No Control

I am a child of the sixties. I have memories.

I was getting on the school bus, when I was told President Kennedy had been shot. I was climbing those three, tall steps, covered with black, rubber matt, when Miss Brubaker, the driver, was telling us about it. I had the awareness that this was news of consequence. I watched her from my green, vinyl seat, trying to comprehend the meaning of it all. Everything looked the same; the green grass, the outdoor basketball park, the low, white buildings that were our classrooms. On such a dark day the sun was shining bright.

I was told by my teacher, that I must watch the funeral. It was history.

I did watch it, in part. My family gathered, in our TV room; a grey, carpeted cubicle,  where we watched the horse drawn carriage. The grim parade took place inside a big brown, rectangular, wooden box.

The year before we had been practicing, evacuating our classes, in case of Russian attack. We were under a threat from Castro, via Cuba. I am from Florida.

A siren would blare it’s obnoxious sound of danger, and we would have to get under our desks. Then we would have to file out of the class room, in an orderly manner, and go to our designated car. All of the mommies were there in their pretty dresses, and lipstick, prepared to save us all.

It was bewildering.

But we were Americans. And that was special.

Two years later, a letter I had written, was chosen to be sent to the President. It was a plea to stop the Vietnam War. There’s no forgetting the fly covered children, and the scenes of war, brought into our living room, every night as we sat on the floor, in front of our rectangular, wooden box. Our parents ate their dinners, from TV trays, behind us on the floral printed couch. I really wanted the war to stop.

My teachers instilled in me a pride in my country. And one of the facts that they taught was, you must be born on U.S soil, to be President. That meant, in the States or a military base. All others were exempt.

They said, that a person born on foreign soil, could have allegiance to the country of their birth. That it was a natural thing to have those prejudiced feelings, for your homeland. And that was the reason, naturalized citizens were exempt.

I was one of the special ones. I had a chance.

Now, in the cyber world, things have changed. Our one time casket like conveyors of information, predicting our fate, are small, hand held extensions of our bodies. They twit and tweet in singular fashion. No more family gatherings. No more unison.

My educators are diminished. My education is a sham. The Dominican nuns, that were my teachers; those women, all with PhD.’s didn’t know what they were talking about.

They’ve been reduced to dumb ass graduates of Loyola and Notre Dame. People who just didn’t know what they were talking about.

I don’t know why I’m surprised.

The whole world is built on bullshit. One lie, filtered through another.

Everyone wants personal power.

Mine is my camera. I have public domain rights.

And, yes, when Jesus returns, I’d rather have a camera in my hand, than an AK47.

So, what am I going to do about it all. Nothing.

I’m not going to do anything.

I have no control.

My best chance at survival is to Let Go ~ with The Serenity Prayer.

With my bank account ~ I can’t afford to give a shit.



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