TATER

It’s 6:30 a.m., and I am at the quaint little train station, in this rosy little Republican enclave named Glen Ellyn.  Glen:

A glen is a valley, typically one that is long, deep, and often glacially U-shaped; or one with a watercourse running through such a valley. The word comes from the Irish language/Scottish Gaelic language word gleann, or glion in Manx. In Manx, glan is also to be found meaning glen. As the name of a river, it is thought to derive from the Welsh language glan meaning clean, or gleindid meaning purity.

Purity.  The word has many connotations for me, none of which are aspirant to a higher nature.  I have just purchased my monthly train ticket from Sandy, the ever smiling and pleasant ticket agent behind the bullet proof  glass in the station.  In my mind, I am picturing an irate wing tipped lawyer of yesteryear brandishing his nine millimeter at the agent, demanding cash, that he might be able to afford the spiraling cost of his morning latte, before escaping on the 6:57 train.  “No wonder they need to be shielded from the public”, I think to myself.  “Never know when Starbuck’s might raise their prices again!”  Lost in my thoughts as I sip my grande coffee, and looking out on this quiet morning, I take in what this town has to offer, and realize that it all boils down to one word:  pretension.  The ancient trees, the mini-mansions, the expensive sedans, the freshly scrubbed and starched commuters, all of them pretending that all is well in their world, and that this town symbolizes the comfort they pretend the majority of us all enjoy, espouse, and partake of. 

As I am engrossed in taking everyone else’s inventory while awaiting my train, I am nudged off my high horse and back into the moment, by the sound of footfalls and grunts on the crushed limestone jogging path across the tracks from me.

There appears a formation of runners, all sporting grey t-shirts with an “A” emblazoned on their fronts.  Army of one, in a long 2x2 rank and file, answering their drill sergeant with robotic chants.  I stand at attention as they near, and intently gaze at the baby faced young men, red faced with sweat and exertion.

Where are they from, these poor souls?  They certainly aren’t from this town.  Inhabitants here would loathe the idea of their kids on the battlefield, even though they espouse support for our troops, with all their little, yellow, magnetic ribbons.  It’s much more convenient to lend support when it poses no personal loss.  No, this W in ’04 bumper sticker crowd, send their kids to prep schools and the Ivy League, not Fallujah.  I search their faces in a vain attempt to discern status or place, but they have already been broken down into sameness.  Long hair shorn, stoned eyes clean, bodies built to sameness in their lean military mean.  I can’t help but stare at these poor young men, and wonder which of them signed up to get a chance for a college education?  Which ones are avoiding certain jail time if left to their own devices?  Which are the true believers in the cause, and which were lulled by the video gaming, ass kicking, advertising con?  Which are running to support a pregnant teenage partner, which are running from broken homes?

It’s too difficult to discern, for they are all running for their lives.  I say a silent prayer for them, and hope against my cynicism, that those swift legs will propel them out of harm’s way.

How does one outrun an IED?

How does one outrun three tours of duty without adequate rest and rehabilitation?

How does one outrun inadequate equipment?

How does one outrun the sheer arrogance of a failed, power hungry, egomaniac, who ignores his own military experts, in an all consuming quest for an impossible victory?

I cry for these young men and women, seeking escape from small and battered lives, hoping the mad dash to Iraq will help them escape a fate planned for them by the wealthy elite, stepping on their very necks to keep them down.  I sense they seek asylum in the dens of the lions which seek to devour them.  Blood for oil, blood for wealth, blood for domination and tyranny over the majority.  Small lives taken for the grandiose lives of ease and privilege.

Many are the poor and devastated wretches, needed to feed the insatiable desire of these greedy few.

“How much is enough?” I ask myself.

“How many children need to be injured and destroyed to support the America we have become?”

I see the truth around me now, as these young men fade to a point and eddies of dust on a trail;  it is well tailored.  These fine old oak tress, the fine stately homes, these boulevards of consumerism and painfully empty hearts.  They have grown fat and tired on the blood of innocents, the only word they ever hear is “more”.  This sleepy little town, where we pretend the American Dream is attainable for all those willing to work for it, is as culpable as the heartless thugs in the west wing, and corporate boardrooms around the world.

I hear the train coming, and the only word my heart can hear is “RUN”.