toadstar2019’s Weblog

In the beginning was the word. And with the word came power. The power to change the world, to change peoples minds. Martin Luther showed the power of the word when he nailed his Ninety-five Theses on the power of Indulgences to the door of the Castle Church in Wittenberg, Germany.

I went to my study to hone the one weapon that I know the best, the one I know can start a revolution. The word.

I think about our journey, from Houston to here. A journey fraught with uncertainty and fear. I am reminded of Carl Sandburg and his poem ‘The People, Yes’ – a poem written for another generation of people who were forced from their homes in search of food and shelter, starving, hysterical, on the brink of madness. They went west to California, to fertile lands filled with green grass and promise. And like those people in Sandburg’s poem, we too will live on. We the learning and blundering people will live on.

I moved to Houston when I was 19. I didn’t want to move. Especially to Texas, but move I did. And after a while I made a life for myself. Found a girl, got married, had two children. I had settled there, found rootholds. I had always longed to leave the city. That humongous city without a center, without a heart. I wanted to go someplace smaller, someplace with seasons, but the rootholds held me fast. I didn’t want to leave our parents and extended families behind.

Until the storms started. In 2015 the Gulf Coast was ravaged by storms. Millions of people were displaced. Unwanted. Left behind.

After the first storm things slowly started to get better. Trucks of food and ice arrived on time. The local governments had learned from the mistakes of Hurricane Ike. They had local companies that stood in for FEMA. They could handle one storm. Not two. Not three. After the third storm-the infrastructure fell apart. People were left without food. Without water and power. Roads were blocked by debris. After six days without help; six days without hope, the people started to revolt. It wasn’t long before those in power declared a state of emergency, which quickly degenerated into martial law. We became prisoners in our own homes.

The National Guard and various government-hired mercenary armies took over our city, led by the Department of Homeland Security. They treated all of us like looters – and in their minds all looters are terrorists.

We woke up early one morning to the sound of a bunch of black suits storming my neighbors’ home. Bad information indicated that their oldest son was involved in the looting. They took his father, who suffers from ALS, and threw him to the ground. Took their guns and pointed them in his face. Yelling at him. Demanding answers. He had no answers, he can hardly speak. After their interrogation of him, one of them hit him in the face with his M-16 riffle, knocking him unconscious, as they dragged of his son, black mask forced over his face, mother, wife and child crying. Begging, not to take him away. The black suits ignored them.

It was soon after that we decided to leave. I couldn’t live in a city in which those who were brought here to protect us from terrorism, are worse than the terrorists. We had to leave. So we packed up a few precious belongings and headed west. Toward freedom.

In the darkness with a great bundle of grief the people march

In the night, and overhead a shovel of stars for keeps, the people march:

Where to? What next?