Fly, fly, fly

"You know, I always wanted to be a cop. Not like a normal cop, like the FBI or DEA or something. Just want to cause a ruckus in the street" Alejandro told me over lunch at a diner in an almost rural area outside of Atlanta. I laughed. And felt uncomfortable for doing so. If that was some white kid's ambition, or even a black one's, I'd tell him to go for it. But Alejandro, well, it's out of the question. Fuck your dreams, fuck your ambition and fuck your contributions to our country. You can do nasty work that we need and that no one wants to do and run from the law while you do it. And there is not a damn thing I can do about it.

I looked at the now filled bird's nest that has been sitting on my front porch since last August. A huge full moon hung in the sky. I didn't think about much, not about the people walking or the activity of full moon nights. The bird went crazy, it flew out of its nest and circled the ceiling, pounding its wings in panic. I felt terrible.

I went to the Confederacy again on a little driving day trip through the Andersonville concentration camp, Americus and beautiful Plains, GA - home of J.C. It doesn't take long to hit the Confederacy, just drive south of Atlanta about twenty minutes and you will start to see it. The old state flag, you know, the one that's indistinguishable from the Confederate rebel flag, statues of black folks with huge teeth and lips eating watermelon, all the markings and fixings of the Confederate States of America. It's all right there. We stopped in to a small restaurant and got some barbecue in Andersonville. The woman tending the shop was freakishly nice and friendly. As I ate my sandwich, my eyes scanned the walls of rebel flags and racist symbols, all the while exchanging pleasantries with this more than pleasant woman. A black couple perused the items for sale. Were they doing the same thing we were doing, trying to act like everything was okay in this bizarre state of utter bigotry, out of fear, fear of what, not accepting them for what they are or fear of outright confrontation? Is that what they were doing too?

I remember moving to the South. I was ten. It was the first time I heard the words "War of Northern Aggression" instead of the commonly used term: The Civil War. Even at ten I was confused, were they pissed about something? Were they actually still worrying about this? As I walked around the acreage at Andersonville and read about the filth and scum that killed nearly 13,000 people in seven months, the voice of my tenth grade history teacher filled my ears. "Sherman was a war criminal! He burned from Atlanta to the sea!" No sir, Andersonville was a war crime and I'm glad someone burned this bitch to the sea.

"Ching ching!" went the staple gun as my sister and I ran around the neighborhood quickly posting flyers against Georgia's looming, Arizona copycat immigration bills. "Hi!" I said and waved at one of my students and his mother, then slyly turned and stapled another flyer to a pole. The trip around the neighborhood businesses was pretty telling. "No," one shopkeeper answered as we asked him if he would post one of our rally flyers in his window "nothing political." I had seen his jaw tighten when I said the words "anti-immigration bills" No, I just want folks' money. No convictions, I'd sell to anyone. Dude, it's money. And I felt an equal amount of joy when I told a neighborhood restaurant owner about E-verify provisions in the bill, while eying his Hispanic cooks in the back. "Put it in the front window, I'll get you some tape" he instructed, then talked my ear off for fifteen minutes about how wrong this bill is. Tell me, mister, tell me. I love to hear it.

Though the full moon didn't strike me like it normally does, I did feel the feral side of me start to rise. Eight more weeks of school. That's it. Eight weeks. And then Arizona, Tijuana....I felt the feral side rise in Egypt and I can feel it rising up again, shining and glowing and rising.