We are a culture that celebrates ourselves as unique individuals, except, for the most part, we don't define ourselves by our humanity but, rather, by our utility. We are what we do. Our unique specialness is tethered to our place in the world instead of the other way around. In essence, we already know what we are, all that remains is an agreement on the price.
In economic hard times, still ongoing for many in our country and for many others around the world (when America gets a cold, other nations are in intensive care), a hidden cost harder to recover from than a bank statement or a bottom line, is the injury to that part of ourselves we can't put a price tag on, our pride in who we are.
In the frenzy of an election season where there's more action than date night at Piranha High, the highs are higher and the lows are deeper, at least when the other side is telling the story. But the thing to NOT lose sight of when the edge is off of the rhetoric on Wednesday, November 6th no later than noon or so when we realize there is no revolution, just power changing hands, is that a few more of us have become the walking wounded. That old coaching admonition to 'just shake it off' only goes so far.
An adult without hope or dignity hurts, and then, in turn, hurts others, usually those closest to them so what began as a personal tragedy too often becomes a community calamity. Sing a song of sixpence for your sake, and take a bottle full of rye. Four and twenty blackbirds in a cake and bake them all in a pie. Crow, too often, tastes the same.
-bill kenny
No comments:
Post a Comment