What is the point of my book?
To expose America for what it really is: Land of the chained and Home of the 1%; To give lenses to those people you see living on the streets in the land of opportunity as you go to buy your froyo and Mocha Frappucino. Why do I keep banging this gong? I’ll explain:
I have friends of mine who once were middle class and now? On the streets, bouncing around hostels, airbnbs. This book is a warning about the future. You might be holding your Frap in your hands now, but tomorrow? Waiting. Waiting for the worms to come.
Do you have any idea how easy it is to lose everything you have without being the one responsible? My friend Carlo used to lead a team in LA, but his program was cut and 15 people lost their jobs that day. Now he works answering phones in Miami. Who’s fault is that?
A fluctuating stock market is like an ongoing game of Russian roulette. Who’s gonna get the bullet this time? What plant has to close and bring a small town under? What pill has to cost more money? What part of Nature will get raped? Will your job be next? Your pension? The crosshairs are pointing at you dear reader, right at your heart and wallet. It’s only a matter of time before you join us victims under the bridge and learn how to warm yourself up with a garbage fire.
Becoming the damned isn’t a choice anymore. It’s a random act of greed and corruption. Many people lose their jobs and can’t find others like it. They are used to a different lifestyle. And when the Team Lead suddenly has to become a grocery bagger, the transition is too violent. The poor victim caught in a spiral, spends more money out of depression to hasten the inevitable: taking a step down.
No one is safe except the 1%. Can we fight this? Of course. Look at France right now. Maybe a French Revolution is necessary and just in America. Maybe it’s the only way. But how to avoid the errors of history? Could this really be the last resort? And what about the militarizing of the police? I spent my adult life trying to prevent this but I don’t see another way out of it. We’ve put as a society too much empathy on the 1% and not enough on the poor.
The pop star is considered brave breaking down in public while the homeless girl is told to get off the drugs and get a job if she does the same. Her crime? Being born. Too many handicaps. Meanwhile I’ve seen upper class teens throw tantrums over a low cell battery. How about a mother who’s a junky? Abusive father? How about getting habitually raped? Would you do drugs then? Would you hit the bottle just a little harder than everyone else? Would you be angrier than the rest? How can the upper classes not understand? How can they not understand that normal ends outside the burbs? Everything is a privilege here, even a normal life. Everything is decided for you when you are born. You open your peephole for the first time and see a worried woman holding you.
“Are you my momma?” You ask.
“Yes my child.”
“How are we doing momma?”
“Not so good child. Not so good.”
I remember the first time I went to LA, I used to hang out at the Starbucks on the corner of Sunset and Vine. I used to see this group of kids charging up their phones, obviously users, minimal rock style. I’m going to say they were into Crystal Meth. A girl in the group, pretty thing, walked back from the bathroom with tears in her eyes. The lifestyle was already starting to show.
“What’s wrong?” Her girlfriend asked.
“My-my face.” The girl was beginning to weep quietly.
“Oh, honey. Don’t worry about that. We’re gonna score soon, ok?”
“And the other night… did I really do that?”
“I would’ve done the same thing if I was you. But he wasn’t into me…”
The girl began to sob.
“Hey,” Her friend tried to reassure her with a hug. “Wow you’re really upset. We got high that day all night, didn’t we? That was because of you. Don’t worry ok? You’ll get used to it.”
“I don’t wanna get used to it.” The girl whimpered, wiping the snot from her nose with her sleeve. “I just wanna go home. I just wanna go home.”
She kept repeating that mantra after that, holding her head as if to avoid falling skies. Her friend looked at her with a concern deeper than druggie friendship: She was looking at herself.
That’s when the boyfriend walked through the front door.
“Guess who got… hey… what happened here?” He asked upon seeing his girlfriend.
“You alright?”
“You.” The girl gave the boyfriend a hateful glance but kept her voice down. “I did this for you.”
“She’s just having a panic attack withdrawal.” The other girl said. “Nothing major. It’ll pass.”
“Look what you turned me into.” The girl was starting to raise her voice. “I can’t even look at myself in the mirror!”
At this point, people started to look, and the Starbucks employees started to hover.
“Maybe we should talk about this somewhere else.” He suggested looking afraid.
“I hate you.” The girl told him quietly.
Two of his friends rushed over with worried expressions.
“Come on.” One of them said. “You got it right? Let’s go. It’s getting hot in here.”
“Got? Got what?” The whimpering girl looked hopeful.
“I was gonna surprise you but… I got some a little earlier than usual. And hey!” He addressed the whole crowd. “She gets more than us ok? Especially for the other night.”
He turned to her.
“How does that sound?”
She nodded gratefully, tears still spilling out of her once rosy cheeks.
“I love you.” He told her.
“I love you too.” She whispered in defeat.
He gave her a Judas Kiss and they all left to get high.
I made a point remembering the exchange. That poor wounded dove! My battered heart leapt for hers. She wasn’t born into privilege. She was born into a broken household, a broken heart. A poor soul from Alabama trying to find someone to care about her, because no one else did.
Sometimes we do crazy things for love, and she probably thought love conquered all, but not in this world.
In this world, love is the ultimate act of rebellion.
DanCarvalloSays 