America is Dying and Nobody Can Save It
January 15 is the birth date of Martin Luther King Jr. The 3-day weekend is mandatory because Americans love any excuse to fuck off from work and actually live.
The American way is to work until we can’t see straight. The stats prove that other countries are big fans of afternoon fiestas and beefy vacation time — but The United States is united in the understanding that corporations need to discipline workers — with the attitude that once you sign on the dotted lines and release your bank information for pay deposits — you are basically — sold.
Martin Luther King Jr. lived for the nation that abhorred him and died in a fashion that demonstrated why his feelings were not reciprocated. He died in Memphis, Tennessee and his assassinator was a young White man named James Earl Ray.
From Selma to the Mountaintop to the now that painfully rebukes all that our leaders demanded — as if they knew that those moments would unfold into increments of shame and disrepair. We can’t escape the truth of our imminent demise.
America is dying and neither you nor I can save it.
King’s celebrated speech that was recited literally the day before he was felled by a single bullet in front of a rusty motel — has been referenced with devotion and clothed with the reverence of a biblical verse that is supposed to be cuddled from the pricks of masters — past and present.
That fight ended on November 8, 2016.
Democracy entered the ring and the opponents didn’t disappoint as the blows revealed the rift of citizens that don’t want the residue of a history that propels light into darkness. They want the effortless transfer of power from the seed of guilt to the seat of dangerous comfort.
Martin Luther King Jr. knew that he was going to be killed by a White man. He knew that nobody could save him. He understood that by spewing words of faith and mental elimination — the chances that he would see the promised reach the land of their merit were very slim.
Yet, he said what he said, stood where he stood, and allowed himself to be a puddle of iconic proportions. It was an awesome sacrifice, and trust me when I say that he wasn’t being a martyr when he gave it all up for us. He was merely a man that submitted to the duty of being an American who put in the time and was disciplined enough to coerce his spirit to conceive the testimony — of what eyes can see when you keep them closed enough to finagle the darkness:
And then I got to Memphis. And some began to say the threats, or talk about the threats that were out. What would happen to me from some of our sick white brothers?
Well, I don’t know what will happen now. We’ve got some difficult days ahead. But it doesn’t matter with me now. Because I’ve been to the mountaintop. And I don’t mind. Like anybody, I would like to live a long life. Longevity has its place. But I’m not concerned about that now. I just want to do God’s will. And He’s allowed me to go up to the mountain. And I’ve looked over. And I’ve seen the promised land. I may not get there with you. But I want you to know tonight, that we, as a people, will get to the promised land. So I’m happy, tonight. I’m not worried about anything. I’m not fearing any man. Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord.
There it is. America was alive when the latter half of King’s impeccable speech became the crux of a quilted civilization. It mattered why and how leaders of a revolution could stand the stench of a flood carrying rotten bodies through the streets of a modernized Mecca.
King died, because his wounds were too severe.
America is dying because the wounds are dried up and the scabs are falling around us like poisoned ashes — fluttering into the monitors of our reality. There is no energy left to galvanize the movement towards a reasonable quest of why this state of mind can’t be tolerated past the deadline of coherent approval.
As a person of color — it’s torturous to celebrate the life of a man, an American, a known solider, a poet, husband, father, and well-suited warrior during this period of incomprehensible strife.
How can we label this tradition “a holiday” when the definition of such is so far removed from what we are now trying to accept as the nucleus of our existence?
A wealthy, White bully with a host of backers that share his feeble mind has been thrust into the spotlight — armed with the weapon to enhance the demise of a country that was programmed to guarantee his adherence to a structure that will curse the affected and maddened.
Are you in that league? Are you out of your mind with quiet and loud noises that toy with you each time you sit stoically and observe the surroundings — moving along on queue?
Are you dying inside as the days leading to the most volatile and inexplicably detrimental occasion in this nation’s history approaches with a fury — that twists the folders of your memory and the memories of those we salute?
Is your your hand forced into actions that speak too loudly but, sedately enough to recognize the symptoms of a slow and steady death.
This work isn’t easy or clean. Dirt rushes in and suffocates all we know without burying the very thing we keep for emergencies. “The mountaintop” is “God’s will” and we all know the implications of this level of surrender.
When global inequities reach a feverish tempo — America goes into the slums of war as the categorized “World Police” that is tasked with the responsibility of restoring law and order.
The American way is to work until we can’t see straight. We sell out and give in to the “dream” that was constructed to keep us quiet and firmly secured within the scoundrels of white picket fences — and the Whiteness that infects with blemishes and marks of tears that fall violently into the hospice of our sickly minds.
America is dying and we trip over the landmarks that laugh at our clumsiness. We have merely days to save ourselves.
What day is it?