When Samson was in utero, I started calling him “Baby Jihad.” You could say, I got caught up in the whole Iraq War debacle and was hoping other parents-to-be would catch on and send word of “resistance” to their unborn.
Let’s face it, when it comes to resistance, our society is impotent. We are sheep. Herded by the judiciary as well as the economy; fearful of the most draconian legal system in the world and potential loss of income keep us tightly balled and behaving. Lawfulness and wealth are the only two factors society deems respectable. So my question is: what’s the youth going to do about it? Where is their spirit of fight…unconformity…dissatisfaction manifested in out-and-out anti-disestablishmentarianism? Some parents play Mozart to their unborn, in hopes of making them smarter. Me? Public Enemy all the way.
Feeling this way has been in me a constant. It resurfaced last Thursday morning, when Hope and I sat on the porch drinking coffee. We’ve started the “Coffee Club:” our half-an-hour of peace and Zen-like emptiness to catch up and sip some Joe. Starting the day as God intended.
“The youth seem so cow-towed, so completely at a loss when it comes to making their presence felt.” This really happened—at 6.30am.
“I…”
“I know what you’re going to say,” cutting her off and sending her back to commune with the soft, fluffy top of her cappuccino. Yes, with our morning cuppa we foam. “But the kids of this country have been placated by gaming, sugar and an anti-social society that frowns upon them being able hang out. In a group, they’re seen as criminal. And their boisterousness or mischievousness usually ends in court. Kids in the US run the gauntlet in just trying to be themselves.”
“And you suggest they take up arms?”
Even in the half-light of the new day, Hope knows my trigger points.
“Yes! No! I mean, take it to the institutions. Don’t conform. Don’t buy in and by doing so, stop the self-perpetuating cycle of our sick societal propriety.”
“So, when they’re old enough, you want your kids to fight the power too?”
Ah. Hmm. Taking it to the streets is a tough road. In 1989 I saw the revolution in Prague in, the then, Czechoslovakia. People of all ages, all walks of life came out to protest and even died to bring about change.
Ruled since the end of WWII by a Soviet system that imprisoned people for their beliefs and practiced espionage within the society to weed out dissent or anti-party feeling—family members would literally spy on other family members and report them to the authorities—the prolits could no longer take the persecution. Big Brother had life by the scruff of the neck and society was divided into the communist oligarchy—those who believed and worked for the party and reaped all the financial benefits and social status—and everyone else, educated or not.
Now, to make the comparison with our country is to stretch the theory a little thin. But in a society where companies take out life insurance policies on their staff, having in the wording of such documents, “the dead peasants clause.” And when you have the American oligarchy receiving financial literature from their investment companies, in this case Citigroup's Citigroup-Oct-16-2005-Plutonomy-Report-Part-1", declaring the country a “plutonomy.” (a society "where economic growth is powered by and largely consumed by the wealthy few"), with the top 1% of the population controlling more financial wealth than the bottom 95% combined. The question is, like it was in Czechoslovakia, can the youth become the catalyst for change? Because is it not the youth who have the zeal to lift up the rest of society from chewing the placating cud they’ve been fed for so long they no longer know the difference between citizenship and bondage? Where are our Baby Jihadists?
That still doesn’t answer Hope’s question. Did I want my kids to storm the barricades? If it’s to bring about a society they feel is fair and where the electorate are truly considered then, yes. Unfortunately, I didn’t have enough of my wits about me to tell her this. Rambling diatribes tend to make you forget the whole point of the conversation in the first place. Though, I shall express my feelings to her as soon as I finish this post.
“Hope,” I will say. “I know you think me an armchair agent provocateur. In this you have cause. I’ve made the decision that we will not be enrolling Samson for summer camp, but will have him instructed in the art of people organization and propaganda dissemination.” I’ll say it just like that. Her family already suspects that she’s with a “Red.” So why disappoint?
Well, taking this discussion into the evening, I began mixing margaritas. The key is to make the sour mix from scratch. Limes, lemons and oranges all squeezed, and an egg white mixed in. The egg white keeps the fruit mix and tequila from separating and makes it a smooth drink. Over this a little Grand Marnier a la Cadillac style and vavooom, you have yourself something gutsy and delicious. With two of these to our names, I started playing Samson Youtube videos of his father’s era of social distaste with songs like “God Save The Queen,” “We’re So Pretty,” “Take A Walk On The Wild Side,” “Hong Kong Garden” and “Holiday In Cambodia (that’s before it became chic to do so).” Samson was enthralled. Hooked! His head was bobbing up and down as the video of showing Holly plucking her eyebrows and shaving her legs. Since that night Samson tells people he likes Rock ‘N’ Roll. Hope and I were dancing/pogoing and I was becoming more crazed and deranged about rebellion and resistance.
“We need to raise a baby revolutionist!” I implored. “Samson!” I bellowed. “Public action is public opinion!” Yeah, I was Robespierre, alright, with a cocktail glass spilling its contents with each nonsensical declaration slurring from my maw. Samson thought his mamma and pappa really entertaining, especially when they fell over in a heap. He didn’t want to go to bed. I didn’t care. Bedtime was conformity. And conformity was death. No more bedtime!
I really don’t remember what happened after that.
The next morning, the coffee club adjourned. We sat in a non-communicative bliss, nursing all that throbbed and ached.
“How is the pappa of Baby Jihad, this morning?” asked Hope.
“mmmmmm.”
“Had enough of rocking the boat?”
“For the moment,” putting the safety on my trigger I suspected she was about to pull.
“You know last night’s indoctrination of your “Baby Revolutionist” used the tool we capitalists call commercial music?”
“He’s young. I don’t want to blow his mind.”
“Seems a bit contradictory to use a product sold by EMI, GEFFEN and whatever other labels you were D Jaying to promote rebellion, when you give me grief for buying our kid’s clothes at the evil corporate GAP?”
“How many pairs of pants did Che Guevara need, anyway?” I said.
“Oh, I suppose the same number as it takes in albums to make an insurgent?”
“Even Zapata fell off his horse.” I bellowed. It was too early for this kind of treatment.
“Oh?” said Kitten. “What song is that? I don’t think I know it.”
Thank God for foamy coffee. Very soothing.
No comments:
Post a Comment