TRY THAT IN A REAL TOWN
TRY THAT IN A REAL TOWN
By John Thomas Tuft
The town of Sabbath Rock was celebrating their sesquicentennial. The large field behind the old junior high school was filled with tents and booths, all exhibiting the décor of what used to be called the ‘gay 90s.’ For a town started within spitting distance, timewise, from the end of the Civil War, during the era of “Indian Wars” in the western part of the continent, for some reason it was the mid-2020s that confused and frightened them most. The 1890s bespoke a time of everyone knowing their place in the order of things in their quaint, picturesque town. Jesiah Trotter, the founding father of Sabbath Rock, harvested wood from the surrounding forests and used the power of the river to run his sawmill. Eventually, Trotter Industries was the main employer as the now behemoth industrial complex thrived off of two world wars, along with the influx of immigrants from Ireland, Poland, and other European countries for cheap labor. The railroad provided for transportation of raw materials, goods, and people in and out of the valley. And everyone just knew. Everyone just knew that there was a right side of the tracks and a wrong side of the tracks, designating a separation by economic status and race.
Eventually the town had a hospital, fine schools, big well-attended churches, and an expansive fairground with the Elysium Auditorium for country music shows. On the right side of the tracks, as it was generally accepted that the wrong side could have separate but equal of such things. It was rumored that Hank Williams, Tim McGraw, and even Taylor Swift played there once on their way up, but the local newspaper could never verify that bit of Swifty lore. What was gospel was that Billy Graham conducted a crusade there on his way up to wherever it was Billy was trying to get. All of this, of course, occurred on the right side of the tracks, as well. Human perishables, by nature it seems, are always looking for division. Not equity, mind you. Division. Me, us, and them. We live and die by our designations of me, us, and them. And God help you if you are one of them. The rest of us will do whatever it takes to make sure that you stay one of them. It’s the natural order of things. Everybody knows that. Until, of course, they don’t.
On the third night of the sesquicentennial celebration, held in the junior high field because the Fundamental Baptists and True Life One Way Evangelical churches had some kind of Amazing Awakening with lots of earnest, breathy praise music, the gibberish of glossolalia, and scriptural quotes marathon going on at the Elysium, a stranger showed up. A short woman of color, wearing a purple turban, a long aqua marine gown, and ruby red slippers on her feet. She had a voice like Toni Morrison, and she carried a stack of old white, thick ceramic dinner plates with the two green lines painted around the edges, the marks of institutional provenance. She proceeds to the microphone set up on the stage and quietly begins. “These are plates from the old State Psychiatric Hospital. Remember? It sat right outside of town on farmland. On the wrong side of the tracks.” The crowd ignores her, so she takes one of the plates and throws it high into the air. The loud crash as it hits the floor and shatters gets their attention.
“Back in the era of the ‘Gay 90s’ hamlets were turning into villages were turning into towns were turning into cities. As it has from the beginning of time, not every human perishable has the same qualities. Some were failing economically. Some experienced severe mental health issues.” She took another plate and threw it high. CRASH! “People, good people, tried to figure out what to do. The more people, the more problems.” Another plate into the air. CRASH! “We combined sanatoriums with work farms, the unfortunate would care for the mentally infirm in self-sustaining communities. Generations later this was considered unfair. So, we built a community mental health center and group homes.” Another plate into the air. CRASH!
She paused before saying, “What did we gain other than feeling better about ourselves?” Two plates. CRASH! CRASH! “We’ve had a war on drugs and a war on litter. Now it’s a war on homelessness. Yet the “deaths of despair” rate is higher and higher while we dedicate ourselves to clicks and likes and follows on social media. What do we gain other than feeling better about ourselves?” CRASH! CRASH! CRASH! Some town leaders and religious hotshots rushed up on the stage to try and remove this plate-breaking prophet. Undeterred, she continued, “We consider race or sexual orientation or immigration status or amount of money in the bank as a measure of deviation from what we call right.” She held a plate for a moment, but instead of throwing it high, she simply let it drop. CRASH!
“We look at a cross on a wall. And feel better about ourselves. We look at our political heroes. And feel better about who we are. We look at our town. And as long as it looks like us, we feel better about ourselves. Other people are problems. We are victims. Other people get what’s coming. We deserve all of our rights.” She said this last in a rush as the irate leaders closed in. She threw the rest of the plates high as she scrambled out of their grasp. “What have we gained if we feel good about ourselves…and no one is around to tell the tale? What have we gained if we are the only one in our community?” CRASH! CRASH! CRASH!
Words are magic and writers are wizards.
