Post-Colonial America Needs Truth & Reconciliation

I.

The United States is a post-colonial nation. It may not seem post-colonial – India, Kenya, South Africa… Those are the nations that come to mind when many think “post-colonial,” if you’re one to think about postcolonialism, that is. 

But the States are nonetheless post-colonial. We too bear the racial, social, and economic wounds left by imperial despots. We too grapple with the legacies of colonial divisions. It’s not as if racism existed here indigenously. It’s a colonial import.

That’s what colonialism does: it segments people by social constructions like skin color, religion, gender – anything colonialism can use to turn people into subjects and create an idolized “ideal” that dominates a dehumanized “other.”

In this invasive way, colonialism distorts every civil interaction, warping history and identities to make its self-serving philosophies seem sane. Right and wrong, deserving and undeserving, legitimate and illegitimate – these concepts are manipulated to suit the oppressor’s needs, and the stink lingers long after the overlords are ousted. 

“Imperialism leaves germs of rot,” postcolonial theorist Frantz Fanon wrote. 

The only way to cleanse this grotesque, colonial canker is by “removing” it from our minds, hearts, and society. America never did that, and we’re still paying the price. The only way forward is through Truth and Reconciliation.

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Will Prison Further Radicalize MAGA?

Fans of democracy rightfully cheered the conviction of Enrique Tarrio and all others who tried to take down our nation in Donald Trump’s name. But their imprisonments aren’t the end of the danger. Instead, it could be the beginning of a more radical, militant, and fervid fascist movement in America.

We’ve seen it happen in organizations like Al-Qaeda – they grow their ranks abroad and here by enticing fellow inmates, further warping their minds in an echo chamber of grievances. Or they use their notoriety to gain more adherents, grow their ranks, and sow more terror. 

That could very well happen to Aiden Bilyard, a North Carolina man who was 18 when he stormed the capital, or Bruno Joseph Cua, who was also 18 and will be sentenced next week. 

These young, impressionable people could easily be drawn further into a movement that wants to use them as an example. That’s what we see happening to Kyle Rittenhouse: he shot a pro-democracy protester and has been embraced as a hero by the right. (Example: Idaho Republicans recently auctioned off “Trigger Time” with the gun-loving youngster.)

No doubt insurrectionists and conspirators like Torres are still communicating with their friends outside and making new ones inside and becoming an entirely new threat in the process: a more concentrated form of fascism.

So, how do we prevent the further militarization of MAGA convicts? By ensuring that they’re rehabilitated in prison, not further radicalized.

One way is by supporting prison programs that actively counter racist, sexist, and, frankly, anti-American attitudes. MAGA-aligned inmates must be exposed to new ways of thought and accurate history of the United States. They must be reformed rather than left to congeal together and stew into something even more violent. 

If not, we face a future with a more zealous fascist movement than even Donald Trump can imagine – true terror. 

Barbara Read is Dead

The sky reddens at sunset over the Soccoro County landscape and a line of homemade fence posts and barbed wire.

Barbara Read was in for quite the surprise when she got to Heaven. 

It wasn’t that she was dead. Barbara saw that coming a mile away. (Cancer. Breast at first; then, everywhere.)

Nor was Barbara surprised by the existence of heaven itself. Belief was bred into her since birth, and Barbara, a good-hearted person who followed the golden rule, always just assumed she’d arrive at the Pearly Gates. And she was right!

Barbara now approached the tableau she’d long imagined: downy clouds billowing over a coral horizon; harp-shaped gates twinkling incandescent; and – ah! There’s St. Peter at his golden pulpit, head bent, quill poised above a gilded ledger – just as Barbara imagined!

St. Peter waved Barbara forward without looking up. “Name, please.” 

Barbara stood straight-backed and pronounced, “Bar-bara Read,” as if “Barbara Read” should mean something to a saint as great as Peter, or any saint.  

“Read, Barbara. Yes. We’ve been expecting you and are quite pleased to have you here…” He slid a fine, slender finger down the page. “In heaven.” 

Then he lifted his head – “My heavens!” Barbara cried.

This St. Peter was younger, taller, and far more strapping than the gnarled, stately version in that fresco at parochial school. There, St. Peter was paternal. Here, brawny and broad, with sharp cheekbones, olive green eyes, and bulging biceps, St. Peter was a downright stud!

It was a nice surprise, but not the surprise. That’s still on its way.

“Well, I’m happy to be here,” Barbara gave a coquettish flap. “My hand! It’s – it’s –” Firm, fresh, and pink – there wasn’t a wrinkle, age spot, or IV bruise in sight! 

Barbara surveyed the rest of her body – and it was spectacular: Taut breasts pushed against a pink satin blouse; formidable calves below a pencil skirt; waist thick but fit. She again had the heft that made her feel sturdy; again had the robust, lively blonde hair that turned heads on earth – before the chemo stole it.

Here, now, Barbara was supple and youthful. Vibrant and elastic. Gorgeous! 

Yes, Heaven was indeed a five-star experience – just as Barbara had imagined.

Now.” St. Peter raised a rigid finger. “There’s the matter of your husband.” 

Knees turned to jelly, Barbara caught herself on the lectern. “M-my husband!?”

This was the surprise. 

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When Racists Embraced Remote Learning

Most of us know that in 1957, Arkansas Gov. Orval Faubus deployed the National Guard to prevent school integration in Little Rock. It did not go as planned: President Eisenhower used his superior power to override Faubus and ordered the Guard to instead protect the students, the Little Rock Nine – a move that ushered in integration in Arkansas’s capital city and showed the world that America was moving forward.

Equality won and Faubus was defeated…

The hateful governor, however, did not go quietly: the next year, 1958, as part of a broader “massive resistance” to integration, Gov. Faubus closed all of Little Rock’s public high schools and replaced them with television lessons produced at local tv stations.

The Arkansas Democrat-Gazette explains: “Each channel would offer 30-minute courses in English, math, history and science, with each station focusing on one grade level. The students would be on an honor system to watch… and there would be no homework or credit given.”

That’s right – rather than mix races, Faubus tried to entirely upend education – a bit like Ron DeSantis threatening to dismantle AP courses because he doesn’t believe in teaching true American history.

While Faubus thought he was clever, students were less than impressed. One 14-year-old said at the time, “I can’t wait to get back to school. The TV programs are fine, but I wish there was some way to have class discussions.” Another reflected later: “It was insignificant. It was watching some teachers talk on TV. It was the most modest form of educational experience.”

The courts were equally critical: a judge ruled Arkansas’ racist remote learning was just as unjust and unconstitutional as segregation itself and Faubus was once again forced to treat all people the same. Loser.

So, next time you hear a conservative gripe about remote learning during the COVID pandemic [or the next pandemic], remind them that their ideological ancestors pioneered remote learning to prop up racist discrimination. Isn’t it ironic?

[In an added twist, Faubus was a Democrat and Eisenhower a Republican – this was before the Dems moved left and the GOP adopted the “southern strategy” that began its embrace of hateful, discriminatory policies that define it today.]

(All images Thomas J. O’Halloran, via the Library of Congress.)

Unreal Serial: Wicked Web’s End

Charred rubble of a city destroyed.

Unreal Serial: a new series of short stories in serial form.

Wicked Web: Conclusion

The government’s anti-spider blitz was an unmitigated disaster. The army drenched the nation in untested toxins that inflamed asthmatic reactions, catalyzed aggressive cancers, and induced painful blisters on anyone caught in the lethal downpour.

Millions died that first month, and the months that followed brought even more death and disaster: without spiders to eat them, hordes of mosquitoes spread vile diseases, while crickets, cicadas and grasshoppers devoured crops across the land, leading to widespread hunger. 

The supply chain broke down almost immediately. Banks ran out of money. People starved. People killed themselves. People killed others. The president fled. The government collapsed and society entropized and chaos spread globally as the toxins rode the jet streams, dispersing pandemonium like a net of death. Now, when people took Cob, the Web of Life shivered in pain; the souls in the dew drops cried out in agony.

Astute as always, Dan saw the disaster coming a mile away and drove his new truck from the city back to where the end began: the cabin overlooking the evergreen valley. Isaac was supposed to follow after, but Dan never heard from him again. Dan would never know Isaac got stuck in an elevator during a blackout. He would never know he fell to his death trying to escape.

Dan asked Jennie to come, too. Begged her, actually – gave her that ring and everything, but she headed west. “I need to be with my family,” she said, like Dan was some disposable diversion. 

Now Dan was at home, alone, standing on his cabin porch as fires chewed through the evergreen valley below. “Marauders,” he said to no one. 

Silently Dan wondered if he was safe. He wondered if he deserved to be safe. Wondered if anyone would ever know the role he played in this tragedy. Would he ever be taken to task for what he set in motion? Would justice man-made or supernatural charge him for living large while causing so much carnage. Would history mar him for all eternity?

Dan’s questions remained unanswered. As he stood there brooding on his porch, the president’s plane was flying overhead – straight into a swarm of locusts. Blinded, the pilot pulled the controls upward before overcorrecting and sending the aircraft careening right into Dan. 

Dan was vaporized immediately. No one ever knew he was there. 

As for the spiders — they were never really gone. “Operation: Untie Oppression” killed billions of the creatures, yes, but billions more followed their instincts and burrowed into cracks, crevices, and crannies – huddling and hiding and surviving on grubs to avoid annihilation, just as their ancestors did during the dinosaurs’ extinction. 

Once the dust settled and almost all humans were dead or dying, the spiders crawled from the wreckage and rebuilt their homes atop the rubble of our own. And there, among the eight-legged remainders, was the little spider. He’d been under Dan’s cabin the entire time. 

The little spider now emerged from below the mangle of the log cabin and metallic plane, climbed up the porch’s charred yet still-standing door frame, and spun his web. 

As he worked and weaved that night, the spider thought of all the bugs he’d devour in the hours ahead, of all the bugs he’d been denied since that fateful evening his and Dan’s paths crossed. 

The little spider’s patience paid off: the ash-laden breeze delivered a plethora of insects to him that night. That night, the little spider ate until he was full. He ate more than he imagined possible.

🕷

Unreal Serial: Wicked Web 4 and 5

A hippy-looking group dancing in a circle.

Unreal Serial: a new series of short stories in serial form.

Wicked Web: Part 4

Dan and Isaac spent the rest of the day harvesting spiderweb, and the rest of the afternoon testing it. They learned in the process the web’s origin didn’t matter. Whether from a leaky factory or an arid workshop, the results were the same. “Always a great trip,” Isaac said as they smeared web on cigarettes Isaac got cheap from a dubious source. By sunrise they were ready for business.

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Ghosts of You and Me in ‘Ghosts of America’

Jackie Kennedy in shadows while watching the 1960 presidential debate.
Credit: Paul Schutzer/Life Pictures/Shutterstock.

Spooky stories and barren winter go hand-in-hand. Humans of the 8th century passed the long, dark nights with the saga of Beowulf’s monster hunting. Trauma and tragedy run rampant in Shakespeare’s 1611 work A Winter’s Tale. Centuries later, the Victorians fused yules and ghouls via Christmas yarns like Robert Louis Stevenson’s Christmas-themed “The Body Snatcher,” Sir Walter Scott’s “The Tapestried Chamber” and Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol.  

Keep the tradition alive this winter by immersing yourself in a narrative more timeless than any Christmas story, and more chilling: Caroline Hagood’s Ghosts of America: A Great American Novel (Hanging Loose Press).*

The central hauntee here – the Scrooge – is Herzog, a middle-aged, misogynistic author famous for his “biographical novels” of even more famous women. His first big hit was about Valerie Solanas, the woman who shot Andy Warhol. Now he’s turned his pen toward Jackie Kennedy – and it’s not going well. Probably because Herzog’s too obsessed with his aging, drunken body, his faltering inspiration, and his incessant peeping on a young woman across the alley. 

Herzog knows he’s objectifying this woman – just as he knows he objectifies the women he writes about. It’s all wrong and he’s disgusting – and yet he persists. He’s both aware of and ashamed of his flaws but only because that shame lets him maintain his flaws with less guilt.

He’s such a major pig that when a fortune teller warns his life will be visited by spirits who look like beautiful women, Herzog says, “I think I salivated a little hearing that one.” He soon changes his tune.

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Unreal Serial: Wicked Web 3

Blurry orbs of blue and pink light against a night sky.
Image via Carine06

Unreal Serial: a new series of short stories in serial form.

Wicked Web: 3/6

Dan woke right where he’d been: on the mountainside cabin’s porch above the evergreen valley. His half-smoked cigarette lay at his feet. In the sky, as if for the first time, stars twinkled. When the crisp breeze blew, Dan felt his cheeks wet with tears. It had only been ten minutes.

Dan was astute enough to know the spider’s web caused his hallucination; and he was experienced enough to appreciate there was no comedown or hangover. He actually felt better than before smoking the web – a lot better. He didn’t even feel those beers. He felt cleansed. Whole. He knew he’d metamorphosed – and now he had to spread the word.

🕷

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Unreal Serial: Wicked Web 2

Unreal Serial: a new series of short stories in serial form.

Wicked Web, Part 2/6:

Dan felt a fizz at his temples after smoking the web-glazed cigarette. It was slight at first – an almost imperceptible simmer under the surface of his skin on either side of his head. Then the sensations grew – fizzes became buzzes; buzzes became vibrations.

Those vibrations spread across Dan’s brow, drawing closer and closer to one another, nearer and nearer until they converged right between Dan’s eyes, two coalescing into one. 

FLASH! 

A fist-sized bulb of blue light erupted from Dan’s forehead into the sky – an incandescent sapphire hovering amidst pitch-black. Dan felt his face for an exit wound, but there was none. No gaping hole, no shattered skull or blood. Just his skin and a few zits.

The glowing blue bulb began rotating above the valley, and with each revolution it pulsated bright and brighter, spun faster and faster, gaining so much speed that it’s rounded edges blurred and broke, unfurling prismatic threads from the bulb’s center into the air.

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Unreal Serial: Wicked Web 1

Unreal Serial: a new series of short stories in serial form.

Wicked Web, Part 1/6

The little spider didn’t mean to destroy human civilization. Like all creatures, its intentions went only as far as its imagination, and its imagination went only as far as its instincts. Thus, the only thing the spider thought that fateful night was of eating bugs. Humanity’s end was the furthest thing from its mind. That was but an unintended consequence.

Yet maybe it was the spider’s lack of imagination that did us in. It was a breezy, spring night on a mountain cabin porch overlooking an evergreen valley. But the spider didn’t weave its web around the eaves where night wind might blow. Nor did he tuck his snare between the porch’s wooden spindles or under the yellowed security light that attracted delicious gnats. 

Instead, the little spider strung its string across the door frame, side to side, corner to corner, back and forth, creating a crisscross as deadly as it was intricate. And delicate: Dan came out for a cigarette and walked right through the spider’s trap.

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