In the Land of the Rain

 In the land of the rain, I did not think that I could carry on because all of the decisions belonged to someone else. I tried so hard to be a problem solver, but I was fighting dynamics that existed long before I was born, and the power was in the hands of a man whom I felt was limitless. I wanted to reason with him and everyone else in the legislative square. 

As I look back on those days, well over forty years ago, I like to think that I did have some positive persuasion; we did, after all, make the memory. I never wanted the "no-factor" to be a part of my life. I don't know how limitation led to seeing beyond it, but it happened.

When you grow up poor, everything you see is like viewing a moon landing; you see it, but you can be very sure that you will never experience it yourself. That in itself should propel you to do more, see more, and that is true in some circles, which establishes permanent limitations. 

It was the nighttime airwaves speaking from the stratosphere that showed me that anything was possible. Was it you, Beverly? Was it you, Henry? Did you tell me there was life outside of the room I grew up in?

Shutting me down led me to find my rhythm. They say no pain, no gain. I am living proof of those words. Every door was locked. There was seemingly no path. As I entered the halls honoring a man gunned down 14 months before my parents met, the scholars noticed that I was carrying something they understood. They rushed out to me and pulled at my jacket, trying to tell me things that I could not hear.

I may have given in after a long duration of pressure, but then, a friend I never knew was taken away from all of us, and I felt compelled to carry on his revolutionary spirit. What was all of that for? I am still trying to figure that part out. 45 years later, the dead are still as dead as they were in December of 1980. What happened to me was nothing more than futile expressionism. I had inherited defiance, and I kicked those scholars to the curb. Showing them, showing me.

Photo by Leks Quintero on Unsplash

In the land of the rain, you are no different than those in the shelters who seem to have everything they need and want. The division seems incredible, and you give them no mind. There is no envy or want. A childhood of seeing what cannot be achieved can be a protection. It is a lesson in contentment.

You rejoice at every thrifted win. It becomes an element of your pride. Flexing becomes a skill and then later a way of life. I could perceive those of material substance in my life, marveling at my resourcefulness. It was nothing but irony. They could never exist like this, yet they envied all of the pains I avoided doing things my way.

I'm not sure where it happened, but my eyes began to see that I was the privileged one. Those who had everything were actually indentured servants to all that they had. Don't get me wrong, I, myself, had grazed the edge of that club a few times. I was grateful for my self-inflicted rescue. As the wise man sang: "Looks like freedom, but it feels like death." Because I did get so close to it now and then, it is something to fear.

As the years have gone by, living in the land of the rain is more like walking a tightrope. The dealer has made it easy for the masses to consume. We need so little, but thanks to the invasive checkpoints everywhere, danger lurks around every corner. Tensions are high, and sleep is difficult.

Noise has permeated everything, designed to generate confusion. There is a flashy menu for us to choose our cause, and then we are destroyed by it. After a while, it becomes difficult to distinguish between the ground and the sky. 

In the land of the rain, we used to be immune to all of its influence, but today, it practically sleeps in the bed next to us. How can anyone sleep anymore, in the land of the rain.