mahiwaga

When I took A.P. U.S. History in high school… I learned about the crooked ways of the Republic. I learned that for the most part, the prosperity of this country is owed to the unthanked labor and often the death of the oppressed, starting with the poor ignorant English folk who came as indentured servants, starving to death at the hands of gentleman-adventurers who dreamt big but did little actual work. But the Native Americans are [the most obvious] first victims of the nascent Imperial onslaught… [starting with] the diseases the filthy Europeans had brought over, and… the depradations of… imperial Spain. The English did not become numberous enough to challenge the Natives for a while, although, I must say that it didn’t take long for treaty-signing and subsequent backstabbing to become standard policy. After that came the despoilment of Africa….

[While white supremacy] was the rule of the land, North and South, [the idea that] enslavement [was the] inherent status of an entire race [seemed most vociferously expressed by] indolent Southern “gentlemen”… [those] shiftless, degraded petty tyrants of Dixie. [Civil war and Emancipation soon ensued, but exploitation of the poor and disenfranchised continued apace.] …[I]mmigrant “free” labor was in fact cheaper to maintain. The transcontinental railroad would have been impossible if not for the spent lives of the Chinese and the Irish. There there was the theft of Mexican soil. (I sometimes imagine an alternative history…. What if the Californios had again rebelled during the Civil War, splitting the country three ways? Then imagine that the North did not prevail over the South, and therefore three [Anglo] American republics persisted in the place of one. [Perhaps] the Native Americans of the West would [not] have been [as] wantonly slaughtered, and the Plains and the Desert would have remained a buffer zone between California, the Union, and the Confederacy. And Wars for Independence might [have succeeded] in Spanish colonies long before [the crumbling empire of] Spain and the Union ever crossed swords….

In any case, it is easy to see the idealogical stains of time upon our history. I do not believe in anything as absurd as race memory, but you cannot deny that culture is passed down generation to generation, and you can still see the detritus of Rome, the Germanic bands who would rather stay in [outside the empire]—the brand of justice practiced by Calvinist zealots during the witch trials was an unchanged relic of the [uncivilized borderlands] of the Empire of Rome. Say what you will about cultural relativity and such, but [I am not fond of cultures] that [value] warfare above all else.

While civilization is far from perfect, it does have a mitigating effect on [the manner in which we kill people.] And this scion of Rome… teeters on the edge of barbarism and calls it freedom, likening the right of the illiterate to wield destructive weaponry to the right of a well educated citizen to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

[Maybe I should have known better, but I feel like I have been lied to.] It was one thing [to live under the illusion] that [only] the past was riddled with the corpses of the poor, the Irish, the Italians, Black people, Native Americans, Mexicans, Chinese, Japanese, Filipino, Korean, et al. [In this illusion], there was hope that things could change, because democracy [is supposed to be] real and your vocie [is actually supposed to mean] something. It is another thing to [have this illusion stripped away from your eyes and] realize that nothing has changed. The cynicism and the distrust of the masses that the Founding Fathers [seeded]… the Constitution [with] echoes more soundly than the ideals [that they wrote about]… despite Thomas Jefferson’s warning. [For] we have chosen stability over freedom, and so are guaranteed neither…. Despite the facts of past history, and the horrible depradations committed by our nation that forged our prosperity, I still loved this country because I thought that [the] flag actually stood for some lofty ideal, and that his nations failings were due to natural human frailty, the unfortunate sins of [people] who [were] at least striving to be virtuous. But I see even this fuzzy rationalization stripped away, see that, like all nations and empires that came before and all that are sure to follow, we are ruled by the tyranny and greed of the rich and powerful, who care nothing for the weal of their fellow… lowly citizens, unless it somehow [ensures the] further [increase] their wealth and might, and all the words spoken for these two hundred years were [just] empty promises, merely tools of the rich and powerful to remain rich and powerful. And so [maybe] the Statue of Liberty ought to be torn down, the plaque removed. There is no haven for the ppor, for the oppressed yearning—yearning!—to be free. There is no democracy to ensure the rights of all, even the minority. Democracy is but an empty word, some abstraction left over from ancient Greece, with little of its meaning remaining. Even the claim to the less lofty label of republic is rent asunder, for it has become clear that the people in power care [very] little for res publica, the affairs of her people.

And whither now can I flee? The supposed paragon of Freedom has [displayed] her true colors…. This 200 year peculiar experiment has [finally] failed, and the tyrants [are rejoicing]. Democracy has at last been slain, not by her enemies, but by her own hand, and the most bitter pill is that no one mourns her death.

Do you believe the ghosts of your slaves have forgiven you?
Though you had unshackled chains after much blood had been shed, still there is a mountain to climb

It is written that the sting of the whip and the rod were inflicted only by petty tyrants trying to ape the majesty of ancient empires, sitting idly while your slaves sweated and bled, until the land itself was cursed and left infertile, and that the true heart of your people believed in Freedom, and they shed their own blood to insure this, that tyranny had no place here, and all were truly equal. So we were taught.

Do you believe the spectres of the ancient peoples, come here long before, and slaughtered without thought, have accepted your contrition?

It is written that only a few, the bloodthirsty and the treacherous who have no sense of human decency and dignity, who made coventants in bad faith, who slew without great cause. But it was said that the core of your people believed in the sanctity of the sovereignty of other nations, the hearts of your populace do not make idle promises, their words are honorable, and they would rather die than break troth. So we were taught.

Do you believe the phantoms of your adopted children, lured by promises of a better life, of freedom, of justice, have accepted your apologies? Though it seemed that you would at last give that promised freedom to their children, or at least their children’s children.

It is written that only the greedy, avaricious without bounds, who would sell their own children for profit, who would slay for one extra gold coin, who had tricked them into coming, leaving home, kith, and kin, to work in the vast darkness of the mines, come out spitting coal, to stoop their back in the withering heat to grow and harvest until all movement is pain, to give not only blood and sweat, but sometimes life and limb, so that twin steel rails might crisscross this great land. So we were taught.

I am trying to write out all the bitterness lying in my heart. I feel all of the sudden as if I have nothing to believe in. My faith in God and country has been shorn. I feel as if I have no allies, and am completely surrounded by enemies, who would use me as a servant, then scron me, with no reward for my loyalty. I feel like Diogenes carrying a lantern, still searching for that honest man. I knew from the start that such a quest was futile, but five years ago, I did not mind futility. Don Quixote was my hero, and I longed to emulate him, for what is a knight-errant for, but for the undertaking of futile quests? But it is a lonely life. I have no Sancho Panza patiently following me into madness, reeling me back to reality at the last moment. I am merely a dying thing, cold and afraid, and hungry. Yearning. That is the word, and what it is I yearn for I do not know.

I have lost my faith. [Not necessarily the belief that I am meant to live my life in service of others, a life of kindness, generosity, and compassion. The message of the Gospels] are deeply ingrained in me, and I have begun to see the striking similarities to [other forms of spirituality].

Only, I despair, because I do not see the fruit of its practice. No, in my own life, I do see it, though it sometimes wracks my soul. But I despair because I am alone, or at least feel thus. I have no fellow practitioners of the faith. Particularly if you imagine that the U.S. is supposed to be a Christian nation [at least if you believe certain segments of the population instead of the words of the Founding Fathers.] Particularly when you think about the fact that the Philippines is mostly Catholic. In [so many cases], you see zealots parading about, spewing incomprehensible arcane doctrine from their mouths, completely missing [the point of the Gospels and of the Great Commandment], which ultimately, not unlike Buddha, is to deny self [and to eschew vainglory.]

[I am guessing what time it really is.] I am suddenly inspired by Borges and by Radiohead (I [am in] love [with] their song “Idioteque”). It is troubling that my life only became bearable when I [started fantasizing that] I was dying [from an indolent disease with a protracted course of illness] (although we [really] are all dying….) This allowed me to rest my mind and actually go to sleep content. I imagined the lengthy doctor’s visits and hospital stays, [spending my last days] tramping throughout the countryside, and maybe to the Old World. Give me an excuse to visit Rome and London. And I would write. How joyous that would be! But this is only assuming that my insurance would pay. I would hopefully get to die in a morphine haze.

What happened to me, that I cannot [seem to] manage my own Destiny? I feel as if I had been put on a frozen pond without skates, as merry revellers dance easily in circles around me, hand-in-hand. It is this that makes it seem madness is inevitable. I [find myself in a major depression] and I’m not sure I can really blame the seasons.

I would be willing to accept my powerlessness, but no one else seems to agree. I am willing to leave my Destiny up to the Fates, [to] God, [to] Random Change, or whoever, but other voices exhort me to take control of my life. I know that the pursuit of material things is hollow and empty, but I live in a society where [consumerism] has been elevated to a virtue.

I do not think I am like other egotistical men [although of course that’s exactly what an egotist would say] who believe that they are superior to their fellows, who struggle alone in arrogance, thinking that they need no one. No, for me, my egotism manifets thus: I know for a fact that I need other people, but [the people who happen to be around me] I find I despise…. I [can’t even really explicate why I] despise them either, only that other people make me nervous and I am often likely the one to be tossed out of a group. Am I truly scarred for life because I was always picked last for kickball? 😃

It is because I have had very few triumphs, I think. Very different from accomplishments. Accomplishments I can tally off… but triumphs, oh, they are rare.

Even for a day, or just a space of hours, no, even [just] minutes of savoring. I know the word triumphant connotes victory, and victory connotes conquest, but conquest over others is not what I mean. It is conquest over circumstance, especially if they are unfavorable. And not because you were lucky ([although] you probably were) and not because you [necessarily] knew what you were doing and you were able to master your Fate, but because you knelt before Fortune bravely, not knowing whether she would bless or curse you, yet willing to accept the consequences.

So in that way, one could triumph even in defeat, which may be why I [am fantasizing about] dying.

It’s like I’m driving down a desert roat, lost and confused, but then suddenly headlights appear in my rearview, and it’s a Corvette, but I’m driving a beatup old Tauraus, so I know there’s no point to racing, but I [slam] the accelerator [down] anyway, the Corvette speeds by on my left, crossing the yellow double lines, [the] driver muttering imprecations and/or [pointing] certain fingers [at me] and yet even in [obvious] defeat, I am barrelling [down] maybe 90 or 100 [mph], and yes there’s a rush of adrenaline and maybe endorphins, but I think there might be more to it, because I would remember such things fondly. But as always, the words escape me.

It is unfortunate that usually I can see the problem, but can never determine the solution, so I’m always caught in some metaphysical limbo, and I have become afraid to try—all I’m worried about is not being blmed, and all my actons are bereft of honor, and I slink away… a damned coward.

Dare I disturb the universe? It is easier to dream happily of death, let me float down the river Morphium into dark oblivion. I no longer know how to strive. My spirit is broken, and I’m not sure it can mend. I will be a spiritual cripple all my life, and I’m beginning to wish for shorter days, not longer, and I fear this will be the last triumphless Autumn I can bear, and if the next year should pass me by once more….

It is unfortunate that the religion that I was born to emphasizes the “don’t”s more than the “do”s, and even what “do”s there are, I’ve managed to circumvent. For I do not think I love myself very much, and therefore cannot hope to love anyone else either, and as far as I can tell, my only salvation is if by some miracle of Chance, someone might love me. I try to imagine the infite love of God… but [He is] far away, I have not met [Him], nor heard [Him] utter the words that I had fervently read once upon a time.

So I am lost at sea again, and at the point where I must make a decision—to scramble back desparately to the shore, by hook or crook, thought it begins to recede out of my vision, or to surrender finally, let the tide take me to the deep waters, where I can finally drown my sorrow. I was never good at making decisions. I’d rather just let the time run out.