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July 21, 2005

I wish I could write this well

From here.

By CATHERINE LANDIS
July 19, 2005

In honor of the 50th anniversary of James Agee's death, the News Sentinel has invited a number of prominent writers with Knoxville connections to write Knoxville Summer of essays, as Agee once wrote "Knoxville, Summer, 1915."

We are talking now of summer 2004, in Knoxville, Tennessee, and I drive to a market on Sutherland Avenue to buy South Carolina peaches, which I slice over cereal, or sprinkle with shaved almonds, or eat all by themselves. On my birthday, we add them to homemade ice cream and sit on the porch and listen to tree frogs.

Summer begins with Abu Ghraib. It knocks the breath out of me. Funny how many are not responsible, but in the wordplay of tyrants, torture is not torture if done to the "right" people for the "right" reasons. I don't remember the day the Golden Rule became quaint and wonder what our kids are learning about accountability.

Mornings, I run around my neighborhood, sweat streaming down my back, thankful for the sun, my health and a glass of cold, clean water. At night I watch for Saturn.

A Vietnam veteran brave enough to speak the truth is called unpatriotic, while soldiers, fighting a new war for reasons that keep changing, are asked to believe their heroism never will be questioned. The incumbent, whose covered-up crimes and accomplishments depended on the affirmative action of privilege, refuses to speak to unscreened crowds of his countrymen. Cowards are called heroes.

I bake the pies of summer, coconut cream, lemon meringue and berry. I make the crusts on waxed paper in my kitchen, windows open to feel the warm breeze.

They make us afraid. Suddenly it's OK to search libraries, make justice conditional and silence dissent. Secrecy, hate, propaganda, greed, name-calling, debt, fear and unchecked federal power are virtues! Global warming? Ignore it! Allies? Who needs them? All that's required to support the troops is a sticker on your car. Shakespeare said beat the drums of war, and the people will hand you their freedom. It's an old trick.

I write stories in my kitchen amidst the smells of coffee and baking bread, the commotion of teenagers and a barking dog.

Bullies have taken over the playground, there's not a grown-up in sight, and millions of disparate voices scream with unrecognized audacity that they know what God wants. The enemy has been named and stripped of humanity: homosexuals, Muslims, atheists, liberals, abortionists, tree-huggers, the unworthy poor, scientists and peacemakers. It is possible to imagine a time when I could be prevented from writing these words, which is why I must write them.

I walk outside to the porch. Although the woods behind the house are wild and green, no one can tell me it's just another summer in Knoxville. But at the peach market I will say to a person I don't know, have a good day, and mean it, and I will greet friends and neighbors and ask, how are you, and mean it. And what I feel is love, and love trumps fear and hate, and I will not, not now, not ever, give up.

Posted by Paul Witt at July 21, 2005 11:29 AM

Comments

Posted by: gonzone at July 22, 2005 08:41 AM

Posted by: Ron Rockstar at September 9, 2005 06:46 PM