When I first heard of the death of Kim Jong-il, I was riddled with the hope that his son would become a great leader—bringing his country, and perhaps the world, into a new era of light and enlightenment. What a shmuck I was.
As a psychologist and a behaviorist, I look deep into the hearts of men (and women.) We are a predatory species that feeds on its own. It’s rare, these days, for the pacifist to emerge king (or queen.) Women were once the kinder sex, but Hillary has shown us she can wriggle her balls with the best of them. Kim Jong Un and Trump stand side by side, gazing down at each other’s family accouterments, comparing who’s the bigger in size, while Hillary stands off to the side whining about how small she is.
The family jewels have translated into nuclear accomplishments, with one threatening the world, and the other vowing to stop him. Predators have floated to the top like cream, though cream they are unlike. Our world has become unstable, and you and I are its victims. We hold our breaths, waiting for those at the top to seal our fates.
How did it come to this? We follow the lead of Millennials, crying out, “Me, Me, Me…” We have lost the ability to join our voices and scream, “We, We, We, the people. We are meek and troubled and sheep.
In trying to raise a voice for children, I have found rabid competition to be a stumbling block. There seems to be an inability to join together in one voice over each other’s accomplishments.
“I did this, or I did that,” is the cry.
Who gives a good Goddamned who accomplished what? Children’s lives are my hue and cry. I’d gladly join together what I’ve discovered with the goal of preserving those small lives.
The threat is far greater now, with leaders threatening annihilation rather than a simple death toll day by day. How did it come to pass that we allowed these thugs complete control over our lives?
I once volunteered for a campaign. A candidate I believed in was running, who is neither here nor there, but what I witnessed astounded me. One candidate arrived fashionably late to a debate at a college; wearing a trench coat worth several times over my wardrobe; forging the way with bagpipes in his stead.
“We don’t want to elect a king,” screamed my mind.
“Oh my God—we want to elect a king,” screamed the answer.
Have we not yet evolved past the point where a pretty trench coat can get one elected? He lost, in the end to a purveyor of The NewAmerican Century—where a new Pearl Harbor set in the blazing light of 9-11 set the world forth on a new round of undeclared World Wars. All the men mentioned on that website swept to the top of the US government, bleeding its coffers dry with new embattlement costs. To hell with the homeless; the starving; the less fortunate. We must defeat the enemy.
But the enemy is us.
Copyright 2018 Joyce Bowen