Ode to Shattuck

When the government owns the corporations, it is communism, our sworn enemy. When the corporations own the government, it is fascism, our other supposed sworn enemy. . .

What a gratifying yet depressingly sober relief it was to finally hear a media figure label our government as fascist. It shames me.

Yet I am galvanized that I am not so much a radical, not alone, not a heretic to the oh so holy sect of patriotism that chooses to be blind in its cowardice of sending the poorest and the privately well paid to die for those that would resent a draft. It shames me to think that my very own grandfather, married and a father of two, a steal worker and exempt; would volunteer to fight against European fascism in the name of freedom on his own terra firma. After all, my family has done so since 1776. The very blood of my ancestors that stirred to a passionate boil at the injustice of the British, of the Confederacy, of Hitler; that blood runs rampant through my veins, disgusted yet glad that my grandfather who lived to see 911, a man who fought them there so we would not have to fight them here, glad that he did not live to see the rise of the fear mongers, the hate seekers, the discombobulators. They that are schooled to be loyal above all else, to react as trained rats, to smell out a threat and attack beyond the rule of reason, to disregard logic for the sake of fealty.

Do you smell it? That is the smell of cowards, the stink of shameful sweat. The self serving few that rake the ranks of the many to die, to sweat, to bleed and go without so that they may lavish themselves.

The pattern has never changed.

So what now? Shall I cry out my protest yet volunteer my mortal chamber out of guilt for those that have sacrificed and continue to do so, to fight for some government, some cause which violates the very precepts of our own nations birth?

I know history. I read accounts of bravery and luck and good fortune and steadfastness. I hunger for the glory of sacrificing all for what is just-- but death be not proud.

Last night I bore witness to several thousand privileged Americans, most older than myself, perhaps better off members of my fathers generation; Americans and others who shared a commonality, a desire for peace. My, what a forgotten word that has become, a word of cowards and atheists and hippies (what hippies?). How cowardly must seem the efforts of Mahatma Gandhi and Martin Luther King Jr., proponents of non violence and peace as a means to an end. Ironic that they would both be inspired by a mostly forgotten white American male of the 19th century, one Henry David Thoreau. . .

My heart rejoiced at the idealism, the optimism, the love, the shared values that cross culture, religion, nation, sect, race, and ethnicity:

Peace
Love
Self Preservation
Tolerance
Sovereignty
Compassion

To what nation, what group are these things foreign? It was comforting to look around the National Cathedral on the eve of the Dali Lama's bestowal of the Congressional Gold Medal and see so many different faces, to think of the speakers from so many faiths, fames, and backgrounds might share my thoughts; to think of them and hear the cries of my own heart echo off the solid stone of an American interfaith cathedral. Yet no network broadcast our hopes. No media outlet streamed our common goals. But one politician was present, and he a former musician performed a wonderful song entitled "We are all one Tribe"(you know his days in Washington must be numbered). No other "leaders" were present. Yet these strangers were my people. People with unknown names, of different nations, different religions, different races; but one heart. My people.

Absent were the fear mongers, the talking heads, the pundents, the politicos, the experts, and the cautioners.



Perhaps in my own way I shall fight them here, so I will not have to fight them there, or anywhere ever again.