Say It Loud (Black And Proud)
There is an Eastern European proverb that goes something like, “The village is burning and grandmother combs her hair.” I’ve seen several variations of this attributed to multiple European countries and cultures, from the Romanians to the Greeks. Sometimes it has to do with war raging, or a prostitute instead of a grandmother, and she’s washing her hair rather than combing it. It’s the “modern” equivalent of “Rome burns and Nero plays the fiddle.” It’s all the same idea.
I saw a post on social media the other day that was essentially encouraging everyone to remember that while we have unquestionably entered a new era of American fascism, which is only likely to get worse, we have to do our best to lead productive, happy lives. We can’t afford to fall into despair and bury our heads in the sand. We must continue to pursue hobbies, find joy in the little things, and chase our dreams as best we can. We have to care for our families and make a living. We must soldier on, continuing to make pancakes, take walks, feed the chickens, and collect their eggs.
I find this difficult to bear.
They’re right, of course. We can’t stop our lives or wait for the next one. This is it. This is the era we were born into, and like it or not, it’s very disorienting. This is not who I thought we were. This is not the future I imagined for myself. This is not where I thought I would end up. Joke’s on me, I suppose, because this is it.
One of the things I find most difficult to accept is how incompetent the current administration is, and yet how easily they came to power. I suppose that’s a sign of a collapsing civilization, that eventually it becomes so corrupt, its people so apathetic, that a once powerful nation can be bowled over by a feather. A failed real estate developer and game show host with no discernible skills and every personality flaw known to man, becomes a fascist dictator? I would have preferred to have been conquered by an alien power, as it would have been less embarrassing. The fascists walked in and set the place on fire, and everyone just sighed and reached for the TV Guide.
I fear that we’re normalizing fascism by not immediately rioting in the streets. I fear there’s so little I can do that I have no other choice but to ignore it and soldier on. I fear we will soon get to a point where the situation becomes untenable, but it will be too late to do anything about it. I fear it all and see no feasible path around it or to combat it. Fascism appears ready to stay for the rest of my natural life.
A majority of Americans view Trump as a threat to democracy, but something like 40% of voters think a Trump dictatorship would be perfectly acceptable. That’s already a stunning turnabout given our nation’s historical identity. What happened to liberty, freedom, and the limits of government overreach? The right-wing base is so frightened by imaginary boogeymen that they would give up everything to believe that they’re safe from unwanted change. Pure cowardice from the group that’s armed to the teeth and believes an all-powerful deity is on their side. God and guns are apparently no match for human decency and common compassion. You have to cheat if you want to stay on top.
Black And Proud
I’ve had many different roosters over the years. Almost all were mild-mannered and relatively docile. We’ve had Rhode Island Reds, Buff Cochins, and a few mixed mutts. They were all stately and elegant. A lot of show and not much in the way of bluster. After two decades of raising chickens, we had given up on them for several years. Jane got tired of keeping up with them, and the coop was falling into disrepair. We were going to knock it all down, but then had a change of heart and decided to fix it up and install chickens again, which is what we did.
We started with five adult hens, gifted to us from our daughter’s flock, and then, a few weeks later, decided to add a young rooster. There’s really no point to a rooster unless you’re planning to hatch chicks and therefore need fertilized eggs.
As an old friend told his rooster one time after it got a bit of an attitude with him, “Hey, we don’t actually need you.” However, roosters can help fend off pests and vermin, as a rooster will actually fight you, whereas a hen will not. Plus, we like to hear them crow. It adds a surreal element to our so-called modern life.
Our rooster is called an Ayam Cemani, a breed which originally hails from Indonesia, and features black feathers, skin, meat, eyes, beak, and even their internal organs. When I say he’s a black rooster, he’s black through and through. I had planned to call him something old-fashioned, named after a philosopher or former president, but it never stuck, and now I can’t remember what it was. Elmer, Hoover, Warren, something something.
The thing is, the rooster has turned out to be quite aggressive towards my wife and I, and has attacked me, more than once, even drawing blood in the process. He also came from my daughter’s flock, where he was not the alpha male and so appeared timid and docile in the presence of their King Shit Bird, himself an All Black. Once our little guy became lord of his own roost, however, he decided he was now a fucking badass. All Black and goddamn proud of it. He is not to be trifled with, or so he has attempted to let me know.
While I respect that he’s trying to defend the flock, I’m only ever in the coop to care for them, which means filling the feeder and cleaning the automatic waterer. He likes to sidle up to me when my back is turned and charge me. Eventually, he attacks my legs. I have learned to keep him at a distance and swat at him to keep him apart. I have once slapped the shit out of him with the lid to the waterer, only to remind him that while he is indeed black, proud, and loud, I weigh 200 lbs while he only weighs about eight.
I’ve renamed him Huey P. Newton — out of respect.
Huey likes to stand on top of either the feeder or the waterer, so that he can survey his domain from on high, and then explain to the world in no uncertain terms that he is the lord of all creation. He stands up there and crows, over and over, until we are all in awe of his awesome power, then he jumps back down and goes about the business of being a chicken, which, I have to be honest with you, isn’t much.
It’s a lot of walking around, scratching the dirt, and eating bugs and small rocks, then occasionally schtupping one of the hens. It’s not exactly the height of achievement, but he’s doing all he can. He doesn’t know the world is on fire and frankly doesn’t give a shit about ICE, our failing healthcare system, or rising prices. He thinks I’m his biggest threat.
I know how he feels.
Follow David Todd McCarty on Mastodon.