STUPID AMERICAN

The combination of warm Saki and sashimi balances as yin with yang.

“Call me ‘Goose,’” our server smiles shyly.

I feel his humility and his openness is endearing. After all, he introduced himself by his nickname.

“Where are you from?” he asks with sincere interest.

I never know how to answer that question. Sometimes I say the “San Francisco Bay Area,” where I grew up. Or, “Phoenix, AZ” - the first home I ever made for myself. Most of the time, I tell people my races.

“French-Vietnamese and Chinese. You?” I inquire back.

“Indonesian.”

My mother made a pit stop and popped me out onto a pile of banana leaves in the jungles of Galanga Island, Indonesia en route to the U.S. from Vietnam.

“I don’t know Galanga Island,” Goose shrugs casually.

That’s weird. Why not? Is there something wrong with my birth certificate?

“There are about 17,000 islands and almost just as many different cultures and languages in Indonesia. It’s impossible to know them all,” Goose educates.

Another Stupid American moment. Of course, I didn’t know that Goose and I were born in the Pacific Ring of Fire. Of course, I didn’t know that the Pacific Ring of Fire is a 25,000 mile horse-shoe shaped basin in the Pacific Ocean that extends from Java to Sumatra through the Himalayas, the Mediterranean, and out into the Atlantic. Of course, I didn’t know that it’s home to 452, over 75%, of the world’s volcanoes, of which Indonesia's is among the most active, making it a perpetual breeding ground for new island formations, new civilizations, new languages, and new cultures. Of course, I didn’t know it's also home to 90% of the world’s earthquakes, 89% of which are the largest on the planet. How would I know? I’ve grown up in the U.S. ever since I was five and a half months old, and they never told me in school or on TV. These facts are not mainstream, popular knowledge, but Kim Kardashin’s current divorce is.

It’s getting late. We’re the last ones left, closing down the house as usual. My friend and I feel guilty for keeping Goose, so we hurry up, declaring a wasabi-eating contest to finish off the last of the sashimi. Goose kindly allays our worries and tells us he’ll stay as long as we want.

“It’s my job,” he claims dutifully.

His honor is deep, reminding me of the old Asian loyalty I felt in Chinese Kung Fu flicks I watched growing up.

“What else do you do besides this?” I ask.

“I went to school for mechanical engineering. I had a job but got laid off, because the economy is bad. I just work here to help my friend. It’s easy and fun.”

Surprise, surprise.

“I want to visit Indonesia on my Southeast Asia tour!” I beam.

“You look Chinese, and you are White,” he says to us. “They’ll kill you. Many are Muslim people, trained to hate and kill ever since they are born. They hate everybody. They flew the planes in the World Trade Center. They put a bomb on a baby and give it to you.”

“Indonesian Muslims? I’ve never heard of Indonesian Muslims being part of the terrorist picture. Why not?” I demand.

“Because people in charge here don’t show everything. Yeah, you’re American - you don’t know. American government - they twist the truth, hide the truth. News here and news there - totally different.”

Oh, yes. How could I forget the Big Six - General Electric, Walt Disney, News Corp, Time Warner, Viacom, and CBS - the owners, the soul controllers of mainstream American media? They own our news along with virtually all of our TV programming, radio waves, and billboards. They’re our American gods, the Prime Creators of our American culture and world belief system.

“What is your spiritual faith? Buddhism?” I almost state.

“No. I don’t believe in religion,” he refuses, completely displeased. “I am atheist. We don't need religion. It's evil. People should just live from the heart.” He cups his own heart with his right hand.

I, too, do not choose religion for myself for similar reasons. I’m spiritual, but not religious. I want Goose to know my truth, that connection to Higher Power is real and has nothing to do with religion. I want to differentiate being spiritual from being religious, but our mild language barrier delays me. Before I could say anything, his continuing passion pulls me right out of my head into complete vicarious immersion.

“Muslims are very bad people. They kill easy. Some of them are cannibals. The eat people. They rape females from four to eighty years old,” he says calmly.

“I’d fucking kill them if I ever crossed paths with them! I’d fucking die killing as many as I could!” I ache from the lash of visceral whipping. It’s not the saki screaming. I’m completely wasted with fury and disgust.

My friend knows I’m serious. He hovers over me.

“No. I have to protect you then. No. You have to remember your greater plan. That’s how you’ll help them. Not killing one guy. No.”

Truth severs the cord to my blind anger. I let myself indulge in one last scene of my imagination:

I’m peering through a window at a rapist-killer plunging his bloody maiming cock into a baby girl. She can’t even scream, because he’s got her face covered. I can hardly see her wet eyes. Besides her tiny hands barely grasping for life, her body is stiff, as stiff as he his focused on the enjoyment of his thrusting. I want to shoot his head off while he’s still busy, but I can’t. I’m forced to trade this one instance of spiritual justice for the hopes of a greater plan. I do nothing but keep watching. I watch as her body grows limp, and he explodes inside her fresh dead body. He pulls out, unplugging the hole he made straight through her organs. He wipes the sweat of his face and leans over her to catch his breath, unbothered by the bright red flood streaming onto him from her frozen corpse. Finally, he can breathe normally again. He puts his pants back on, slides her off the table, and drops her into his arms. His friends meet him at the doorway with their beers and cigareettes. Happily, they disappear. Would they dump her in a wasteland? Or cook her up and eat her?

What greater plan would have me walk away from such evil? Creating sexual abuse languages for all third world cultures. Until there are words that exist to clearly define every type of sexual assault and why it is wrong, no one will have a way of reaching out and societies will not take lawful responsibility to protect its victims. Even in America, it wasn’t until the 1970’s that laws were finally reformed, re-defined, and passed for more effective protection of our own country’s sexual assault victims. I realize that for many third world cultures, this change would be too soon, too unrealistic and lofty for people are in immediate need of food, water, and medical care. Health is number one; therefore, creating such a paradigm shift must be reserved for cultures that are already emerging from third world status.

Of all the conversations I’ve had with worldly and knowledgeable people, and of all the horrifying world documentaries I’ve ever come by, Goose’s account hits me differently because he was actually there. Here’s a man who knows what it’s like to live in a third world culture ran by corrupt religious leaders, preying on its people through the abomination of spiritual faith. Here’s a man who has seen the darkest fate in the entire human experience spectrum.

What would William Golding have to say to this if he were still alive? I bet Goose and Golding could stay up all night comparing Indonesian life to “Lord of the Flies.”
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For more info on the Big Six and more enlightening facts, check out:

www.alexjones.com


freedom writers

Nassim Haramein - http://www.theresonanceproject.com/

Private Moments in Public Places

How do we have a private moment in a public place?  The actor's eternal quest.

“You have to imagine it,” my teacher coaches.  “You have to figure out how to push your own buttons.  I can’t teach you that.  You have to figure it out for yourself, because you’re all different and you all know yourselves best.” 

It’s Meisner - a brand new technique I’ve been struggling with for the past two months under the critical thumb of an unforgiving and punishing teacher.  She’s mean, but also interestingly quirky, funny, and exceptionally insightful.  I haven’t had ass whoopings like these since the almost forgotten days of my old man.  I have to admit, it’s worth the pain.

“Close your eyes,” she commands.  I presume we’re doing another silly acting game, a typical hoo-rah to get the blood pumping, the laughs bursting, the energy rising.

“Now think of a place in nature. Orchid!  Keep your eyes closed,” she tries not to snap.

Whoops!  Dammit!  I messed up already.  Now focus.  Ok, the first thing that comes to mind - Lady Bird Lake.  It’s my favorite place right now, so I’ll go there.  There’s an overcast.  I walk through the lingering mist, feeling little rocks and hearing them crunch beneath my feet.  The smell of rain fresh air invigorates, and  my eyes widen in complete awe of all the gorgeous saturated colors of life.  The trees are so alive, their energy emanating and overflowing, wrapping around me in the loving embrace of a big warm hug.  They’ve just had their first big quench in a very long time.  The water is higher and clearer than I’ve ever seen it, and for the first time I notice the turtles and fish who've been playing beneath the ducks and swans all along.  I sit as close to them as I can.

My teacher leads in curious wonder.

“Now someone is coming to see you.  They can be alive or dead.  Who is it?  Who is that person coming to see you?”

The rolodex in my mind spins, finally stopping at my brother.  He’s been on my mind.  I’ll pick him.  I just talked to him last night for a bit.  Lately, I think things have been getting a lot better between us.  I hope they keep going that way.  We don’t ever spend quality time alone together.  It would be nice for him to want to come see me for once.  That would be nice right now.

My teacher’s voice crescendos.

“The person you picked is approaching you right now.  They’re happy to see you.  They’re beaming.  They’re beaming, because they’re so happy to see you!”

I feel my heart sinking.  My brother has never beamed.  Why should he ever be happy to see me?  The wounds I've caused turned every once of his love into fear and rensentment.  I created our void.  At this point, a beautiful shared moment such as this can only exist as a figment of my imagination.  And, right now, that's the requirement.

“They sit down and tell you how happy they are to see you, how much they've missed you.  They’ve missed you so, so much.”

Oh my goddess, my eyes are getting warm. I find myself analyzing every sniffle I hear in the room. Were those crying sniffles or regular snot sniffles?

My teacher’s voice cuts through my silly, frivolous thoughts.

“They miss you so much, and they tell you they're so proud of you.  They tell you that they love you.”

Her words kick my imagination into full activation.  Uncontrollable tears flood through my closed eyes.  My brother talks, and I listen.  I listen with all the thanks in the world in my heart.  He knows what’s in my heart.  He feels all the love I have ever wanted to give him.  The past is behind us now, really forever.  There is only forgiveness.  There is only healing.  There is only love.

Even little attacks by my semi self-conscious worry about public crying couldn’t disconnect me from this waking lucid dreaming.  The tears keep coming, and I keep feeling.

My teacher goes on gently, softly.

“It’s time to go.  They’re getting up, and they’re leaving now.  You see their face in the distance as they’re turning to go.”

He was leaving, but he’d always be there.  The bond I’ve needed all my life is finally ours, finally engrained in our souls for forever and ever.  This is family.  We are finally family.

Compassionately, my teacher whispers.

“When you’re ready, open your eyes.”

I open my eyes to a room full of teary-eyed people.  Yes!  I’m not the only one.  Even the boys are weeping!  Ha!

“You just had a private moment in a public place,” my teacher conquers with a big ol’ smile.  She gets the biggest Ha for pushing all of our buttons after all!

And, I wonder…Who were the visitors of everyone else?