Bloom

CW: Contains strong language and themes of violence and discrimination

In 1848 near Boston little Jimmy Thompson was lynched for stealing two apples. Murder left unnoticed. In 1912 in the suburbs of London two twin sisters Emma and Thelma were beaten rather harshly, considering the circumstances, for sleeping in the stable of the local farmer, when he and his cronies just happened to pass by on their way back to the house after a fun time spent. Beating left unnoticed. In 1951 a 34 years old Emanuel Hetz served 2 years in prison after being accused of having a homosexual leanings and acting inappropriately in a public place. And even though he was a homosexual, his behavior that day could only be described by nothing more than an attempt to hug the gentleman that he was destined to be dealing with and just good manners which were expressed as a gratitude and excitement for a colleague and, as he thought at that time, a friend, for making him a favor. It happened in.... Everywhere. All of these cases were taking place at a certain period of time in the certain places, but names and years don’t matter, really. There are places where it could be considered a crime. Right at this moment. But why there are no laws that some hard-working individuals of a rather hard-boiled nature might find lazy and inappropriately beneficial to some of the undeserving parts of population that would make hunger of little Jimmy illegal? No laws preventing two young sisters, practically children, such as Emma and Thelma from wondering in the face of the night in the search of a place to sleep and running away like a marathon champions, like a dirty dog after an unsuccessful attempt to get a cuddle when the first sun beams grace the earth? And Emanuel... he just wept quietly in prison, with tears running down his cheeks, questioning whether it is worth being good mannered at all. With anybody. I don’t know too, but dear Emanuel, I whole-heartedly tried to feel your pain. But I’m afraid that an attempt to bare that much of uncertainty, anguish, anger and frustration might lead me down a road which only will bring me to an inseparable from my very existence, once achieved, disgust and devastating realization, that humans are just like that. And always have been. I’m sure, Emanuel, that that’s exactly what you thought while leaning on a cold wall in complete silence in your cell. Confronting the fact that humans voluntarily choose to perform such unjust acts as a beating, murder and lie on other humans all while staying unpunished and unquestioned might make open minded people like you disappointed in the wake of a never-ending days. But as promising as the reliving of all of the unforgettable memories and moments that worth living for can be in a place such as a rotting confinement, Emanuel hesitates. And as his frustrations bloomed, a small plant of grass grew from the floor. Small, yet as green as grass gets. He didn’t do anything with it at first, but observed. As a matter of fact, that was all he was doing for two days. Passionate attempt to grasp this little continuation of life embodied in this tiny plant, he just ripped it off and ate it. Then scratched his feet at the place where this courageous little life fought its way so hard through the dark and tight substance, which is concrete, only to be seen by our suffering Emmanuel. He scratched the remains and desperately jumped on several times on that last reminder of the life unlived, that somehow caught him off guard in his forced solitude, so it won’t grow again soon, as he confessed later to me when I got a chance to be graced with his presence. I can’t tell you much about him, for I've met him only once. I don’t remember exactly what I was up too that day, but as I was walking here and there crushed by something of an insignificant caliber, I saw some old man perform on a street for largely indifferent to unique talent pedestrians. He was singing. All by himself with, no backbeat or background music. Voice that made me stop for a moment and listen was strangely familiar but not as one I might’ve heard previously, because we've never met before, but as a voice of a great resistance, a refusal to stop looking for a beauty in every little thing. I would’ve loved to say that in his voice I found a reflection of myself, that I was him for a second, but that is just simply not true, for I was truly pathetic, all messed up and really concerned about, as I said before, unimportant and forgettable. Something material. So after he finished to no applause, I walked up to him and just thanked him. That was all I said, as I immediately was looked at by him with great satisfaction and appreciation. Nobody looked at me like that in my recent memory. I was a center for Emanuel during that brief moment, so I knew I had to say something more, but didn’t know what. I knew that I felt pathetic and angry, but also recognized in some way by him through his singing and flattered by his unproportionate attention to me for such a small thing as sincerely saying these two words: Thank you.

So since prior to that encounter I had some problems with the law, consequences of which I was still carrying then, I was, understandably so, very enraged by the whole thing, my state of being, my mindset, everything which I could’ve changed if I didn’t hate myself. So in order to get comforted by him, without noticing how my eyes started getting little wet, in need of some catharsis, I began my not so coherent manifesto about law and general human nature, which I began this letter with. And so I told him:

-Sir, sometimes I feel that ..

-Just Emanuel, not a Sir,-said with his eyes still locked in on me.

-Sure, Emanuel. You know, sometimes I feel that obeying the law might be equal to shooting yourself in the leg. Or in the hand. Or in the fucking ass. To shooting your own precious butt. Seriously. As if the law serves itself rather than the people. As if the law is that annoying bitch that just keeps whining about her huge self-importance and talent if you don’t point out each fucking second how grandiose and irreplaceable and underrated she is. I mean as if the fucking law can appreciate how law-obeying it is. But it can’t. It just can’t, comparing to those poor souls thrown into that saw of lies, bureaucracy, gossip, racism and hate and all over the place being preached by the untouchable bitch which is in some cases, let’s be honest, just cultivates all this violence by suddenly being uninterested in the murder of little Jimmy Thompson from Boston. Have you ever heard about Jimmy Thompson, Emanuel? It was in 1848 in Boston and...Emm, it is just like it to this day! You know what he did, the Jimmy Thompson I mean? That kid only stole two apples and those fuckers lynched him right on the spot! It is also only mildly curious about place to sleep for young sisters such as Emma and Thelma. Thelma and Emma Buckinghams from London. From that year of....Emm..Ah,1912! I’m sure you heard about a millions of such sisters in your time, didn’t you? And the fate of Emanuel also just couldn’t concern that bitch at all. All of us are considered criminals, suspects and potential rulebreakers. And all of that inhumane shit, which just seems to keep those involved in maintaining this precious order busy enough not to pathetically lose their jobs, must be paid at least 12 pounds an hour for each shit guard.

- God forbid to call that labor, because it by no means is, but what has to be paid has to be paid, couldn’t argue with that. For some people it is their only way to sustain life, you know? Even more! For some people it’s their dream job, can you even imagine that?

The way Emanuel said it lacked something that I got used to very long time ago. Judgement. His way of saying those words was as if he liked my way of thinking or even agreed with me. As if without saying it, he concluded, that yes, really, some people just never seem to really see or experience the fierce punch that law would slap at you for disobeying it, while some are specifically targeted by it itself. But regardless of his own stance, which I found out later was very similar to mine, he showed compassion with no hesitation.

And so struck by his genuine attention, which I consider a to be a form of a subtle praise, I asked him to sing a song once again.