There is something quite charming about the Midwest. Despite
talking about wanted to leave this boring place and set up shop on the east
coast, there will always be a part of me that loves the flat fields of beans
and corn, green fenced in pastures with roaming cows and goats, creek beds
lined with vines and wild lilies. I’m watching all of this pass me by on the
train to Chicago. I love looking at the century old barns with collapsing roofs
and silos long abandoned. It reminds of me where I grew up, smack dab in the
middle of a cornfield. We lived right off a dirt road, which was paved some
years later. The road would produce the most horrid potholes after a rain and a
two minute trip down the street turned into a 10 minute one. We were so happy
when the farmers spread new dirt over the road “grating” it as we said. I
stayed outside for hours, playing in the woods behind the house, catching
minnows in the creek, building bridges out of fallen branches, roaming through
rows of corn. We’d have to close up all the windows on a few hot days (before
my parents broke down and got air conditioning) when the tractors were plowing
the fields, stirring up dust that would leave a thin layer of brown on
everything in the house if not properly dealt with. I remember visiting Aunts
and Uncles living up north with even bigger, better fields and woods to play
in, with the added thrill of an electric fence and curious cows and horses with
soft noses that came to see what the humans were up to.
Yes, I love all of these things, and no matter where I go
there will be a part of me that hungers to see, touch, smell, and feel all of
the things that were part of my young life. I realize how lucky I am to be able
to say these things and describe them to you. I realize for some people, the
Midwest means something different. It means abandoned buildings, half-burnt
down houses, living on top of one another. It means cold streets, food deserts,
and buses that don’t run when you need them most. It means broken down modular
homes, crumbling apartments, and landlords that don’t care to make living
conditions well, livable. When I realize this, a flood of emotions follow.
At first I feel guilty for having such an advantage, then I
tell myself to stop that, and it gets more complicated. I get sad, frustrated,
even pitiful, but I don’t know what I’m directing these emotions at. I think it
all boils down to this. I know that I was truly blessed to have grown up where
I did. It played a huge part in the development of who I am today. I went to
college and found out that there was another world out there, where people
didn’t have enough to eat, or a roof over their head, or even clean socks to
wear everyday. My view of everyone and everything having the ability to
overcome economic conditions and make a better life for themselves – the
“American Dream”—was false.
Surprisingly, I was not resistant to this change, but rather
embraced it. I started talking and learning about revolutions and new ways of
organizing the government that were more people-powered than our so called
democracy ran by politicians with personal and corporate interests in mind. I
believe that most of the world isn’t like where I grew up. Things are getting
worse, and less is being done about it by state, local, and federal governments.
People who were hungry are now starving, and the pains are only getting more
intense.
I am of the opinion that things will get worse before they
get better. Things will burn, and things will change, people will be taking to
the streets and making themselves heard. I can see it now—perhaps everyone
won’t be throwing Molotov cocktails through the windows of government
buildings, but there will be some kind of action. But look at how I’m talking
here… I know where I stand. I can remove myself from this situation. I can make
“them” the “other.” I know that I will always be able to retreat outside of
this war, back to my fields and cows. I have the privilege to choose whether or
not I want to stand and fight for change, for justice. For some people, it will
either be that, or die. This choice, this unearned perpetual safety I think I’ll
have frustrates me to the point of tears sometimes, then I realize that such
guilt is futile. What’s important is—if such a war is ever waged, I will chose
to leave the comforts I know and join in any way I can. Maybe if only to lend a
voice, or provide comfort. But I will leave. Why? I don’t need to give any
reason, really.
I’ll leave you with this—you are my brother, you are my
sister. You and I share at least one drop of blood somewhere across the ages. I
extend my hand to you in solidarity, because if you are hurting, I will hurt,
or my children will hurt, or my children’s children’s children’s will hurt. We
are all interconnected, and our streets will all cross somewhere. Right now, I’m
just going to sit back and enjoy watching summer take over the plains of
Michigan, and not feel guilty about it. Wish you were here. Much love to you.
