I’ve struggled with writing this post.
The reason for the difficulty is that
I’m tired.
I’m tired of listening to the news day in and day out
about how the Left hates America and the Right hates everyone.
I’m tired of hearing that Covid-19 is a hoax and that the
murder of innocent children and educators at Sandy Hook was staged.
Right now the streets of the country are filled with righteously indignant people protesting yet another act of Street Justice Capital Punishment inflicted on an African American man.
ANOTHER ONE!!!
How. Freaking. More. Lives. Must. Be. Lost?
I’m really tired because we’ve been through this all before.
Apparently, to no avail.
So I guess I can add frustrated to tired.
I’m tired and I’m frustrated.
And, I’m losing hope.
I was a kid in the early 1960s. I didn’t watch the news. I was only interested in Superman and Roy Rogers. But, by the time ‘65 and ‘66 rolled around I was beginning to see scenes of people marching with signs and police officers and soldiers trying to stop them.
My father, whom I loved dearly, grew up in small town America. He had no use for these people with the signs. And, he was fairly vocal about it.
1967, “The Summer of Love,” came around and, again, the news was flooded with images of people dressed rather unconventionally dancing and getting high. Rock-n-Roll was definitely here to stay.
The images of people being killed in some far-away jungles were also appearing on the nightly news. In all honesty, I had no clue what that was all about. I was a 12 year old aspiring rock-n-roller who spent most of his time with a guitar in his hands. Oh, and chasing 12 year old girls. Yeah, that was important, too.
In 1968 I sat in front of the TV and witnessed the murders of MLK and Bobby Kennedy. Soon, the nation was burning and people were getting their heads caved in on the streets of Chicago.
More people marching with more signs.
More police and soldiers standing in their way.
And, you know what?
Some things actually changed.
In the mid-60s the Voting Rights Act was passed.
People began to talk to one another.
Flower Children planted flowers in M-16s.
By the time I graduated from high school in 1973, we began to
have hope that the Times, They Were A-Changin’.
Then, something changed.
In the words of Steppenwolf, I think we “grew fat and got lazy.”
We thought that the Monster was dead. But, it had just slunk into its hole somewhere to lick its wounds.
We grew up. We started families and gained responsibilities: bills to pay; jobs to work; soccer practice…
Reagan promised us prosperity and we believed him.
Now, here we are.
Again.
Throwing rocks and tear gas at each other.
Shooting unarmed Black men and wearing body armor.
Squeezing every cent out of poor people who can’t afford to be squeezed. Watching the poorest bear the brunt of a global pandemic while politicians squabble about pennies.
I really hate some cliches, but it seems to be a truism that the more things change, the more they stay the same.
And, I’m tired of it.
I’m too fucking old to keep seeing this play out the same damned way time after time after time after God. Damned. Time!
Is there hope?
No. Not if we try to deal with society and culture the same way we did 50 years ago. If we simply throw money at it the Monster will simply sate its appetite and demand more.
Perhaps, there is a way to slay the beast. Or, at least one tactic in the battle.
I’ll muse about that in another post.