I didn't know much.

  I never do really.  Usually having arrived "a day late and a dollar short", or, from the library, or, with the propensity to philosophize (squirm) and ethicate (this is why, we should or shouldn't) but everybody else saying shut up.  It's just the way of it. 

  I don't like fighting although I had to learn the hard way, a time or two, that standing to not cave on "taking a stand" and being caught in an avalanche is not all that smart either. 

  My mom managed the retelling of a Dad "joke" to my paled face and let go of it.  Only to her of course.  There were still many years of having to put on a face, buck up, and "walk the line" in a very public way to come.  The joke was planned to be not all that funny.  And it was about a decent old farmer who'd outlived his kin (probably because of eating right) and he would eat his tuna fish lunch everyday with a little picture of Jesus leaned up against the salt and pepper shaker.  "So what happened?" Mom kind of sighed a little, partly responsible for encouraging college, and mostly the same mom who was always there at the end of the day in her and Dad's home no matter what was happening in the world.  "Guy dies.  Goes to Heaven.  Is milling about up there when Jesus approaches him with tuna and bread and a big tomato." 

  "That's it?" 

  "Pretty much.  Dad added this whole part about Jesus and the guy acknowledging there are a lot more people down there in that mess than up here having lunch.  Here are your people!" 

  It seemed really feasible.  Very plausible.  Yet, so had Academia with it's critically thinking about the mess and it being kind of okay to not always have perfect answers. 

  "So what happened?" 

  Sigh.  "The whole stupid thing turned into a riot." 

  The silence of a reasonable and slightly older person putting youth on the scales of truth.  "We even brought a Bible!"  Mom's mouth squishing together quiet not judgment.  "It got ripped in half!" 

  "By satanic gang people?" 

  She waited. 

  "Oh.  Did I mention them?" 

  She sighed and stooped some. 

  "Actually, that was by these two guys who were just debating God and oil.  They were really getting deep about the Old Testament God being pretty harsh and clear and sometimes wars happening.  And how God, like one day or in his BIG plan, decided to send Jesus as ambassador of God's new plan for humanity." Mom fell into a more relaxed mode of listening to story.  "Well, the one guy really flat out denied that Jesus even came down here and went through all that torture to give lousy people a message from God.  So the other guy kind of hit him in the face with the Bible by way of saying, and he did say, It's all right in here.  You can read it for yourself.  If you can read." 

  Other kids in the family opened the door to the garage and closed it letting us talk.  "Guy starts to walk away." 

  "Which guy?" 

  "The guy who was in charge of the Hall where some old Army buddies were going to have a get-together with a bunch of us fresh faces.  But, see, there was a lot of different groups in the city for like all these festivals and concerts and stuff." 

  "So you girls went off campus?" 

  "Yeah.  We did." 

  My mother unloosened a portable phone from a bathrobe pocket full of tissues.  I didn't ask if she was sick.  I let the terrible weight of us disappointing and scaring them crush my spirit.  Whatever other reprimands would come could not be as devestating.  She stood and I realized she had her Church clothes on under the bathrobe.  She called a friend's mom.  "They're home." Her cold hand pressed a loose though hairsprayed curl springing from the top of my head back down. 

Humans as endangered species was

  met with curious looks at each other.  It was also a "rights" step-up from collateral damage. 

She'd done it.

  Our mother had challenged a neighborhood "orphan" to get out of that outfit.  She'd literally changed her clothes and declared herself a little mama.  It was a start.  The orphan outfit had been taking on too much weight and was dragging her down.  Especially as we swam around as mermaids. 

  Because most of us already had mothers nobody was all that excited about her new outfit.  A meeting was called.  But each place she went had been cleared of kids before the meeting time.  She bust through the leaf and branch covered piece of tin roof "hiding" the tank spot in the woods. 

  One kid jumped and let out a weird-sounding noise.  Other cammoflouged people and dogs fluttered at the edges of the spot.  "What are you doing here?" A voice she pretended not to recognize called out. 

  "This is where the meeting is right?!" 

  A branch being ripped from a tree trunk made a snapping sound.  "Not here whatever it's about." A kid pitched the branch in the path before her.  She left. 

  Our station wagon rolled to a STOP at the STOP sign.  The slew of suction cup bullets/projectiles mostly pelted the vehicle.  But a few with notes attached stuck.  Most everybody in the car had gasped and ducked but not the oldest brother.  "There's a note." He announced.  "What's it say?"  In his changing to lower tone voice he said, AIDS. 

"Existential" because

  you are teetering a democratic Republic's people on the redistribution of wealth "argument" and the old tribal/religious warfare of elimination of-replace with...within the same nation. 

"He has to list the reasons

  for his objection." A group coordinator wrote the judicial-type's suggestion. A fiscal-minded young Republican born and raised in a "blue state" cradled the growing budget bill and carefully leaned to put it back in the basonette.  "OH no, not in there young man."  The Observer pushed a clicker and a door opened and closed softly.  "I spoke." The Observer confessed.  "What did she say?" The Overseer asked another Observer. 

  "And not over there either," the Observer beckoned for the seven pounds of paper.  "Everybody stay away from that corner," the overseer clicked on a PA and called for procedure protocol when an Observer speaks.  The Observer visibly shrunk on the stool and face blazed red. 

  Keys unlocking a closet-looking door could be heard.  Eyes only on each individual in the room.  "What are you doing in here?" The question was asked of the room but the eyes landed on one person. 

  "Waiting for the young Democrat." 

  "May I ask why?" 

  "Because someone in this room is the young Republican.  We're going to meet up with an IT Rep.  Someone modified a version of Sim City to help all interested parties better pace their check writing." 

  "Hmmmmmm." The Overseer looked at the floor.  "Did anyone else go near the table in the corner?" 

  "There's a table under there?"  It was a pile of coats and jackets from floor to almost ceiling.  "I can just wait in the hallway.  Now that WE ALL KNOW I'll never be President."  The young woman left the room. 

  A forseeable future family portrait type photograph had been taken when world-leading contemporaries had gathered.  An eight month old Duchess and someone's kid brother were the cut off point for the security budget.  All budgets not based on credit card power were considered transitory until.  But my own parents forfeited hypothetically.  A gorgeous Rugby player tried to salvage pre-voter age patriotic fervor amongst the rejects.  But there was a disparity in the moment between belonging and being. 

  A neighborhood "friend", before the world split like an atom into blue and red, caught up.  Framing people on the Lawn with hands like a film camera.  "Are you a reject?"  

  "Why?" 

  "We're doing a postVisit Survey," the other girl turned and saw a knot of pre-teens far behind her.  Blowing Bazooka gum bubbles and giggling.  "Well we were a we, now it's just me I guess." 

  "What's a Survey good for?" 

  The girl took some typewritten and scribbled on notes from a Bermuda shorts pocket.  "Were those mine?" 

  "What these?" She found Survey on a Process List.  "My mother bought them for me." 

  "My mother gives some of our stuff away.  And/Or uses some stuff in Art Projects." 

  "Like what?  Says here that Surveys are not truly Sources but it's a way to gather opinions." 

  "Like old socks as stuffing inside Sneaky Snakes." 

  "That's a mouthful." 

  "Washed.  Old socks." 

  The knot of teen energy was like a magnet sucking all kinds of people to itself.  Glances over shoulders.  Some don't be so obvious warnings.  And the trading of Baseball Cards, postcards, gum, candy, broken cigarettes, and ticket stubs began. 

  "But it's not dinner anymore!" A kid broke into a crying, choking, hyperventilating fit.  Men in tuxedos but shirts hanging out, ties askew or missing, just pants and white tees were offering bills of money for things women keep in their purses.  Alkaseltzer? 

  Our mother was making the most money.  Our father was still neatly shielded in his tux.  It had been his elegant finger that poked the lapel of the winner of winners.  His expressive Trumpian lips flapping out the Golden Advice.  He'd had a Bible brought into the area.  Suggested the men put up the whiskey for this round.  Asked for a confirmation of being in agreement: God's in charge.  And poked the advice into the man's lapel, "Don't forget who put you here!" 

  "We're going home," he told everyone.  Our mother mumbled, I just told the other mothers we would stay.  "I need aspirin." My father sat in a dainty stiff chair.  Mom poured out two and ordered whichever of her kids had come into the room to go get Daddy water. 

  Walter Mathieu frowned and said, "I need a water too." Kids stared up at him.  "Please?" 

Birds of a feather and

  I only shoot squirrel. 

  The Queen leaned towards a grandchild and expressed a question.  Will they explain? 

  The youth had prepared some artistic reflections on how the world was seeming.  

  "She cares." A child said loudly to a wall of grownups who didn't seem to be paying attention since, first, we needed to overcome shyness. 

  "Everyone.  Get out of bathing suits and changed into dinner clothes." Some of the pre-teens groaned.  In a Lawn Party, casual clothes, there'd been a relaxed mood, a release of tensions, even a more general just people having fun. But Eppstein and his foolish friends were en route. 

  Now.  A young mother sternly told the oldest children. 

  "Because, it's not a kingdom.  More of a, a," the pager in pocket vibrated.  "Our White House Lawn is more of a Commonwealth!" A peppy teenager face full of braces assured. 

  "What did they do to these shoes?"  A black man's bloody hand had shaken from it into a medical bowl, the carbon blade. 

  "It's illegal." The man said as a basement orderly shoved a needle into his buttock. 

  The crush of people on the Lawn started to back into the window of the sitting room.  One kid was turning purple.  "Control it," came the mom order.  "First of all it's not anger," the kid who habitually listed all factors of strategy-needed before action rose above drowning in panic as he meted out the reasoning of what's happening.  

  Men of all age groups in suits and polos popped into the room asking "guests" and "vistors" to get serious.    "Well, who is he?" 

  "Well, you've heard of the most interesting man in the world, right?" 

  "That's who El Epp is?" 

  "God no." 

  "None of us have 

  "Presumably 

  "Well, Epp's Epp." 

  "Like Liverachi?" 

  "Whose kids are these?" 

  "Not really a musician, no. Though always around.  More like"

  Everyone was looking at the head-full-of-curls librarian.  "Like the Most Popular guy."  People absorbed the information.  "On the block.  Yeah, like the most popular guy on the block.  Which enfuriates the other guys." 

Along the way as

  Cultural Anthropologists and Independent Journalists we were primarily cautioned about two things: 

  You cannot change people. 

  Sometimes it's better NOT to write. 

  "Anything?" 

  We had long discussions.  Critically thinking about life and values and layers of culture on top of Republic.  The same as we had done abroad.  The same as we had done as school children in the USA.  

"Okay, that's the quote unquote

  Party Boss in this neck of the woods.  Here's a water.  Oh, and those tickets to a poetry slam.  Have fun."  She closed the binder from the Academic Institution with the circled man amongst voters.  All gathered around gummy fruit. 

  A discussion on a public bus about sheep.  One of the church events we'd been sent to was a Catholic Mass.  It was, apparently, an Ordinary Time sermon as opposed to a Holiday celebration.  A reminder that currently living Christians were neither Jesus himself, nor the Apostles.  In the Bible Jesus himself cautions disciples that humans are similar to sheep in that they are more fragile than wolves and mostly prone to follow any old "shepherd". 

  "I wuntah sat there quietly and been told I'm a sheep." A black teenage girl said from a seat towards the front of the bus.  As we dismbarked at a neighborhood street corner to get food at a market before the vendor and restaurant zone camped around the event, people on the bus bah'd at us. 

  Inside the market National Guard people notified three of the five of us, you are needed back in the Capitol.  The binder was removed from locked luggage and inventoried together with digital photographs taken on the brief tour.  

  "None of you can travel together." 

  "I guess that's what 'independent journalism' means." 

  "Well, I've got a long walk to the airport."  We'd left vehicles and friends far away from the politically occupied territory. 

Click. "You're question is too sweet." Click.

  "Well, I'm NOT an interrogator.  Is this room soundproof?" 

  "It would be but now we're under constant surveillance!  Does that make you sweaty?" 

  "I'm wearing deodorant." 

  "Go! Take your questions to the other box.  And you two have a good road trip." 

  "Are we there yet?" 

  The next filter box would pit us against people who were "beautiful".  They'd managed to work personal care into part of their regiment.  "With a desire to be on TV, I'm sure." 

  "I'm more of a behind-the-scenes type if I'm a type at all." 

  A door closed in a nervous move not sounding like a nurse's shoe in a hallway of calmed neurotics.  The woman approached, lowered eyes.  "I'm sure I blew it.  I wanted to." 

  "Why?" 

  "I'm leaning in the direction of think tank." 

  "I don't even know what that is but it sounds like it would hurt my brain." 

  "What kind of question did they want?" 

  "I think they're seeking the perfect moderator." 

  "Let's just leave." 

  "That's not how to handle this." She looked at the list of allowed questions and pointed at two potentials.

"There's a reason for

  everything." A woman ahead of us in the processing explained.  "And if we can't know, there's a silver lining!"  A random person in line was told to hold out hands.  These were swabbed with something similar to an alcohol pad.  There proved to be gun powder on the skin.  "He had to fire a pistol." Someone else vouched. 

  He'd fired it the way a Colonial re-enactor had fired a musket to show us boy and girl scouts how to signal that the red coats were indeed coming.  

  "How can we counter terrorism without understanding what terrorism eesz?" An Indian man philosophized.  Part reinforcing we'd not actually done anything wrong in busting through a Klan block of the roads to D.C., part making good on a promise to at least listen to a "talk".  

  Potential "mentors" for next steps on career paths came from a labyrinth of double-doored rooms.  They looked at name tags.  A friend snickered.  Before we'd left home they'd even checked our teeth like we were horses. 

  "It's been quite a saga to get here.  Peacefully.  And not killing anyone on the roads." Our peer-group rep informed a sweatered man with a shirt pocket bulge of pens.  "We appreciate the effort." 

  "Taking a stand on anything in such clime has actually 

  The line of us started moving.  "My mentor is twenty-six years younger than me," a man hoarsely said into a woman's ear.  She handed him her pocketbook.  Took flats off feet and slightly shuffled along in nylons.  "They get numb.  It's not a forever mentor.  I mean maybe you two will hit it off.  But some of us are just here to get updates and some backstory." 

  Out of the building onto a sidewalk.  Clouds gray.  Into another building. 

  "A mass vetting of people willing to get shot at for Our Country?" The man's sweat was dripping out of him onto the walking belt. 

  The shootings in Virginia were not showing a clear pattern.  Civilians buying junk food and prices-soaring gas were on the TV in the weight-training room.  "The Humanities people need to get their files." 

  "Do we have them?" 

  "Supposedly.  The Censor Council needed to put Arts and Science in you guys' Department." 

  The man swiped a face towel from the handlebars of the treadmill.  Shut the brisk walk off.  "Let's check on the timing of the request!"