Everything Is So Political

by Sandra McIntyre

  We make a pact to star spin all together: three simultaneous whirling dervishes, three madcap spinning tops. And when we stop, we’re sprawled across the dusty earth with bits of weeds and grass clinging to our hair and clothes, and they can probably hear us laughing halfway across the res. My abs, grown soft with stale white bread and processed meat, are kneaded back to life.

  We lie there for some time. What goes on in their heads is a mystery to me, but I think about infinity and quickly check my watch. Twelve more hours in this place. Maybe I’ll pack the dreamcatcher after all, bring it home, a private reminder of dreams dreamt and lost and ripe to be reclaimed. Or perhaps I’ll leave it for my successor, whoever she may be. I imagine her, brown-skinned, adapting her own Ojibway accent to that of her new community. I sigh a little prayer that she might listen more, absorb more of the beauty, have the subtle, solid wisdom to be a part of something better. But it is not for her to learn from my mistakes.

  The girls start chatting in Ojibway. The words are soft and muted. I wish that I had learned.

  My mind wanders and, when there is a lull, I say: “I read somewhere about some of the differences between English and Ojibway. It was about how much we emphasize things, objects, nouns in English. In Ojibway, the focus is more on verbs, on actions, on processes.” I sound pedantic, but I pause and wait for their reaction. I am the teacher after all, but they speak both languages; they ought to be the experts. Old roles are not reversed often enough. “I think it was the same book that said how the language we use can really interfere with how we understand things. The universe, they were saying, should really be understood more as a process, not a thing.”

  “Yeah, like rape.” Kiera follows all such comments with nervous, adult laughter. She’s so irreverent—What am I supposed to make of her? If I tried to track down a ghost of a social worker each time a kid said something odd…

  “Me, I feel more like a verb than a thing.” I stare at Shianna. She is a miniature poet, a malnourished philosopher. Or maybe she is neither of these. Maybe she is a verb: laughing, breathing, hurting, dreaming, healing, seeking, changing, keeping. The Wasaya plane that comes tomorrow may touch down and take off as a roaring, soaring verb. In all its forms, departure is a process, not a thing.

  It’s late and the stars have shifted slightly in their dome of nighttime. We stand up and we all know what to do. The girls spin counterclockwise, with something like abandon, and I follow their lead. We laugh so hard we almost cry.

  Gotcha!

  Jack Godwin

  “Hey there folks, it’s time to play…Gotchaaa!”

  Music built to a brass heavy fanfare and wild, sustained applause burst from the studio audience.

  “Yes folks,” the announcer said, “it’s Gotcha! The show where we conduct live interviews with famous people from history and watch the fun when they discover how events actually turned out. Don, why don’t you explain to the folks at home exactly how our game works.”

  “I’ll be glad to, Phil! Y’see folks, way back in 2011 when the CERN Particle Collider first moved neutrinos faster than the speed of light, scientists knew they were on the cusp of making time travel possible. Of course today in 2050 our exponentially advanced technology has enabled us to bring people from the past right here to our studio, to prep them, interview them, then watch them squirm as they find out exactly how the worm of history has turned…for them. After some hearty laughs at their expense, we give them a few sips of Memory Wash and send them back to their own era with no harm done.”

  “Thanks, Don. And folks, do we have fun! Our regular viewers will probably remember the famous Gotcha! episode featuring that old German dummy Albert Einstein. Of course, he always maintained that time travel was impossible. Don, do you remember the look on his face when we told him he was visiting 2050! Mr. Bad-Hair Genius certainly looked shocked that night. Talk about putting the ‘dumb’ in dummkopf!”

  The audience broke into laughter and applause.

  “Yes, Phil, Einstein’s appearance was a relative doozie but my personal favourite was the night we had that crazy American president Eisenhower come on the show babbling about the dangerous rise in power of the military/industrial complex. Folks, can you imagine not trusting corporate power? Y’know Phil, it still breaks me up remembering the look on his face as you explained the Corporate Socialism we all live under—and love—today.”

  The glow from the ‘applause light’ lit the studio and the audience broke out in sustained clapping.

  “Ha ha, you’re right old buddy, that was one of the all time great Gotchas! But don’t keep us in suspense, Don, who’s going to be our first guest on this edition of Gotcha!?”

  “Well, Phil, tonight’s first guest is one of the most insightful authors of the twentieth century, a real hater of hypocrisy. Please give a warm Gotcha! welcome to Mr. George Orwell!”

  Following a brief musical fanfare and polite applause from the studio audience a curtain opened revealing forty-seven-year-old George Orwell sitting in an easy chair beside a table upon which sits a glass of water.

  “Good evening, Mr. Orwell. I’m Phil Taylor, the host of Gotcha! Welcome to our show and to the year 2050. Tell me, George…may I call you George?’

  “Actually, my name is Eric. Eric Blair. I only wrote books under the name George Orwell.”

  “Alright then, George it is! Your most famous book, George, the one that made your name part of the English language, was 1984. In it, you describe a frightening world where the government, symbolized by a character called Big Brother, controlled the population by fostering paranoia while imposing control of behaviour via ‘thought police’ and through constantly monitoring the people by ubiquitous ‘telescreens.’ A pretty scary scenario, eh George!”

  “Yes, I certainly thought so,” Orwell said, warming to the subject. “From the horrors of World War Two and the dreary mass culture I saw beginning to appear following it, I wanted to warn people about the dangers of conformity. I feared the way advances in mass media were being used to control truth and stifle individualism. I wanted to sound a warning.”

  “And indeed you did, George! For many years your book was THE touchstone for preserving freedom of thought. Why, in the old era, before the arrival of Corporate Socialism, the word ‘Orwellian’ was used to warn people about threats to their freedom. George, we know you came up with your book’s title by reversing the last two digits of the year in which you wrote it. I bet you’ll be happy to hear that when the year 1984 arrived critics agreed, your book’s impact contributed greatly to making your dark vision an impossibility.”

  “I’m very glad to hear my book was helpful in warning people about the dangers of mindless conformity. It feels good to have been heeded on such an important issue.”

  “Ah yes, George, but that was way, way back in 1984. This is 2050 and the age of Corporate Socialism has brought a new twist to your predictions. Now, George…you’re a laughingstock!”

  The audience began chuckling.

  “Y’see, George, in this day and age, political correctness guides our thoughts and actions. Would you be surprised to hear that all citizens voluntarily carry telescreens everywhere? Why, now, we take pride in telling as many ‘friends’ as possible about our every deed and movement. Who needs Big Brother? We watch each other. Gotcha, George!”

  The audience broke out in laughter and applause and the Gotcha! sound, a combination of cowbell, tuba, and elephant flatulence filled the studio.

  Orwell said in disbelief, “You mean that everyone in 2050 can find out everything about what people read, think, and buy? Including Big Broth…I mean…including the government?”

  “Yes, George, that’s right! These days, to protect ourselves from criminals and terrorists, we have cameras recording our every public—and many private—actions. No one forced this on us as you predicted, George. We do it because we know it makes our homeland mo
re secure. Also, our personal ‘telescreens’ as you would call them use an update of cloud technology to store all our messages, purchases, and movements. Y’see, George, our Corporate Providers need to access this basic information so they can make our lives happier, plus it allows them to deliver the products that fulfill our every need. What’s not to love about that!”

  Taking a large gulp from the glass of water beside him Orwell slowly remarked, “But what about individualism? Do you mean people in 2050 voluntarily give up their right to privacy? Why would they do that?”

  To a few chuckles from the studio audience and in a fatherly tone, the show host explained, “Oh George, privacy and individualism are such outdated concepts. For your information, the modern road to enlightenment started way back when the term ‘social media’ was invented. That breakthrough let all of us tell the world what we thought, sought, and bought. Soon everyone was enjoying the same media, listening to the same songs and—naturally—thinking similar thoughts. Why, social media let us all talk about the same things—it was a huge advance.”

  Orwell, in shock, “It doesn’t sound like an advance to me. The way you describe it, social media sounds like what I called ‘prole feed’ in my book. I predicted that those in control would use such mindless diversions to keep the masses tame and unquestioning. I’m devastated to hear it actually came to pass.”

  Again, the Gotcha! sound and audience laughter reverberated through the studio.

  “Actually, George, it was one of your favourite writers, and a previous guest on our show, William Shakespeare, who said that all people “seek the bubble reputation” and boy oh boy was the ol’ Bard of Avon right! It turns out the whole world wants to be famous.”

  Orwell, blinking and slightly dazed, responded, “Shakespeare appeared on this show?”

  “Indeed he did, George! Y’see, one of our favourite segments on the show is called ‘Critics Gotcha!’ Two weeks ago we did a five-minute interview with the famous twentieth-century Shakespearean critic Northrup Frye, during which he expounded on the meaning of Hamlet. You can just imagine his chagrin—and our great glee—when we pulled back the Gotcha! curtain and got the real story from old Bill himself! Mr. Frye got fried in a hilariously humiliating Gotcha!”

  Once more, audience applause and the Gotcha sound filled the studio.

  “Are you saying that William Shakespeare actually sat in this chair?” Orwell said in awe, taking another sip of water.

  “You bet! He was sitting right there when I told him, ‘Say, Will, ‘To be or not to be.’ That’s a really dumb question.’”

  But y’know, George, our time’s running short so let’s get back to you. One of your most famous warnings was about how governments would use language to mislead people. 1984 featured a ‘Ministry of Truth’ that produced propaganda. ‘Newspeak’ was your term for the way you feared media would create expressions to hide, rather than explain, the truth. “George, where did you ever develop such crazy fears about the good folks who provide us all with our daily dose of news?”

  “In the world I saw emerging from the ashes of war, I became worried that decision makers were providing mindless pablum that would keep people from thinking about the real problems the world was facing. It seemed to me that diversion—rather than information—was the actual purpose of radio and the new medium, television. I wanted to sound a warning that, through these amusements, we might be spinning ourselves into a comfortable cocoon of ignorance.”

  There were a few guffaws in the studio audience but also a smattering of applause.

  “Well, George, you can rest assured that today’s Corporate Providers, those wise folks who determine world policy in 2050, tell it like it is! They give ‘we the people’ everything needed for our happiness, and we’re grateful. How ‘bout it folks?”

  The applause light went on in the studio but the response was sparse.

  “George, just to show you that truth, not propaganda, is what we get today, back at the beginning of this century the greatest pre-Corporate Provider nation fought a war to bring the blessings of liberty to the citizens of Iraq. That war was called ‘Operation Iraqi Freedom’ so—George, even a skeptic like you will have to admit—governments in this modern era talk straight. It’s their business after all.”

  The music built and the audience applauded on cue.

  With a faint smile Orwell countered, “I disagree. Killing people while claiming to bring them freedom sounds…Orwellian. Also, seeing government as a business rather than as a provider of services for the taxes citizens pay is all very disturbing to me. May I please have a cigarette?”

  With this statement the audience bubbled with sounds of shock, then laughter, and finally broke into a chant of ‘no smoke, no smoke, no smoke’!

  With shock in his voice the show host exclaimed, “No, George, we certainly can’t give you a cigarette. It’s true that for many years the Corporate Providers did encourage smoking because addicting people to costly poison WAS generating large profits. However, later economic studies determined that the practice wasn’t cost effective due to the huge financial burden of caring for the dying users. Their suffering was becoming expensive so the practice was discouraged.

  “Wait a minute,” Orwell snorted, his voice growing louder with indignation. “Are you saying that cigarettes kill people, that the tobacco companies knew this, and that people weren’t told they were becoming addicted to poison? Damn, I’ve smoked most of my life. That’s an outrage!”

  “Gotcha again, George,” Phil chortled.

  The studio filled with the Gotcha! sound, audience laughter and huge audience applause.

  “Tell me this about 2050,” Orwell challenged. “With everyone today finding amusement in watching what their friends are doing and striving to be nationally idolized, who is monitoring these Corporate Providers? As with this horrible example of cigarettes, how do people today know when truth and justice might be quietly sacrificed in the name of corporate profits?”

  Smoothly, Don interrupted their conversation. “Well, Phil, the old clock on the wall says it’s time to wrap up this fascinating discussion with our first guest on tonight’s edition of Gotcha! Stay tuned folks, we’ll be right back to discuss mega-church Christianity with this evening’s feature guest—Jesus of Nazareth!”

  Don’s words were followed by a crescendo of music and applause. With a brilliant flash of green light, George Orwell disappeared and the curtain closed.

  In the control room, all was not well. With dread in his voice the producer asked, “Whose idea was it to have this dangerous idiot on the show? I want whoever it was fired right now, before I start getting phone calls from upper management.”

  From the director, “I’m as appalled as you are, Chief. It’ll be taken care of right away. But first, Charlie—this is really important—you did remember to put the ‘memory wash’ in that crackpot’s drinking water, didn’t you?”

  “No, boss,” Charlie responded defensively. “I was too busy prepping Mr. Orwell during make-up. But I’m pretty sure Sal probably took care of it.”

  “Pretty sure! Probably!” The director exploded. “Are you telling me there’s a chance we sent this guy back to 1950 without being memory washed? I hate screw-ups.”

  “Not to worry boys,” the producer said. “So he remembers, so what? It’s all just show biz. Focus people, it’s time to bring up the lights on…Jesus!”

  Obituary: The Times of London, January 22, 1950.

  ERIC ARTHUR BLAIR aka George Orwell died suddenly yesterday. Born June 25, 1903 in Bihar, India, he was educated at Eton. Writing under the name George Orwell, Mr. Blair created withering critiques of imperialism (Burmese Days), poverty (The Road to Wiggin Pier), and communism (Animal Farm). Undoubtedly his greatest fame came with the publication of his dystopian view of society’s future (1984). Surprisingly young at 47, and rumoured to be planning a trip to the Swi
ss Alps, police have some serious questions about Mr. Blair’s demise and officials have not ruled out suicide. Mr. Blair has requested that no mention of his pen name be placed on his grave.

  The King’s Nephew

  J. Paul Cooper

  Jane walked carefully through the maze of dead and dying men, whose swords, warhammers, spears, and shattered lances lay scattered on the blood-soaked ground. The hands of the dying reached out to her as she passed, but she had no time to care for any of them.

  He would be wearing a blue tunic with Lord Gilbert’s symbol, a sword in a ring of fire. Other than a simple helmet, he would wear no armour. Only knights and noblemen wore armour. Only they could afford to buy their lives.

  She hoped she wouldn’t find him, hoped he was with the soldiers who had retreated before Lord Frederick’s knights. Every battle had survivors.

  She stopped at the feet of a young man with a spear thrust through his chest. Blood had partially covered the crest of Lord Gilbert. She knelt down and whispered words she knew he would never hear. “I promised I’d come and find you, Tom.”

  Jane gently brushed away hair that had fallen across her son’s face. He was such a fine looking lad, with broad shoulders and strong hands. Using a small knife she cut away some blonde strands, making sure that none were stained with blood. She placed them inside a small leather pouch containing strands of hair from Tom’s two older brothers and their father, John. One year ago her home had been full, now there was only Jane and her two daughters.

  She glanced at the surrounding hills and listened for the sound of returning soldiers. Lord Gilbert’s soldiers had fled over a nearby hill, pursued by Lord Frederick’s army. She wanted to stay by her son forever, but she knew the soldiers would return soon. Jane kissed Tom on the forehead one last time, and forced herself to stand.