) which are finished, broken pipes, freezing cold floor, and a lot of dishes which are for naught because of his constant nausea. He brushes aside cancer as though it isn't an elephant in the room. As though it hasn't taken up enormous space in his life, as though it hasn't left him abandoned and broke in this naked place. And you only realize the tragic truth when you look into the eyes of his son who helps change lightbulbs and laughs at his dads jokes, but who steps outside for a cigarette, hanging his head, knowing that his father will probably not be around long enough to feel the cold that will seep into the windows of this broken down home.
We chatter happily as our work progresses and suddenly the windows and doors are sealed, the lightbulbs are shining, the detectors are beeping, and our job is done. It seems brighter, perhaps warmer. "Open your hand!" He grins at me. I open it. "Close your eyes!" I close them. I feel a cold hand on mine. And then I feel a small smooth pebble. I know what it is. But I am afraid to open my eyes. Afraid that I might cry. Afraid that I am angry for him. Angry that I can give him plastic windows but that I cannot save him. Angry that in this dreary home he will see the last of his days, and that he is giving away one of the few beautiful things that he owns, away to me.
I open my eyes anyway. There is not a bone of anger in him. He admits to no frustration in the face of this great injustice. None of that. He is simply smiling with the anticipation of a 2-year-old. I thank him profusely, tell him that his treasure is beautiful, because it is the most beautiful gift anyone has ever given me, and I turn to leave. "Wait!" He says.
He takes Eli into one arm, and cradles me in the nook of the other, and pulls us toward him. We wrap our arms around his tall skeleton. When I look back up he looks sad but smiles. "Thank you. It was nice meeting you!" The screen door creaks and slams behind us and the unmistakable smell of sewage again composes itself. But I no longer feel abandoned here. I am accompanied, instead, by grief and anger, and in my pocket, a small pearl- a reminder that even if plastic cannot keep out the cold, then maybe compassion and humanity still can.
And. I. cry.
A man comes to the door. It bursts open. "Oh that darn screen!!! Hello, come in come in come in." He wears a worn and mismatched sweatsuit, his skin is falling from his bones, his smile is bursting across his face, and his right hand is outstretched. "Hi I'm Chris! This is my son. Well thanks for comin! Glad you could fit me in."
And so I learn that this little inhospitable corner of the world, is home to the most loving person I will ever meet. Hanging from the ceiling in little drawstring bags are his treasures. Quartz crystals, small pearls, knickknacks which he finds beautiful and enjoys. The corners of his living room hold his guitars, relics of his past, and on his coffee table are countless bottles of poisonous medication, which will determine whether he will have a future.
We quietly assess the home while he asks us about our lives; about what we love to do; about who we love. He shows us pictures of family, and sings some of his favorite tunes. He becomes faint from the excitement but even after sitting talks himself silly. Four cracked windows, no smoke detector, no CO detector, no carpeting, only two rooms (the kitchen and the living room) which are finished, broken pipes, freezing cold floor, and a lot of dishes which are for naught because of his constant nausea. He brushes aside cancer as though it isn't an elephant in the room. As though it hasn't taken up enormous space in his life, as though it hasn't left him abandoned and broke in this naked place. And you only realize the tragic truth when you look into the eyes of his son who helps change lightbulbs and laughs at his dads jokes, but who steps outside for a cigarette, hanging his head, knowing that his father will probably not be around long enough to feel the cold that will seep into the windows of this broken down home.
We chatter happily as our work progresses and suddenly the windows and doors are sealed, the lightbulbs are shining, the detectors are beeping, and our job is done. It seems brighter, perhaps warmer. "Open your hand!" He grins at me. I open it. "Close your eyes!" I close them. I feel a cold hand on mine. And then I feel a small smooth pebble. I know what it is. But I am afraid to open my eyes. Afraid that I might cry. Afraid that I am angry for him. Angry that I can give him plastic windows but that I cannot save him. Angry that in this dreary home he will see the last of his days, and that he is giving away one of the few beautiful things that he owns, away to me.
I open my eyes anyway. There is not a bone of anger in him. He admits to no frustration in the face of this great injustice. None of that. He is simply smiling with the anticipation of a 2-year-old. I thank him profusely, tell him that his treasure is beautiful, because it is the most beautiful gift anyone has ever given me, and I turn to leave. "Wait!" He says.
He takes Eli into one arm, and cradles me in the nook of the other, and pulls us toward him. We wrap our arms around his tall skeleton. When I look back up he looks sad but smiles. "Thank you. It was nice meeting you!" The screen door creaks and slams behind us and the unmistakable smell of sewage again composes itself. But I no longer feel abandoned here. I am accompanied, instead, by grief and anger, and in my pocket, a small pearl- a reminder that even if plastic cannot keep out the cold, then maybe compassion and humanity still can.
And. I. cry.
Friday, October 3, 2008
Mathematics and Distribution of Good
I ask you this question. Is poverty what ails us?
Or is it...wealth?
Say that there are 100 people, who share $100 dollars. Conventional wisdom would suggest that among 100 people each would receive 1 dollar. However the equation changes when we manipulate that $100 to be spread among Americans. Here, where we live, in our country, where justice rolls down like waters, where all are created equal, 50 of those 100 people (or 50%) each have only a nickel, or 2.5% of the total wealth. Forty of those people (or 40%) each have $.70, or 28% of the total wealth. Nine of those people (or 9%) each have $4.00 of that $100 or %36 of the total wealth. And finally ONE of those people, one single person (1 %), has $33.50.
So. Is it poverty that ails us? Or is it wealth?
I am not an economist. I am not a marxist, a socialist, or opponent of the free market. I am simply asking the question. Should 1% of the population of this country consume 33.5% of its wealth?
We all hunger for opportunity. We all thirst for equality. 100% of us.
Say that there are 100 people, who share $100 dollars. Conventional wisdom would suggest that among 100 people each would receive 1 dollar. However the equation changes when we manipulate that $100 to be spread among Americans. Here, where we live, in our country, where justice rolls down like waters, where all are created equal, 50 of those 100 people (or 50%) each have only a nickel, or 2.5% of the total wealth. Forty of those people (or 40%) each have $.70, or 28% of the total wealth. Nine of those people (or 9%) each have $4.00 of that $100 or %36 of the total wealth. And finally ONE of those people, one single person (1 %), has $33.50.
So. Is it poverty that ails us? Or is it wealth?I am not an economist. I am not a marxist, a socialist, or opponent of the free market. I am simply asking the question. Should 1% of the population of this country consume 33.5% of its wealth?
We all hunger for opportunity. We all thirst for equality. 100% of us.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
Petty Cash
PULASKI: $50
PROTECTIVE GEAR: $30
INFAMOUS BEAR GRASS MONSTER: Priceless
Some things in life are too ridiculous to buy, for everything else there's petty cash.
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