Touching the poor at arm’s length [View All]

[DancingBear]

New Orleans, Ethiopia - September 2005

“I hear that death sound, baby,
Lord, like an echo in my brain…”
-Country Joe McDonald-

It has come to this. In order to destroy all vestiges of government assistance, in order to destroy our long-standing belief that government can and should be a force for good in times of crisis, and in order to put a dollar sign on the backs of American citizens, George W. Bush has played the most disgusting political card of all time. If you don’t play my way, he sings, you die. The song echoes like a death rattle.

August, it seems, is the month to disregard the warnings. When the warnings come, there is always brush to clear, or money to raise, or bikes to ride. The last time a September horror came, the warnings came fast and furious in August, but The World According To Bush centered on renting a suit of bravery and practicing lying in front of a mirror. He needed little practice for the latter, and he fooled enough with the former so that America let him play King. An August 6th memo went unheeded, as did countless numbers of FAA warnings. The results were as predictable as day turning to night. They died on September 11th here, and they die daily thousands of miles away. It's The Plan, you see, it’s The Plan. Nothing can disrupt The Plan.

This time, the warnings came in on television, on the radio, and in the papers. It was impossible not to know, but for George W. Bush, it was very possible not to care. In late August, the winds came, the rains came, and the floods came. The horror came in biblical proportions, so the man who professes his love for Jesus should have been biblical in his compassion. Instead, as the dead needlessly multiplied in the streets George W. Bush ate cake in Arizona, and strummed a guitar in California, staying true to The Plan. As one hellish day bled into another, and as Americans – Americans – screamed for help, George W. Bush licked icing from his fingers and wondered who would turn his sheets down for the evening. As water filled an American city, and her citizens literally died from neglect, George W. Bush played a song in California. It was the death song, of course, but he never heard it. In order to do so, he would have had to listen, and listening is never part of The Plan.

***

I ran out of tears days ago, but the rage cannot and will not leave. It comes at me when the Secretary of State, fresh off a shopping expedition that didn’t seem to include relief supplies, shows up for her New Orleans photo-op holding a bottle of water that, if given away, may have saved a child. Dressed in white – thinking perhaps this was a golf outing instead of a funeral – she glances at her watch, only to see that “compassion time” on the schedule has come and gone, so she leaves with nary a drop of the blood of her country on her crisp white blouse.

It comes at me when the President finally decides to show up, and immediately tries to hold a black child instead of a dollar bill. He shows his compassion at arm’s length, for these people do not vote, and even if they do they are not his kind. He asks a cameraman if he got the shot when it was over, as faking compassion is very hard work. Later, Bush gets weepy while at the coffin of a newly deceased Chief Justice. As far as anyone knows, this is the only time George W. Bush has ever been seen near a flag-draped coffin. There will be many dead in New Orleans who will wear the flag as well, but they are not part of The Plan, and George W. Bush will not get within a thousand miles of them.

It comes at me when the men entrusted to protect America in times of natural disasters are Bush cronies, put in place to oversee the demise of the agency they head. Instead, they watch the demise of thousands of our citizens while they all proudly point to resumes listing their accomplishments as “campaign director for Bush election team” – and nothing more. It comes at me when the Matron Saint Of Hate bleats forth how “those people” will be truly better off, and it comes at me when hate radio spews forth political garbage while professing the evils of politicizing. It comes at me when the Vice President takes time out from buying a house to visit New Orleans, all the while knowing that Halliburton has just picked up the contract to put back together what he and his band of bastards refused to save. Thousands of local contractors and workers whose lives could have been put back together look on in stunned disbelief. They are not part of The Plan.

***

The dead lay bloated in the water, and they lay trapped beneath the rubble. They lay dead from starvation, from thirst, and from lack of caring. 24 hours, or 48 hours, or 72 hours before, they were alive, hoping or praying or believing that somewhere a man would put down The Plan and save their lives. Instead, they get to die in the rubble that surrounds them, while the ill-suited (figure) head of America’s first response team recites the only real thing he learned in his previous job:

“I’m George W. Bush, and I approved this message.”

Welcome to Hell.