In a bit of bittersweet reflection, as I watched Major Bush Kong glide into the Texas sunset, I shed an apprehensive tear that politicks will be boring again. How I will miss those days when the news was stranger than fiction.
2001-2009. It was a time when the US federal administration seemingly couldn’t get any more absurd, be it on the field or off (a special thanks to Dick C). Bush. Cheney. Rove. Ashcroft. Condi. Wolfowitz.
Neocons. USA Patriot Act.
Project for a New American Century.
Rumsfeld.
Oh Rums, we hardly knew you!
As I look at the past home team roster, it reads to me as a veritable Yankee hit list of all-stars. The ghosts of history on this list take me back through eight years of an amazing story for America, the world, and a personal awakening and deeper connection, to my own world, around me.
While I’d been a watcher of the news, and had an uncommon interest in the world, at least as compared to the average mid-west US kid growing up, I had never experienced a feeling of looking in from the outside and wondering ‘how could this be happening’, as I had when this crew came on scene. I too, watched in shock and disbelief when planes were flying into NYC buildings in 2001 September, however, it was the episodes and events in the days following that were equally as shocking and unbelievable to that 23 year old.
If I could point to any one particular catalyst for me that was a point of change (or a bookmark, if you will), it was the Homeland Security Act, and the elements of seemingly cartoonish apocalyptic fear and propaganda that were wrought of that bill, but namely the Homeland Security Advisory System.
Within days of its birth from the pangs of liberty, everything in my life was of that image: from the daily possibility of server failure at work that I’d posted on the wall for the student body to bear witness, to the graphical elements of satire you see on this very blog. Girl or Dog, dot Org. My freedom depended on it. Which would it be! What kind of defensive posture should I take in my day-to-day life? What were the chances that I’d be attacked!?
Terror, and the ability to measure it using a simple 5-pack of Crayola, was everywhere in my life. And because Tom Ridge and DHS told me it should be. Terror, and the insuing hilarity, which I found was often the only way to deal with the absurdity of this fear, followed me everywhere in my life. And I encouraged it.
From the aformentioned elements of parody, to even across the ocean to Deutschland, where on a small Munich tv set, I witnessed the first “decapitation strike” and opening salvos. Germany, where BigRome and I pleaded with the locals, “don’t riot on our skull, Wir sind Kanadieren,” the insanity of the administration and the reputation of the US voting majority backing it was global. Holding passports from Jesusland just wasn’t a popular thing in the eyes of “Old Europe.” Somehow we knew Iceland’s three troop commitment and other members of the “Coalition of the Willing” were not going to rescue us. (Interestingly enough, this was days after rendezvousing with Sulley near Kaiserslautern, whom was on the beginnings of his own encounter with the madness. A rather memorable, fascinating time to be abroad for all!)
Aside: it’s a shame some of the earlier glory posts of GoD were lost in a tragic systems failure. (DHS, indeed…didn’t see it coming.)
The war dragged on, both home and abroad. And so did my life.
Oh, the memories. Oh! The insanity.
But a new dawn breaks. I hope and believe that in parallel this new chapter of American government and politics, I too have a new chapter and ticket to ride. Things may be grim looking out my front door, but by chosing hope, I will make it out and beyond these boarders and past years, and to new success, new adventures, and happiness, (or a close facsimile thereof.)
Epilogue.
As the incoming and former Presidents hugged, and Bush boreded the helicopter and flew over DC, watching the Obamas and Bidens at the Capital steps recalled my own personal memories of waves to my grandparents, and watching them wave back from the large picture window of their house as we drove home from a visit. Nearly tears. I kid you not. Just like my snowy holiday visits to my grandparents, the drama, the memories with such weight. Just like a movie. Watching this now, I scarcely believe that the eight year movie is over.
While I don’t doubt the next book will have it’s own moments of hoch drama, I know this book will be different. On “Day-3″, as the heady confetti falls its last flutter, I’m already seeing elements and patterns of interest, with possible drama brewing. But I’ll never forget these amazing past eight years of my life.
Mein Führer, I can walk.
Ah Vera, you said it with such hope and longing: We’ll meet again, some sunny day!
Wow, BP. That was an excellent post — I’d forgotten how much I enjoy your perspective. One of these days we’re going to have to try to live in the same state again so I can talk to you more often.
You mentioned how you and Ryan claimed to be Canadian at one point to fend off anti-American sentiment. Unfortunately, when I was in Germany, I spent the majority of my time in an American military uniform, so I couldn’t exactly pose as anything else when I stopped at the market after work. The majority of the locals, of course, spoke perfect English, but were completely unwilling to compromise with an American. So every time I wanted to order the damned Kasespaetzle, I’d have to go through the same dance to make sure the waitress understood that I didn’t want any pork products with it.
ME: Sprechen Sie Englisch?
HER: Nein.
ME: Hablas espanol?
HER: Nein.
ME: Parlate italiano? Parlez-vous francais?*
HER: Okay, I speak a little bit of English.
* = I don’t actually speak Italian or French. At all.