Author Archives: Quipster

We Kill the Children

(the following was written a few months back, but as the US still fails at adequate, humane treatment of asylum seeking families at our southern border, I find it to still be relative)

We Kill the Children

by Joel Howard

 

Her name was Marilyn DeMont.

Her father was called August. Their time of notoriety, of infamy, was 1945, specifically July 23. It was on that day that Marilyns died. Her death immediately preceded her father’s, both occurring in the roiling waters of San Francisco Bay. The Golden Gate Bridge has forever served as a towering character in their story, as it was from that fabled structure that they leapt to their deaths.

Marilyn was two weeks shy of her sixth birthday. Many accounts at the time were lurid with sensationalism, yet every voice echoed both sadness and outrage.

Today, many are justifiably outraged when learning of children at our southern border being wrested from their parents’ arms, the wailing – ours and theirs – a reaction to the inhumanity perpetrated by the uniform-clad servants of our government. These current atrocities are in too many ways like Marilyn’s story, it being adults who inflict inhumanity upon a child as border patrol officers and their overlords bring terror and even death to children in their charge.

For little Marilyn, she may have felt as if she was stepping onto a cloud, or perhaps falling into the tranquility of a backyard pool. It’s a struggle to understand why she took that step from the bridge, her foot landing upon nothing but air and death. One can assume that she found a day with daddy to be an adventure, likely as unexpected as it was thrilling. Here is the man who guided her life, and in whose trusted bond did the five-year-old depend for her safety and serenity.  

Her father gave no indication of his intentions. While he had been under a doctor’s care, he seemed none the worse for the bump on his head, an injury he’d suffered on a work site. As the foreman of an elevator repair crew, and by all accounts a man of good humor, one can imagine that he may have joked that his days had their ‘ups and downs’. All seemed okay to those who knew him. Yet on that ominous day during the heady days of victory after the second world war, set high upon the Golden Gate Bridge, August committed his heinous deed.

Whether August was of sound mind can forever be debated. Such cannot be said of the men and women who perpetrate today’s cruelties upon those seeking asylum from our great and compassionate country. The issue, rather, seems to be one of indifference, a cessation of morality that has its roots in jingoistic nationalism and this country’s lingering racism. The Trump administration uses fear of “other” to bring out the very worst in us.

On that July day in 1945, when father and daughter succumbed to the relentless currents of the Pacific Ocean, the event was called out for its unfathomable brutality. As the police investigated, they found parked nearby an abandoned car. Inside lay a note, part of which read simply ‘I and my daughter have committed suicide”. Those final words, as perfunctory as they were chilling, serve as their final farewell.

As father and daughter stood on the bridge’s edge, witnesses claim there was no command, nothing spoken, from the father. The girl simply walked a few paces ahead, turned toward the railing, and made that final, hollow step. His authority as a father appeared to rule Marilyn to the end.

The story was not yet over, as we further learn from witnesses that August, having seen that his daughter was falling to the cold waters below, then took his farewell by also stepping casually from the ledge beneath him. It was, it seems, the simplest act, as if he was fulfilling a directive from some unseen commander. His action was said to be one of nonchalance, like tipping his hat to a passing friend.

Today, it is excruciatingly painful to think of young children not knowing if they will ever return to their parents’ warm embrace. Unlike father and daughter of so long ago, there is no doubt as to asylum-seeking kids’ unwillingness to participate in their own suffering. It can be seen in the deep wells of pain evident in their eyes. For those youngsters seeking asylum, their steps are orchestrated by the adults in their worlds, first as they flee with their families the violence of their native homes, and then again as they’re pushed into cages by our abusive government and its vindictive supporters. As a society, we today bear witness to our own freefall into our lesser – absolutely worst – selves.

The border children likely see the darkness of the waters below, and are justifiably scared. For our part, we should all be not just ashamed, but also outraged, as we allow our elected officials to continue pushing children into the abyss.

 

 

Scarce Is Our Solace

Scarce Is Our Solace

 

The well last hour stood with ample Solace,

awaiting as ever the coming Crisis  – whether

Pain or

Confusion or

Dread or such  –  a

Calamity sure to

Cry out for Succor, for the Solace one ladles

deep to Soothe the soul’s Fiery Flare;

 

yet of late a dearth of Care renders

the landscape Dark, and a drought of

Compassion places man on

courses parallel, unable – unwilling – to

meet for even the briefest Touch of

Humanity.

 

The well now echoes dry and hollow, and any

promised Kindness is soon poised hollow, adrift in a ring of

Acrid smoke,

drifting Fetid in fast-whirling mockery

of those who dared again seek

even the slightest Consolation, across   

earth and to the heavens,

east to west

 

 

Information Breakaway

Information Breakaway

xxxxxxxxxxby Joel Howard

 

Of late purpose

I don’t know how

to know,

So in the dark I dwell;

 

I don’t know how

to know,

And in brief bliss I breathe.

 

I don’t know how

to know,

So please leave me be,

ask no questions nor

solicit thoughts of me,

 

And

for you to know

I don’t know how

to know

holds sweet promise

of a rare and blinding bliss