Author and writer, living independently.
Author and writer, living independently.
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I get out the round white bowl, reflecting on my life.
Talking with neighbors hadn’t helped. How could they understand? I crunch arame seaweed into the bowl, sprinkle ground ginger and granulated garlic. By working nights, weekends, two and three jobs, I had been invisible. On the cutting board I gather a handful of broccoli slaw and cut across the middle, then across the middle of each half, dump it in, and squirt it with olive oil.
It was a time for change. I had saved some money, had no debt.
While the bowl nukes for 1:33 I rinse a skinny red pepper and a green onion. Am I the problem? I quarter the pepper lengthwise, cut the onion in thirds, gather and coarsely chop them, thinking how I’m the common element in all these bad events. But I had been sticking up for what was right, had done my duty, gone the extra mile.
The microwave finishes and I fill the steaming bowl three-quarters with water, contemplating the last ten years of being a small-time whistleblower. I sprinkle on dried red pepper with a cheap grinder. Where had my ethical activism gotten me? Nowhere. I scoop in the chopped veggies, which knocks the red pepper flakes to the bottom. My upholding the rules and doing the right thing was guaranteed to fail. I was an outsider who was ‘just stirring things up.’ Nobody cared, even the state regulators, and the only thing that seemed to matter was the power structure.
The micro ran for another 1:33 while the obvious became clear. I had missed major pieces of the puzzle because I don’t understand the importance of social politics. I’m oblivious to the true nature of people. No matter how well-meaning, I upset the social order, so of course I paid the price.
I hate that social order. It’s where a clearly evil man has a good chance to become President even though the verb of his name describes a dictator. It was my last two bosses. They bully and skirt the rules.
But is refusing to participate my only option? Just let them have it?
I crunch up the package of ramen noodles using the heel of my hand carefully so I don’t make a mess by popping a seam, unlike how I’ve been handling my life lately.
Once in the hot water, the ramen starts swelling up. I let myself think of Her, just a little bit, plunge a spoon with black sesame butter into the middle, and splash in a little balsamic vinegar. The same nasty people had won then too, overrunning paradise with evil. Was I lucky to leave? I dump three quarters of the flavor packet next to the spoon, not ready to stir yet, and crumple on dried Italian basil from my garden, then let it sit while failure washes over me.
The past had gone horribly wrong and it was still happening. If I let it.
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