How Do You Mourn People You Never Knew?
Why? Bother?
If you cry and care, and can write, why not?
After crying over tragedies in novels and watching movies triggering tears, it helped momentarily, I expect, but if that’s all it is, the catharsis is like empty calories. That’s the futile side of the arts no one much talks about. We all cry — meaning we’re capable of caring, but it doesn’t mean we do. The species is much better at hate — it’s hard-wired into the chassis.
If the better part of this country was built by immigrants, why the hell are we so fearful of them now? Oh yeah, we’ve always suspected them — particularly the African slaves and indentured Irish — the Puerto Ricans and Italians we knew were always scheming to murder us in our sleep. Jews — say no more.
I came from Irish immigrants. Susan Barry, my great grand, came over at 14 so she could eat better than rotting potatoes in County Clare. I’m here to testify my family came from immigrants, and none have spent time behind bars, either innocently or otherwise. Susan Barry’s husband, Daniel Brown, served in the Union army, fought at Antietam and went off wandering after. Blowing people away with grapeshot didn’t suit him, the fucking sentimental Irishman. I married a woman from South Carolina who’s in possession of the skull of a woman she claims was hanged for murder — Lavinia — and I believe her. She herself never hurt anyone except herself.
There is so much misery in this life, and we only make it worse. Lavinia? Don’t know her story, but the rest of us may as well be the Greek chorus.
There’s the iconic National Geographic portrait of an Afghan girl taken in 1984 when the Russians were practicing tank maneuvers and taking potshots at farmers from helicopters and such. She’s long since grown into herself, but that photo still breaks me — the eyes, god, the eyes — she’s easily middle age now, and what life has she been witness to since?
These are beautiful children. Afghan boys grow into Afghan men and learn about planting bombs, and Afghan girls — surely they charm like any other girls, whip smart and eager? It hurts thinking about it.
The black turban men, they have to be tired of all this murder — their cousins and uncle — they have to be ready to ease back, let their people catch a breather.
We lost, we lost, we lost — that’s all we have to say? How long will it take before we’ve forgotten them again — not the loss of a war but the loss of a people.
We didn’t even come close to saving them. Make a movie about that! Make a bunch of them. Make music to mourn them because they deserve at least that small notion of sympathy.
Will kites ever soar free over Kabul again?
