The Genius of America, Or How the Ghosts of Colonialism Live in Me

I have been thinking a lot about collective addiction. The pervasiveness of society level intoxicants and delusions. How so much of modern life under globalization runs counter to the Buddhist precepts.This seems particularly true regarding the fifth precept of not taking intoxicants.  So many of us drunk on the belief that we are separate and above the rest of the natural world. So many of us drunk on the power of being able to manipulate our environment, to take from the land, water, and air whatever it is we think we need for how long it is we think we need it. without consequence. Or with consequences we somehow rationalize - from that deluded state of power - as being "manageable."The collective delusion of separation from the planet only heightens the mistaken view that "I" am totally independent from everyone, and everything, else around me.  It's just that much easier to keep believing in delusions about the self, when nearly your entire society believes, and acts, as if it is superior and/or unrelated to the plants, animals, soil, rocks, and bones. So, too, is it easier for majority groups to maintain beliefs in the power-over narratives of racism, sexism, classism, and the rest, when nearly the entire way in which you fuel your societies is based upon a power-over narrative towards the Earth.Much of the modern world has become essentially a haunted house. A body/mind that endlessly seeks to satiate cravings that are impossible to satiate. A body/mind that is a powerhouse when it comes to producing suffering. Those of the Buddha's day never had to consider things like nuclear implosion, drone warfare, 24/7 media propaganda, or globalized environmental destruction.In a handful of centuries, colonialism in it's various forms has brought hungry ghosts realms to an entirely unprecedented level. Entire nations are fueled, literally and metaphorically, by efforts to satiate cravings. In the name of "progress" and "economic growth," humans manipulate the gene patterns of our food supply, and poison entire ecosystems for some oil or natural gas. In the name of "security," we efficiently kill those we perceive as "immediate threats," incarcerate large portions of populations deemed "dangerous", and oppress the rest that aren't behind actual bars.For over a decade, I have been trying to write something about how all of this knowledge lives in me. How I, personally, feel haunted, and also the related dreams I sometimes have. Prose doesn't seem to cut it. It feels too rational, rule bound, almost haunted itself by a desire for more words. An impossible number of words.And so, I offer you this poem instead. May it offer something to the conversation above, and may it stand on its own as well. The Genius of America"Those new regions which we found and explored with the fleet ...may we rightly call them a New World." Amerigo Vespucci, early 1500s1.It begins with the name. America. Giftof a German cartographer to an Italian merchantfollowing a voyage that never occurred.Back in elementary school, we were taughthow to worship the lies that followed.Take our color crayons and markers,claim the United States blue,Russia red,China yellow,and everywhere else,well whatever suited uswas just fine.2.The murdered.Whispering, waking the living,again and again,asking for directions home.Unable to sleep,I run to the field with my hoe,try to turn awaythe hard, cracked soilunder a bright, bright moon,only to find it here too:the sound of one hand,a clapping of griefshaking every lasttree leaf.3.Whose spirit is this? Whose voice? Whose wordsin my ear,Tell me. Tell me the storyof the boy and girl who were taken awayfrom home and given,for all their losses,a beatinga new set of clothing,and a languagenot their own.Surely, she knows the way, she knows the wayHome,Surely, he knows the way, he knows the wayBack home,Home. I long for a drink of home.What is home?What can be home in this world that we have built?I will listen. I will close my eyeson the world and just listen.4.The men the sea swallowed singanother song. They, who sailedacross the Atlantic in search of richesand discovered instead, its bottom,rise with the moon,moan throughout the long, long night,Together, they chantWho are we?Who are we?Who are we?5.“The New Englanders are A People of God settled in those whichwere once the Devil’s Territories.” Cotton Mather, 1702They say capitalism is godless,given to worshipping paperand all that it can bring.How quickly some of us wishto till the soil of history into tidy gardens,free of thistles, nettles,and heavenly thorns.6.Like a body whose outlinehas had to be penciled in,America floats along on an imagepart god, part geniusof deliberate forgetfulness.Given Nature, America shook it, took it,and then purged us of it.Those who didn’t go along were drugged,maimed, annihilated, or placedin prisons of various kinds.Not too much has changed.Yesterday’s genocide is today’s oil pipeline;for those who think there’s nothing to lose,black gold is always everywhere.7.If America is good at anything, it’s sustainingsomething that’s unsustainable.8.“History teaches that war begins when governments believe the price of aggression is cheap.” Ronald Reagan, mid-1980sThat’s the genius of America.Creating divisions. Separations.Wars where none were really there before.White supremacy. Slavery. Patriarchy.Anti-gay. Trickle down society.America yells at othersto tear down their wallsand get along,but the price of aggression has always been cheapenoughfor Americato keep on building them itself.9.Fireworks. Liberation from,we speak of liberation fromsuffering,England,the ghosts of colonialism past.What about now?How do you bring aboutliberation nowwhen we seem to have so many answersas to what it iswe’re trying to get liberated from?10.Listen! Listen!Listen to the whispersthat surround us,no longer soft enoughto be mistaken forthe errant cries of crows.It begins with a name.It always begins with a name.A lexiconreally.Not the one that was given, noscratch that, forced uponso many of us,but one that is chosen,realized slowly,brewed in a collective potlike the very best green tea.Let’s sit together in silence,and tell each otherour most intimate stories.The nightmare is nearly over,The nightmare has just begun,either waywe’ll go out tryingto build what never wasanew.