Send In the Clowns
I’m thinking of my brother Tarik as I cruise the PCH (Pacific Coast Highway) on a hot Sunday afternoon, windows rolled down so I can soak up the ocean air, sweat be damned. Back when we lived together in NYC, he would talk about Southern California as if it were Shangri-La, his beliefs about it based purely on TV images of eternal sunshine and weed-smoking everywhere: a dream-come-true for his teenage stoner self. He never made it out here before he passed away, not even to visit, perpetually stuck in saving money for it and never quite having enough. A part of me is happy he didn’t, that he was spared the bubble burst that is the rush hour on the 405 and the shallowness of wanna-be celebrities, as common in LA as roaches were in NYC. But the bigger part of me, the one that misses him every day, wishes with all her heart he were here, with me, soaking up this day straight out of his fantasies.
But that’s not why he’s on my mind at this moment. Rather, it’s because of a Jeep in front of me, whose giant flag is announcing to the world that the people inside are racists, and proud of it.
It has brought to mind another moment like this, way back, at the beginning of W’s second term. Tarik and I were driving down a much less cinematic road while visiting our parents in Florida, when we came upon a large pick-up truck covered with pro-Bush and pro-war stickers. I had marched in a large protest only a few weeks before, screaming my heart out for the government to stop killing civilians in our name (still believing my zeal could change the world), so when faced with this wallpaper of hate, I wanted to do something, anything, to tell them they haven’t won, even if everything made it seem like they had.
“Pull up next to them,” I instructed Tarik. “I wanna flick ‘em off.” He laughed, thinking it a joke, since my family role has always been that of a mediator, not a provoker. But the second Bush win broke something in me - how could American people elect such a horrible person again, after everything he did in his first term?? - and all this rage came pouring out of me like pus out of a wound I didn’t realize was infected.
“C’mon, do it.” I urged him in the “big-sister” tone. Tarik smirked, both of us knowing that hadn’t worked on him in years. “Sis, we’re in Florida. He probably has a shotgun right there next to him and will blow your finger, and the rest of your hand, right off.”
Twenty years later, I’ll be in that same Florida town, helping my parents repair their house after the hurricane, as another horrible man wins his second term against all reason. This time I won’t be surprised, however. When he won the first time, I was. We all were. Even him. I called my parents in panic, begging them to move to California, my wartime PTSD triggered to the max. My mom assured me they will, if things get worse, adding “It’s not him we need to worry about, though. It’s the scum of the earth that he’s now given permission to rise up and do whatever they want, and we all know how that ends.” Referring to the scum-incited war we fled to this country from, (foolishly?) believing we’d be safe here.
Eating lunch with my parents a day after his second win, I’m wondering out loud if anyone we knew voted for him. “Shhh, don’t talk about it,” warns my dad, as my mom hands us bread to go with our soups. “Just keep your head low, and your opinions to yourself. People will claim they didn’t because they know how you feel about him, but you never know, not really. And who knows what they’ll do if you provoke them.” My mom chimes in, “Best let it be and talk about other things. You won’t get anything by starting those arguments, other than possibly an ulcer. And who needs that?”
A few months later, I’m back in California, on a walk with my all-American friend who’s contemplating moving out of LA to a less expensive part of the country. As he rattles off all these places deep in the red states, I ask him if he’s not afraid to move his family there.“Oh, it’s not that bad, not really. Just because they’re Republicans doesn't mean that they’re bad people. They still love and care and have good hearts. Just don’t talk politics, and all’s well.”
I would normally agree - I firmly believe that there are good and bad people in every group, no matter what, and just because we may disagree on, say, abortion, that doesn’t mean they’re evil - but the rhetoric coming out of those who voted firmly red in this last election no longer sounds like “let’s agree to disagree, here’s a beer, cheers to our collective freedom of speech.” Instead, it feels eerily similar to the times right before war erupted in Bosnia, when lifelong friends and neighbors suddenly started echoing the words of our newly elected leaders, directly threatening our existence. I was young then, but that didn’t spare me from experiencing, first hand, the deep betrayal of finding out your friends want you dead, even as they rush to clarify, “I don’t mean you personally, I mean Bosnian Muslims in general.” As if that hate would somehow spare me once unleashed, like a rabid dog you still believe you can control. As if the sheer fact that they believed this didn’t already damage everything, beyond repair.
I try to explain this to my friend: “Replace Bosnian Muslims with (undocumented) immigrants or women or Blacks or Jews or Palestinians or Native Americans, or, really, any group that at any point those in power singled out, and you can see why my fears are ringing alarm bells. It’s the same shit, different wrapping. Or, rather, same goons, different uniforms.” He nods, but I can see that he doesn’t understand, not really. How could he, when he’s never experienced this before? It’s all theoretical, a history lesson he cannot identify with. I know that feeling too. We Bosnians also didn’t believe it could ever happen to us. We were led to slaughter and didn’t stop smiling until the knife sliced our collective throats. As were many peoples before, and since then. Only those of us who’ve been to the Upside Down can ever recognize the Shadow Monster when it appears again, and know what it means when it starts to permeate the world we believed was safe from it.
“You should thank them, if anything,” my brother says as we stare at W’s face smiling at us from the back of that pick-up back in 2005. “At least they’re showing you who they are, no bullshit. It is those hidden haters you really have to worry about. The ones who smile in your face, but can’t wait for you to be rounded up. They are the true evil. This guy? Just a sad clown, wanting attention.”
Back on the PCH, I throw one more glance at the flag-waving Jeep as it peels off at the next exit, and I drive on, wondering if we’re right to stay silent and not provoke the clowns, or if it’s smarter to push back, however we can, even if all we can muster is a middle finger in a face of a shotgun.
Either way, my brother was right about one thing. Knowing who the Monsters are, right off the bat, is definitely safer, in its bizarre way. At least we can see them coming, masks and all.
