COVID-19 has been a delight. I know 1,065,076 Americans have died, and 96,940,217 Americans have had the virus, but yourrights! You first; the rest of us can die. That’s the sentiment, right? My body, my choice (unless it’s a woman and her uterus).
I work from home and have had the two primary shots and two boosters. I’ve done everything I was supposed to. I mitigated my exposure and watched with horror as other Americans (true Patriots) sneered at having to wear a mask and “chose” not to get the vaccine. I honestly thought I was one of the finalists for those who never got COVID-19. Seriously, I thought there was a prize! Not just my health, but, like, money or a trophy! The pandemic is over (I’ve been told). And then my wife had to travel. Masks are for losers! And how are those wearing masks supposed to eat their complimentary snack and beverage onboard while wearing a mask? So we drop our masks, take a sip, and put them back on. Nibble a snack quickly and put on our masks. Meanwhile, Mr. Libertarian next to her dribbles his drink and eats his snack like he’s never seen a Cheez-It before.
But here I am, COVID-19 positive again! Yes, I had the virus last week, and when my blood oxygen level dropped, my doctor decided I was a good candidate for the emergency use authorized antiviral, Paxlovid. Unfortunately, the Paxlovid knocked the virus down but not out. And I, like many others, two to eight days after completing our 5-day regimen of Paxlovid, suffer something called COVID-19 Rebound. Because it did not destroy the virus, once the regimen is over, the remaining virus cells begin replicating until you eventually test positive.
After the first time I tested positive, I asked my wife when I could express my anger at having to get the coronavirus this far into the (now over) pandemic. I am convinced that if everyone had done what they were supposed to – wear a mask and get the damn shot(s), this would all be in the rearview mirror, a devastating pandemic about which we would all be proud of conquering. She said to ride it out, and the symptoms probably wouldn’t be severe because of the shots and boosters we had gotten. She was right. The symptoms (apart from the dip in blood oxygen) were akin to a head cold. And not the worst head cold I’ve ever had.
But now I have rebounded into positive territory again. Now I’m pissed. Now I’m ready to kick anyone’s ass who had the selfish gall to refuse to wear a mask during the height of the first wave(s) and the self-entitled bullshit they spewed to refuse the vaccine. Science gave us the answer to the problem. Unfortunately, those whose med school training consists of InfoWars silver supplements, bleach, and injecting light into their body have left us vulnerable. This shit should be over. But, no, the armchair epidemiologists and selfish pricks who decided a mask was an infringement on their right to be an asshole and the vaccine was a global conspiracy involving Jewish space lasers and magnetism have dragged this virus (and all of the mutations that would never have been able to get a footing if we had dealt with this correctly as a community, as a nation, into today.
So, again, I’d like to thank the assholes who decided their right to individual stupidity overrode my right not to get this damn virus. Someone said freedom without responsibility isn’t freedom; it’s adolescence. We owe an apology to adolescents. Let’s be honest. Freedom without responsibility is America.
Grief is a hole carried deep within. It is the oxygen-deprived void, generally unseen by anyone else, living within our soul whose weight varies from day to day, moment to moment, from a quick catch of your breath to drowning suffocation.
Queen Elizabeth II died yesterday at the age of 96. Unless you’re 95, I don’t know anyone who wouldn’t sign that lifetime contract today. My cousin died yesterday, too. Life did not afford her 96 years. Absent the global outpouring of tears, her loss is no less devastating than that of the queen to her family. Grief is sure to wash over her family as sure as the queen’s.
Regardless of your feelings toward the British monarchy, whether you feel it is superfluous in 2022, an anachronism to modernity, or the steady hand on the till as time unfolds, the queen’s passing marks the end of an era. She worked with fifteen Prime Ministers throughout her long life, the first being Sir Winston Churchill. Churchill was born in 1874, a mere nine years after the end of our Civil War. She served as monarch for 70 years or about 28.5% of the entire history of the United States.
To remember a time when she was not monarch, you would have to be over 75 or 80 years old. Consider the changes the world has undergone during the time of her reign. Of course, few of us knew her. I can only project my interpretation of the video and deed she presented to the world. However, it seems that, whatever you feel about her, she sincerely believed in the queen’s duty above all else. No doubt, this came at a tremendous personal sacrifice. Whether it was a private life forfeited after her uncle’s abdication, a restructuring of her relationship with her husband Phillip in deference to her role, or the official position she had to take over any maternal impulses she may have felt, forbearance and sacrifice was her duty.
Grief is a hole carried deep within. However, there are occasions when it is visible. Words record the pain she endured at her father’s passing, King George VI, in 1952. Modern technological capabilities captured some insight into her grief after the passing of her husband. As we isolated ourselves in reaction to the savage viral death brought by COVID-19, the queen sat alone in St. George’s Chapel on that day in April 2021. Captured by Jonathan Brady of the Associated Press on that day, here she sits with her grief.
Look at her eyes. That is grief. The hole carried deep within, momentarily visible in her lost stare. I know that look. The paralysis grief creates, the mental gymnastics, and incomprehensible lack of understanding one goes through envisioning a world without a loved one are visible to anyone remotely aware. It is the eyes that expose our grief to others. It is through the eyes that tears flow. It is through sight that we feel sympathy and empathy. And it is through our eyes that grief reveals us shattered and lost.
If we are lucky, time softens the edges of our grief. We catch our breath at a memory, song, scent, or place, but we no longer suffer the drowning suffocation as often. We learn to control access to the most devastating memories; we learn to remember without reliving them. It is not an easy skill to learn.
The queen is gone. So, too, my cousin Gwennie. People worldwide may mourn the queen’s loss as if a steel and cement pillar of our societal foundation has crumbled and left us on infirm sand. Her family and my cousin’s will know grief exposed through our eyes. Be a comfort to those showing the signs of grief’s pain. None of us are immune to its theft of air any more than death steals life. The hole grief creates in its immediacy is devoid of oxygen. Help each other breath.
Baseball has the ability to transcend time. Look at that photograph. Can you hear it? Ball meeting bat. Can you feel the contact in your hands? Not the connection of springtime baseball, the shock traveling from your seemingly electrocuted hands through your arms and into your teeth, but the solid contact made only in deepest summer. What position are you playing? Are you the batter? The pitcher? Infield? Outfield? On deck? On the bench? Can you hear the people in the stands? Can you smell the grass during the warm summer months? Look up. Can you see the soft white clouds watching the action as they carelessly pass overhead. That is baseball, and this was Basin Field in Newport, RI, in 1910.
Basin Field has hosted baseball games since the railroads backfilled the area initially used as a drainage area for steam engines. It is one of the oldest baseball fields in the United States and a gem.
Bernardo (Vlardino) Cardines was born in Venafro, Italy on November 15, 1895. After his father emigrated to Providence, Rhode Island, and paid for his son’s transatlantic crossing in 1907, they worked as tailors on Thames Street, eventually living with his aunt and uncle a block from what would become his namesake ballpark. Bernardo registered for service in June 1917, was drafted in April 1918, and was killed in action in France during World War I in September of that same year. Initially buried in France, his remains were exhumed and reburied in his hometown of Venafro at his father’s request, who had returned to Italy. Basin Field was renamed Bernardo Cardines Field in 1936. He may have been watching this game in 1910.
Perhaps it’s the story of the Italian immigrant, who, it is said, played baseball at the YMCA, or maybe it’s that baseball field that lives in my soul. It might be remnants of the recently played Field of Dreams game in Dyersville, Iowa, between my beloved Cincinnati Reds and the Chicago Cubs intertwined with scenes from the movie. It might be the link I share with my late father and brother, knowing we all played at Cardines. It could be that I’m just getting older and find myself warmed by the glow of glory days past, thinking of my teammates and adversaries, games and plays, moments and memories. Maybe it’s memories of watching Sunset League games played under the lights as a kid, knowing the 9 pm horn would sound from the fire station across the street and still jumping out of my skin when it went off. Cardines was the equivalent of Fenway Park or Yankee Stadium as a kid. The dream of eventually playing there was the equivalent of playing in the major leagues.
The photograph above struck me as a handshake reaching across time. The players in that photo are long gone. And yet, we share the experience of playing baseball on the same spot of land in Newport, Rhode Island. I know nothing about them other than they enjoyed the game. And that’s enough for us to be teammates and foes, brothers and friends.
A sentence in The Silence of the Lambs has always stuck with me. Playing a cat and mouse game with young Clarice Starling, Dr. Hannibal Lecter, in his burgeoning respect for the young FBI agent, slips in a clue to the identity of “Buffalo Bill” by saying, “We begin by coveting what we see every day.”
In other words, what we know, what we’ve experienced, is our “normal.” Every child knows only one childhood, and while the grass is always greener at your friend’s house (because you don’t see their life behind closed doors), we only know our life as “normal.” We are all “middle class” in that respect. In the simplistic world of childhood, we understood that there were kids who had it better than we did and kids who had it worse. We, regardless of who we were, were in the middle. Normal.
In genuine Monty Python “Four Yorkshiremen” tradition, I now look at children today and lament the ease with which they can communicate (email/cell phones), their easy access to information (the internet), the societal shifts in the Overton window concerning LGBTQ+, race relations, and other socioeconomic changes they now see as “normal.” However, I also cringe that my generation didn’t fix enough of the outstanding issues plaguing the America of my youth (and compounded the incomplete list by adding so many more complicated problems). If the goal of every generation is to leave the world better than we found it, we have failed. We are leaving behind a world that may not be inhabitable because of climate change. “Here, kids! Apply this SPF 1,000,000 suntan lotion before going outside, and don’t forget your space suit when walking to the bus stop.”
And it goes far beyond climate change, as catastrophic as that is. Children today see cheating (from Trump on down) as the way to get ahead. And that’s because there are no consequences for bad behavior—quite the contrary. We reward bad behavior with advancement and success (unless you lose to someone less moral than you). Drive 100 mph? No problem. Police are only on tv and in movies. Cheat on your wife? No problem. It must have been her fault. Lie at work? No problem. Blame someone else. There are no negative consequences for bad behavior, only the promise of advancement over those suckers following the rules. And that’s the flipside. Those who are moral and adhere to societal rules are “sheep” destined to be led to slaughter by those not afraid to wield the knife. So, not only are there no negative consequences for bad behavior, but there are negative consequences for good behavior. Think about that.
And don’t come at me with, “It’s because of the lack of God in the classroom.” Evangelicals are the most hypocritical flock around. Already willing to accept the bible, angels, and demons as real (while ignoring Trump’s egregious mendacities, viciousness, and megalomaniacal march toward dictatorship), their unfailing support for him is genuinely disgusting and devoid of logic. Fiction is real and facts irrelevant—Trump’s army of pretzel-twisted moralists.
The “Lost Generation” was so named because so many born between 1883 and 1900 had their youth and young adulthood stolen by World War I and death, and survivors were disenfranchised wanderers condemned to see their children fight and die in World War II.
Our failure to address the problems we inherited, coupled with our selfishness and abdication of responsibility, have created a new Lost Generation. This is a generation born into the normalcy of school shootings, movie theater shootings, grocery store shootings, church shootings, concert shootings, club shootings, (insert setting here) shootings, open carry, concealed carry, constitutional carry, and societal harikari, racism, hatred, whataboutism, science is bad, education is worse, bullshit.
This Lost Generation will raise future generations further devoid of responsibility, racing toward an uninhabitable planet with no backup available and mass shootings so commonplace journalists will no longer cover them. “Thoughts and prayers” will be reserved for events not “baked into” American freedom and exceptionalism. There will be ever more rule-breaking, selfish predators advancing through the devoured crowd of ethical chumps still inhabiting the remnants of civilized society—shame on us. We, Generation X (1965-1980), failed in our mandate to leave the world better than we found it. And we learned it from the generation before us, the Baby Boomers (1946-1964), who taught us excess, greed, and self-centeredness as a winning formula. It was our “normal,” it was what we coveted. So, too, the generations after us, the Millennials (1981-1996) and Generation Z (1997-2012).
“We begin by coveting what we see every day.” It is our normal. And we are raising a new lost generation on a dying planet. We covet that which we know. And all we know is wrong.
I am not the Supreme Court. I am not bound politically by any party. I am not a gun violence victim. I am not a flag-waving sycophant. I am an American by birth. And I am embarrassed, angry, and ashamed.
Step back. Back beyond the neighborhood in which you live, back beyond the county, state, stars and stripes. Come with me and float in space, high above the earth.
Now, objectively, describe what differentiates the United States from the rest of the world’s countries and gun violence. Be honest. We hear that it is due to mental health issues. Yes, the United States closed most mental health hospitals many years ago. However, the United States is no more affected by mental health issues than any other country. Next? Video games and Hollywood depict gun violence. Yes! However, the United States is not the only consumer of these products, and their proliferation does not result in the daily carnage we see here. What else can you think of? We don’t teach God in school. The percentage of people claiming to be of one religion or another is falling worldwide. Again, the United States is not an outlier in this regard, yet we see the carnage of gun violence the rest of the world cannot comprehend. What else? Doors. Okay, Ted, yes, one way in and one way out would limit access points for shooters to enter a school. I doubt the fire marshal would like that idea. And what about doors in churches, movie theaters, malls, grocery stores, nightclubs, open-air concert venues, or any other place in America where we see gun violence. And even with limited access, as we saw in Uvalde, the police are not going in like Dirty Harry because they might be hurt. Better to let the murderer kill everyone he finds, use all of his ammunition, get bored, fall asleep, or see the error of his ways. Next? Oh, the old standby solution: more guns! Yes, people suggest we train elementary school children in “safe” gun handling and assign them a firearm at the beginning of each school day, to be signed back in each afternoon.
Be honest. There is only one factor differentiating the United States from the rest of the world concerning gun violence. Some say “access to guns.” That’s another way of saying the number of guns. There are more guns in the hands of the public in America than there are people in America.
Right now, Congress is negotiating (for the first time in a long time) a series of measures designed to curb gun violence. If anything comes of it, and by no means is that a certainty!), it will be a watered-down, nibble around the edges, mildly effective law. Even gun violence prevention activists, always within a minute of explaining their outrage, defer, defend, and genuflect to the 2nd Amendment. And that’s the problem. The 2nd Amendment is the problem. It is the differentiating factor separating the United States from the rest of the world and the cause of the gun culture in America.
The 2nd Amendment was terribly written and has since been criminally interpreted. So I have a few ideas to solve the gun violence problem in America.
The first idea is simple. Acknowledge that guns are the problem and repeal the 2nd Amendment. Then do the unthinkable. Millions of guns have been sold because rubes have been convinced that Democratic presidents will come for their guns, so they better get them before they can’t! Suckers. So, make their nightmare come true. There are too many guns in America. If guns were the solution, we would be the safest country on the planet. So, take away the guns. Confiscate them, repurchase them, burn them, melt them, crush them. Problem solved. No guns, no gun violence. Welcome to the civilized world.
The second idea is a bit of wordplay. Rewrite the 2nd Amendment. The Amendment’s first clause and the part always omitted by gun nuts is “A well-regulated militia…” Today this means the National Guard, not a bunch of overweight GI Joe wannabees running around in the woods with ketchup-covered “tactical gear” and a camo Yeti full of Spaghetti-O’s. And since the National Guard is already well funded, the amended Amendment is superfluous and can be repealed. Problem solved. No guns, no gun violence. Welcome to the civilized world.
The third idea is less of an idea and more of a surrender. Accept that gun violence is the “American way™” and no longer care. Columbine didn’t move Congress. Sandy Hook didn’t force Congress. Nor did Pulse or Las Vegas. Neither will Buffalo, Uvalde, (fill in the blank ad nauseam). None will matter. They need their guns to shoot varmint! They need their guns to protect against a tyrannical “gubment.” They need their guns to keep their lonely asses warm at night. They need their guns, and their needs supersede your right to life. Period. We thank the police and the military for their service and sacrifice. This year, more children have been killed in school shootings than active-duty police and military personnel combined. The next time you kiss your child goodbye and put them on the bus in the morning, not knowing whether they will come home that afternoon, thank them for their sacrifice to the sacrosanct 2nd Amendment. But keep their toothbrush handy in case you need it to identify their eviscerated, liquified, decapitated, hollowed-out little bodies later that night. And then hope the screams you hear (some of them your own- in a voice you do not recognize as your own) someday subside.
There are people you encounter in life that offer a glimpse at the purity of soul you know you’ll never achieve. They own a confident sense of self for which we can only reach. It doesn’t matter at what stage of your life you encounter these people. You know it when you see it. And because they are so rare, you remember them, envy them, and admire them. They follow their own inner song and seem to have their own gravity. They appear to travel through life but as if from a tangential universe not bound by our universe’s constraints, touching ours and changing us.
I met one of these people in high school. He was equal measures effortless cool and offbeat quirky. I don’t recall anyone not knowing him – or not liking him. I’m sure I was instantly forgettable, and I doubt he would have remembered me. But I never forgot him or the free spirit he beamed. And unlike so many other radicals who age morph into stamped replicas of our parents, he was an artist in the purest sense of creating art every day and supporting himself and his family. He created in many media, and each piece radiated his spirit.
That is not to say his tangential universe was immune from pain or suffering. His long illness and death yesterday afternoon seems unreal. How can so pure a spirit suffer? Why are those we admire taken so early?
I had not seen or spoken to him since high school. He lived in my memory, online via Facebook and through his art installations. And now, unfortunately for everyone in his life, his family, friends, and acquaintances, he only lives there for them. The free spirit he brought to everyone’s life was gone; the darkness of grief replacing the light he brought. The pain for his family is all too real.
However, though he is gone, remember, he was an artist who created objects that outlived him. Each piece exudes his spirit, a physical manifestation of freedom. His paintings were not photorealistic (or at least to those of us who live in this universe). Perhaps, in his, that was how he saw the world. They survive. And through his works, he is immortal.
To his family and friends, I am sorry for your loss. I know your loss and understand your pain. I know you don’t believe it right now, but the darkness and despair you feel right now, the burning heat of doctors, nurses, hospitals, treatments, pain, and suffering, will eventually be replaced by a glow of light. The morning will return to replace the night. That light will be the good memories and his spirit.
Luke Randall touched so many in life. Today, at least, try to reach for the spirit of freedom by which he lived. We may not reach it, but try. I’ll never forget him that way.
Can this be how it works? I’m 57 years old and see more life in the rearview mirror than the open road ahead. With that perspective, I find it’s become essential to reflect on what I’ve done with my time on this planet. Blissfully ignorant of the repercussions of news events growing up in bucolic suburbia, adulthood, parenthood, citizenship demanded my attention as I aged. I’ve experienced events no one wants. People summarize it as “life” when you see death. I’m not special. Just frustrated.
After the massacre at the movie theater in Aurora, CO, I began to write. Not with the expectation of affecting change, but rather to give my anger, my emotions, an outlet, an offramp for the toxic blood poisoning my body. I saw gun violence stealing a generation. While some social issues had moved the Overton Window, political intransigence (keep cashing the NRA’s checks!) and eventual American ennui accepted gun violence as baked into the American fabric in the name of “freedom.”
After the Sandy Hook Elementary School massacre in Newtown, CT, I began to speak. Surely, a tragedy of this scale would shock Americans (and politicians) out of their stupor. Nope! I talked to groups in Texas as the lone spokesperson for the Brady Campaign in Texas. The only one. That alone tells you all you need to know about the calculus of “I NEED my gun, dead kids and teachers be damned.” Thoughts, prayers, and sad face emojis flooded social media until America’s fruit fly attention span moved on to the latest “tragedy” affecting Kim Kardashian.
My anger peaked with the death of my wife. Fuck cancer makes a great tweet, a guttural reaction without consequence. Utterly suicidal and dying with my wife, I could not yell at the tumor. I took it out on God for a while (also useless) and even turned to God for a bit (utterly meaningless). There was no one to blame, no revenge to be had. No offramp for my anger.
And then Americans, in the obvious next step for a society that had abdicated all personal responsibility and suffered no consequences, elected a narcissistic moron president—a billionaire (if you believe him) speaking for the uneducated rubes. Merit and logic were dead. With each lie, with each crime, I expected consequences. None came. Robert Mueller fumbled the ball with no defenders anywhere near him. Facts were relegated to the trash bin. Tweets became governmental edicts. And I waited. Furious.
When I get angry (when I get down), it is because things should be easier. “Keep the simple things simple; the hard things are hard enough.” But nothing was easy. Changing a light bulb resulted in the glass bulb snapping off the metal base, a trip or two to Lowes, and a call to the electrician. Nothing was easy. Ultimately, I realized it was an absolute lack of control. There was nothing I could do about any of it. My wife was dead, guns were more important than life, freedom from fact and responsibility replaced actual democracy, and rabid evangelicals believed in Trump as the messiah. Stop the world; I want to get off.
And now we have Ukraine. Again, one man brings the world to the point of a world war—one man. Ukrainians are fighting to survive- as a nation and a people. “Denazifying” Ukraine? Really?
I’m reminded of Carl Sagan’s Pale Blue Dot speech as I watch an army destroy entire cities. Stepping back for a second, it seems bizarre that NATO and the UN watch the massacres with tepid financial penalties because Ukraine doesn’t belong to their club. It’s like a high school clique turning its back on a less cool student getting beaten up because they don’t wear the “right” jeans. I understand the political ramifications of engagement. But on a human level, it seems callous and impotent.
So here I am—no one special, poisoned with anger and unable to control or change anything. Hell, I can’t even watch baseball now! The billionaires are too busy fighting with the millionaires. I get the feeling that if aliens did visit earth, they’d look down and say, “Nah, they’re petulant adolescents with nascent technology and a penchant for killing each other. Keep driving.”
So, my clock continues to tick down, and I’m not ignorant enough for its promised bliss. I’ve read Viktor Frankl and Thomas Paine but still cannot find reason or acceptance. How do I accept all of this? How do I “let it go?” No, seriously, I’m asking.
Land of the free because of the brave. Can we edit this to be land of the susceptible because of the selfish?
Sixty-six percent of Americans are fully vaccinated. Two-thirds of us. Another 6% “plan to get vaccinated.” Not sure what kind of schedule these people have that they couldn’t possibly squeeze a 2-second shot into their lives (to save their lives). Another 8% are “uncertain.” I have no idea how someone can be uncertain in the face of a global pandemic. The remaining 20% are “unwilling” to be vaccinated. Fully one-fifth of us are unwilling to be vaccinated to end this pandemic. And the overwhelming reason given by these armchair physicians who have done their own “research” is personal freedom.
By way of comparison, look at the chart below to see how American exceptionalism is an oxymoron:
While Putin wants to return Russia to the “glory” of the 1970’s Soviet Empire, Republicans in America wish to return antebellum American “glory.”
Science, medicine, and fact dictate that the coronavirus is real. It’s not something you can “believe in” like the Easter bunny. It’s real, and it has killed almost 800,000 Americans. However, all of us who have done what common sense and common decency dictated (socially distance, wear a mask, get vaccinated, get boosted) are still stuck in an America paralyzed by the virus. I have a question for MAGA nitwits, what about my freedom? When (If) this ever ends, I don’t get to reset the clock and get these two/three/x number of years back. I’ll only be this age once. What about MY freedoms? When do I get to start living a “normal” life (defined as pre-COVID-19)?
I did what was right. I wear a mask more to protect those unvaccinated and vulnerable than to defend myself. Some people (immunocompromised (many chemotherapy patients)) cannot get the vaccine. The others, the 20% “unwilling” to get the vaccine, are infringing upon my freedoms. The three unalienable rights enunciated in the Declaration of Independence are “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.” This is not a prescription for freedom without responsibility or accountability. And while MAGA nitwits will consider this communism or socialism, what I do impacts my neighbors. What I do affects my neighbor’s inalienable right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. If I do not get vaccinated, if I do not wear a mask at the grocery store, or socially distance, I may sacrifice my neighbor’s happiness, liberty, and life. Eight hundred thousand of us are no longer here to attest to this fact.
66% of us are fully vaccinated. A two-thirds majority. Nowhere near where it should be if we were all considerate and had a modicum of either dignity or common sense, but a majority. Where is the wave of anger among us, people who have done everything demanded and still living in an America paralyzed by COVID-19? Omicron is easily transmissible and less lethal. The subsequent mutations, the following variant may not be. It may be far more lethal. And it will only exist because there are enough unvaccinated people to allow the wild virus time to mutate. Enough idiots are waving their lack of concern (cloaked as “freedom”) to enable the virus to change itself enough to survive.
My freedoms should count. The freedom of 66% of us should matter. It should matter more than 20% of Americans, the steely-eyed cowboys staring down the wimpy virus, evangelicals convinced the virus is Satan’s test, conspiracy theorists convinced injecting sunlight or bleach will protect him (instead of getting the magnetic, tracker-enabled vaccine), or Republicans (including on the Supreme Court) working nonstop to prevent Biden/Democrats from leading us out of this pandemic). However, until we rise, the vocal, imbecilic minority will continue to hold the rest of us hostage, destined to live in an America subject to thousands of deaths per day, endless variants, and time evaporating from all of our lives.
Winston Smith awoke from his nap, the tattered science textbook still resting on his chest. It rose and fell with his breathing, the paper-thin book jacket waving in time with his exhalations.
It was dangerous enough to be napping during the day, especially this day, but to have been caught with that volume in his possession would have been personally devastating. Fortunately, it was still mid-morning, and the Happiness Squads hadn’t begun their daily sweeps. He hadn’t slept well the previous night, and it had caught up with him after his breakfast sank into his belly.
Today was the anniversary of the rebellion, a day when “spontaneous” celebrations and protests erupted across the new nation in honor of the heroes of the previous year. The migration and funerals paused on this day. Everything paused.
Winston looked at his upper arm. The redness had subsided from the previous day. In another day or so, there would be no evidence of his insubordination, no way to identify him as one of “them.”
It still struck him as strange. He thought again of the science textbook now safely tucked under the floorboards in the bedroom. Cancer, he had read, was the process of mass replication of mindless cells with the ultimate, suicidal goal of killing its host. His mind made the connection before he had the chance to consider it. How similar was that metaphor to what had happened over the past few years, but especially the past year?
He looked at the paperboard flyer everyone had received in the mail still sitting on his kitchen table. The Happiness Squad would be by shortly to ensure it had been placed in a prominent place. He thought of the mantle, the refrigerator, the door. Getting up, he picked up the placard and decided on the door. That way, he could see it both when passing by the door and, especially, as the last thing before leaving his apartment. He read the words out loud to himself:
Science is fiction. Freedom is ignorance. Ignorance is strength. God trumps all. Trump is God.
Following last year’s purge (or emergency recall elections, as they were called), evangelicals, once a fringe group of mystics and non-taxed mass delusion peddlers, now comprised 100% of the Senate following last Spring’s purge. Since then, the nation had fallen further as the emergence of the epsilon variant to coronavirus had risen. First, it infected the young and the unvaccinated (or Insubordinate as they were now called). Then the evangelicals had seized control as the moral arm of MAGA nation under Trump.
They first convinced the country that a cloud shaped like a fist with the index finger pointing skyward was the sign God was with them and the solution finally at hand (pun intended). They said the reason for the epsilon variant’s rise was because the vaccinated, the Insubordinates, were emitting undetectable, demonic microwaves infecting the unvaccinated. Science is fiction, we were told. Freedom is ignorance. Absolution walked hand in hand with willful ignorance. Those (scientists) claiming to have an answer (the vaccine) were the first sacrifices to the purge. God would show the way. Trump would lead the way. He was the only one who could solve it.
The death toll from the previous day had topped 500,000 for the sixteenth day in a row. What remained of the South were pockets of the Insubordinate and the Happiness Squads rounding them up. Winston thought of the press conference held last year when Trump told them to reject the evidence of your eyes and ears. It was his final, most essential command. It was then that the evangelicals began to set a firm date for His return to the White House. On the same date, the cloud showed them God was manifestly on Trump’s side.
The Happiness Squads protected themselves, as had the evangelicals, with aluminum foil hats. They believed the metal prevented the transmission of the demonic microwaves and saved them from the epsilon variant. Still, with a 63% failure rate, there were rumblings of its protective properties. Thicker sheets of aluminum foil would soon be produced through the Insubordination Distribution Incentive Output Taskforce recently passed by the reconstituted Senate. The bill’s negotiations had proven difficult to conclude as senators were constantly being replaced, either through epsilon variant deaths or the recently imposed three-week term limits.
The press conference presented evidence supporting the purge. Two maps of the United States were overlaid on one another. The first showed the results of the 2020 election by county. The second showed the death rate by county. With near perfect uniformity, the maps coalesced. This was proof, they were told of the microwave’s effective dissemination of the virus targeting only those who voted for Trump. The Happiness Squads were formed the next day under Generals Sebastian Gorka, Stephen Miller, and Stephen Bannon.
Winston had just secured the placard to his front door when the knock came.
“Happiness Squad, open up in the name of Trump,” said the voice.
Winston hesitated a second, pulled the short sleeve of his shirt over his underground obtained vaccination site, and opened the door.
O’Brien entered first, followed by three camouflaged troopers wearing their officially sanctioned “tactical” aluminum foil hats and toting “recreational, modern sporting” AR-15’s. “Why are you not mustering for your parade position yet, Smith?” said O’Brien. “I did not sleep well last night and fell asleep on the couch this morning after breakfast,” explained Winston. “There have been reports of mask-wearing in this neighborhood, Smith. Wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?” asked O’Brien, squinting his eyes as though that allowed him to see inside Winston. “No,” said Winston, “I saw one in the gutter last week, but given its condition, I’m sure it hadn’t been worn since the purge.”
“Sweep the apartment,” O’Brien barked to the Happiness Squad. “You know we’re only here to ensure your happiness, don’t you, Winston?” “Of course!” answered Winston. His eyes stole a glance at the bedroom into which the Happiness Squad had entered. His pulse quickened when he heard their footfalls on his floor, hoping the loose boards hiding his science textbook would not betray him. “Sir, we’ve found something,” said the leader of the Happiness Squad. O’Brien stared intently at Winston for what seemed a minute before heading into the bedroom.
Muffled voices emanated from the bedroom. Orders were given. O’Brien emerged from the bedroom with the tattered textbook raised before him, looking so much like President Trump holding the bible outside the church in Lafayette Square years earlier in his famous photo op that Winston giggled. He was in trouble, and he knew it.
“Yours, Winston?” asked O’Brien.
“Can I ask you a question, O’Brien?” posited Winston, suddenly freed by the truth and warmed by fact.
“What is it?” an annoyed O’Brien asked.
“That book describes cancer as the mass replication of mindless cells with the ultimate, suicidal goal of killing its host,” began Winston. Behind him, one of the Happiness Squad lowered his Happy Gun to clear a nagging cough. “Today is the day of celebration for the beginning of the overthrow of a tyrannical government. January 6th is celebrated today and will be on every January 6th after that. So, my question is: Without the Insubordinates, without the vaccine, without science, who would He blame? Science created the vaccine, and the old government offered it free(!) to its people. Isn’t it possible, just possible, that disinformation, doublespeak, and idolatry have acted as the catalyst for a population ready to mass replicate, through force, if necessary, with the ultimate, suicidal goal of killing this nation? Isn’t it possible?”
The blow to his head came from behind. The Happiness Squad leader provided the final insult. The vaccine would not save Winston now, nor, did it seem, could science and facts save the nation.
The history books would never mention Winston Smith, and his tattered science textbook would disappear in a burst of bright fire along with so many others on a night later that summer named Fahrenheit 452 Night.
Thoughts at Large 