"Powerful Is, As Powerless Does." : A Lazarus Graim Tale

Not too long ago, a brilliant, beloved immigrant of ours, who fled his home because of hate and anti-Semitism, decided to teach us about time. He confirmed what our guts already knew: when we’re happy it’s uncontrollably fast, when we suffer it’s interminably slow. Ultimately, we are powerless to its progression. I’ve always shrugged my shoulders about this. Time for me is a nonevent. I’ve stood above everything yet still touched lives, inspired hearts and reveled in the progress…. but just between you and me after this past term…. I finally get it.

“THIS IS NOT HOW THINGS ARE MEANT TO BE.”

   His newly-discovered anxiety screams silently, reflecting against my hallowed walls. Exhaustedly, I attempt to empathize with his inner confusion. I feel my exasperation rising at his half-formed ideas and his innate inability to just be still.

At the very start of this arduous journey, I shook my head in disbelief at his attempts to appear industrious. All his bestest words. My worry became more acute as his self-serving, cowardly advisors kept quietly nodding at his faulty use of the word genius. I was disregarded as he soaked himself, and thus my country, in their artificial blood, dishonest sweat and crocodile tears. All that damn money wasted on the rich and not one blue collar rewarded, not one dream saved, not one eye dried. All his greedy family members sycophantly pawing at his ego to get crumbs from his stolen table. All his imaginary sacrifices. All his questionable heroism.

But where is he now? He’s reached a realization and can no longer deny the fact that his attempt to usurp me was for nothing. I smile through all the portraits of this house and listen to his ego whimpering the words, “This isn't fair.”

   I watch him pace on my plush carpet. His eyes following the green pattern of laurels along the outer edge. I sense that his belief in his Caligulan destiny and faith in the imperative that he alone should hold power is returning. I watch his aging chest swell. He stops dead center and looks down. There it is: my majestic feathered symbol. He turned it into a predator. He reminded us all that this creature has been the symbol of so many empires. The symbol of his heroes and mentors. So-called great visionaries who, through blood and fire, built legacies. Fortunately, after leaving black marks in our history books, these too crumbled. And if I may add, way before their thousand-year destiny was fulfilled. Still, these epochs left their undeniable imprint on our collective consciousness.

   Yes, he stood on my magnificent symbol and took pleasure in how he had corrupted it. Now, its right talon carried thirteen arrows of unjust war, its left held a feeble branch of broken alliances and self-serving peace, and the shield upon its proud chest deflected slings and arrows of constructive criticism and elevated discourse. Oh, how the mighty eagle had fallen. Do not worry, old friend—we will right this.

   I saw this infantile creature view all others as lesser in every way, certainly of lesser genius than him. Most had stood in that same spot and were a beacon of hope to all the frightened folks of this great nation. He imagined those men as mere mortals and not the heroes they were. In his childlike spite, he saw them all as unworthy.

Still, his imagination could not help but be curious. Had any ever gone behind that desk and taken Old Glory in a tight embrace? Had any dared to sniff gently at its fabric, caressing its folds hoping to be blessed by its historical significance. He wondered if any had hugged that cloth and felt their hanging scrotums tighten and their shafts stiffen (with no medical assistance) at just the promise of imminent power. Surprisingly, fewer than he imagined. Perversion is common amongst my residents—I make no apologies— but this level of insecure narcissism was new. Even for me. I watched him look longingly over at my old friend, but it held no power for him this evening. This evening the flagpole was still below half-mast.

“THIS IS NOT HOW THINGS ARE MEANT TO BE.”

   I observed his rage steaming up as he propelled his foot to connect with the white couch. His black leather orthopaedic shoe was deflected, and his hip almost gave out. He caught his balance and his breath and tried to steady himself. All the deception, all the half-truths, blatant lies, and disrespect he’d shown my folks. I’d watched speechless as they’d gobbled it up. I stood aghast at this inexperienced, cruel and unusual turkey farmer. I could not turn away, nor could I issue a warning as all these anxious and armed fools gobble, gobble, gobbled up his poisoned social media feed. They’d pecked, swallowed, believed and fought for all of it. He’d thrown generous handfuls of tweets, FB posts, re-posts—anything to get those loyal birds fattened on his deceit. And they’d loved it. How they’d celebrated him, how they’d championed him. How they’d rally to his impossible defense every single time. How they’d applauded him. Excusing his blatant scapegoating, as it conveniently fitted their narrow world views. They all nodded in unison as he spouted theories that the globe is not warming up, the epidemics are a Chinese conspiracy, white supremacists are great folks. The list went on.

Heartbroken and silent, I stood forgotten. My tears rained upon the swamps of this great capitol. The irony of poison is that it may kill the very thing it feeds upon. Some will grow mad on poison. My soul shuddered at the images of peaceful, law-abiding folks taking to our streets to exercise that most sacred right of mine, being then intimidated, beaten even killed by those who would value the second over the first. They’re called Amendments for a reason folks…. Amendments! Look the word up. All of this brutality committed out of some perverted sense of Law and Order needing to be restored. His supporters defended the homicides committed but as for him? Oh he's a slippery one. 

He twisted and twirled to deny it happened in his name. Openly denying and openly supporting, that was his cha-cha, the waltz of his power play. Obvious injustices denied and travesties carried out in his support were either left uncommented or were relativized. The last bastions of those commonsense, republic-loving turkeys who still believed in what I’ve always stood for, reeled with a severe sense of unreality.

I hated him and my hate grew as he rubbed his hands with glee and pleasure in what he deemed true genius. His idiotic self-satisfaction was a usual source of self-pleasing shockwaves that went inevitably groinwards. Tonight, however there was no physical reaction. So sad.

“THIS IS NOT HOW THINGS ARE MEANT TO BE.”

   The baffled toddler threw a tantrum and balled his fists towards the heavens. The momentum made his age-addled brain falter and he closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose to establish himself as the center of all things again. In the sparks that lit up the interior of his eyelids he saw the fireworks of countless rallies and the white bright faces of all the god-fearing Christians who laid their fear-driven messiah need at his feet.

Had I not separated religion and state all those blood-fueled years ago? All these evangelicals enjoying the freedoms I was born out of but who wanted war with all other religions. Say what now? These religious zealots who felt a need to tell women what to do with their bodies and to enforce the hegemony of man/women relations. All these callous souls who misinterpreted my foundation with breath-taking arrogance stood at his side. All my ignorant Caucasians still so desperate to feel superior on these shores and still trying to rationalize all the atrocities carried out by their current and ancestral DNA. They all turned from me and flocked to him.

Why? The reason was moronically simple and left me shamed and naked to certain ignominious facts. They had needed a savior because their weak constitutions had been unable to stomach eight years of fair leadership from a science championing, all-inclusive-religion-tolerating, liberal Nubian. A man who, as one of my legacy, embodied the grace and character of my promise. Not a flawless man, but a man with a flawless ability to admit mistakes when necessary and promise future improvement. A characteristic I have tried to champion in all who’ve wondered my corridors, travelled my lands and read my founding texts. Eight years of a man embodying my tenements of uplifting the weak, instead of the philosophy of might is right.

This frustration had festered in in the callous and cruel, it had left them feeling unwanted, irrelevant, disregarded, no longer part of the greater scheme and the master race. I was sympathetic and allowed them still to speak freely about their predicament on a very primeval level which suited me just fine. But much to my disgrace, I underestimated the lengths these folks would go to. They went and elevated him. They celebrated his every thought, action and corresponding legislation.

Sure, my champions of the people in congress pushed back but his boot-licking senate put them back to bed like so many insufferable infants. The checks and balances that I had placed all those centuries ago served his purpose through inaction and procrastination. He had looked at this perversion and saw only beauty.

His party became a clockwork machine that brought ill-gotten sons of bitches back to their illusion of some God-given supremacy. They vindicated his desire to stop vulnerable brown humans from coming to these promised lands. His fences feigned ownership and by default his followers believed the land was theirs again. My ignorant sons and daughters cheered at his “wonderful” protective wall. Erected to shield his white cis followers from their paranoia-fueled fantasies of their women being ravaged by brown invaders. He rescinded legislation that decreed that man/woman relations are not the only option for humans. He inspired these bigots by ridiculing and removing soldiers from my armies not on anything to do with desertion or cowardice but based solely on who they love.

Oh, his popularity became an impenetrable mindset and my bastion of goodness, decency, and kindness began to crumble.

I watched on; forlorn and forgotten except during candlelight vigils when my citizens of all colors, creeds, genders, and ages took to the streets demanding justice for the deaths of black, brown, indigenous citizens at the hands of those shameful, overzealous, over-armed, overbearing, blue clad maniacs who still acted upon their shameful overseer ancestry when it came to policing citizens who did not look or believe exactly what they did.

I cried as progress was set back. I know I’m not perfect. I know there were plentiful atrocities in the past, but we were on a path of healing till this jack-booted fool kicked me into the gutter while claiming to make me great again. Nothing seemed to tarnish him. But if he’d listened at all. If he hadn’t believed in his own immortality like a child, he may have seen that the poison was starting to take its toll.

“THIS IS NOT HOW THINGS ARE MEANT BE.”

He shouts like a mewling brat at the door to my oval office.

   On the other side of that wonderful door of opportunity stand four Chiefs of Staff. Four great men who watched their beloved country fall to ridicule. Four brave men who, in the last four years, witnessed the rise of the very thing, when called upon, their daddies had gone to war against. Four men of integrity who understood their country stood for inclusion of all humans. Who understood, that in my world, the words on the Statue of Liberty are not to be mocked. Four patient men who had had to watch good soldiers forced out of my service for no other reason than choosing to follow one of my central tenements: always choose integrity over self-promotion.

I’d wept at their suffering when their so-called commander in chief called their fallen comrades, losers. These four enlightened men understood that Jesus may give you strength in times of trouble, that faith may help, especially in combat, but you turn to men of science and progress to solve man-made problems. That you listen to those men of integrity, you do not scapegoat and you assure a frightened populace that these men have their best interests at heart. That you damn well put the lives of your folks above the economy. What good is an economy if there are no folks to flourish under it. That’s the deal, that’s the dream, that’s why they were always better dealmakers than him.

   Four good men stand grimly at my door about to go in and carry out a duty made necessary through sheer stupidity and unbelievable arrogance. My heart finally feels an almost forgotten healing power as they say in unison:

“FORTUNATELY SIR, THIS IS HOW THINGS ARE MEANT TO BE.”