Monday, February 18, 2013

Why I Fear Returning to the United States

I always think "it" may happen to me. When I saw Rodney Kind getting smashed to a bloody pulp, I thought it could happen to me. My fear, however, goes beyond such notorious incidents. In fact, the very thought of returning to the United States makes me almost succumb to paranoia.
 
It wasn't always like that. As a kid, I truly believed in the divine greatness of America. One of my favorite songs for several years was: "Courtesy of the Red, White, and Blue." Hell, for a long time I contemplated joining the army so I could spread freedom. People forget that after 9/11, many Americans revered W Bush. His approval rating was massively high, and it was not until the blunder that was Iraq that many Americans started losing faith in the greatness of our country. I felt deceived about the weapons of mass destruction that never materialized, outrage at torture in Abu Ghraib and in CIA black sites, and dismayed at the general incompetence of the government.
 
Unlike most of my liberal friends, however, my concerns for the future of the United States were not allayed by Barack Obama. My mistrust of America went deeper than just one man in the executive branch. I had lost faith in America's fourth estate.
 
I remember watching documentary after documentary in the 1990s and early 00s detailing the Saddam menace in Iraq. It's only in retrospect that I've learned that what the US media presented as a solid, clear-cut case was in fact anything but in the eyes of most of the world. And though the CEO of the executive branch has changed skin colors, the media remains as whitewashed as ever; the Murdochs of the world are still pulling the same strings.
 
It was with that lack of faith that I decided not to vote for Obama. That Obama was even being allowed airtime by corporate media outlets was enough to signal to me that he would continue many of his predecessor's policies. I knew there would be -- and there has rightfully been -- much needed change on the domestic front, but limited gay rights and a sub-par health insurance are not enough to blind me to Obama's foreign policy of drone executions, torture forgiveness, bailout of bankers, and general usurpation of the Constitution. None of Obama's CIA and Wall Street-subservient policies have surprised me. I knew when he was running for office that he had the "reformed" face the establishment needed. I knew before he got elected that the capacity of blacks for tyranny and subservience to corporate masters was just as well-developed as that of whites.
 
So, I lost faith in the fourth estate for supporting a corrupt executive and sanitizing his bloodthirst in the Middle East. Further, my faith in the police and the judicial system was eroded the more I read about private prisons. Correction Corp --- the very same corporation that just recently signed a deal with the same religious fundamentalists who brought us the W Bush caliphate -- circulated a memo requesting states keep their prisons at a certain capacity. State agreements with private interests in the freedom of men encourages draconian legislation that unfairly targets poor minorities. The United States has 5% of the world's population, but 25% of the world's prisoners. America's prison population surpasses that of China by 1 million, and there are 5 million Americans also on probation and parole. America incarcerates more people than any other country on earth.
 
In the US, I'd be more afraid of a cop planting drugs in the trunk of my car, than I'd be of walking around the South Bronx at 3am. I have lived in the South Bronx, and can relate to this issue personally. It was a fellow Dominican cop from the Bronx who quit the force, outraged at the fact that he was expected to maintain quotas instead of "serve and protect." Simply put, I feel safer around American criminals than American cops.
 
Finally, and most controversially, I feel that the government has not been fully forthwith concerning the events of September the 11th, 2001. The government spent more money investigating Monica Lewinsky than it did the murder of 3,000 of our fellow citizens. On top of spending less money on the 9/11 commission, the commissioners have complained of getting stonewalled. The commissioners themselves wrote a book detailing how they were, "set up to fail." The fact that more than a decade after the attacks, I still don't know the truth hits me with more symbolism than memories of the Berlin wall. The culture of guns and conspiracy itself is enough to scare me. I truly fear that some new truth or widely-circulated rumor could set about a catastrophic chain of events.
 
As catastrophic as the government's response to Hurricane Katrina, which highlighted how the poor are neglected and outcast.  But of course, better disaster response means entrusting the executive branch with near-dictatorial powers. Congress gave Bush the power to declare martial law; this years after his follies in Iraq. Though he lost those power the following year, his executive orders and future legislation basically guarantees that a future president, if not this current one, will gain control of the Nation Guard, and the power to deploy the military in the streets; hopefully not as bloody as when Lincoln did. The imperial presidency has never been so more encoded into law.
 
When a federal judge declared Obama's power to kill Americans without trial legal, she said she found herself in a veritable catch-22. And indeed, the American catch-22 extends beyond government. It sinks into the psyche of every American that wakes up and still believes himself to live in a free and dignified Homeland.

Whore-haggling in Manila

I arrived in Manila almost instantaneously. I was drunk off my ass when my Quebecois buddy Pierre dragged me from some forsaken balcony in Itaewon, and put us on the train to Incheon airport. I blacked out as soon as we got on the plane to Manila, waking up in a different world. Consistent with my inability to plan, I had no idea what awaited me. Pierre joked that he was glad to finally be in South America, and the reality is that our knowledge of where we were was limited. 

I had read the Wikipedia page on the Philippines some years before flying into Manila, and had a Filipina friend in college. I wasn't fully ignorant -- I simply enjoy chaos and spontaneity -- but I knew nothing about the city. Pierre, however, had been told one word: Malate.

We hopped on a cab and told the driver to drop us off in Malate. Malate wasn't that different from the crippling third world poverty I had grown up seeing in The Dominican Republic. If anything, drinking a cold San Miguel in the first terrace we entered felt like I was back in the Caribbean. I could feel the tropical poverty being drowned out of my eyes by the cold beer and the excitement of adventure in a new city. 

However, I am not sure whether I was blind or a fool, but it quickly became obvious that Pierre and I were unusually popular with the ladies. Of course, we're both good looking guys who exude confidence, but that was overshadowed by the fact that we were North American. The very first two girls who approached us were tricking, they told us that straight up. 

We fled to the next bar and walked into a sea of women. There were maybe 60 girls and 6 guys standing around listening to the music. Pierre and I approached a couple of American dudes, clearly Marines, who simply told us they worked in the US embassy. "They'll ask your for cab fare once you have sex with them," the Marine in black told me. The dude was trying to show us the ropes, how to get the most bang for our buck, when an old white guy came in and stole the show. 

He was balding, nearly blind, and stumbling with a cane as 4 hot young brown girls trailed behind him. He sat down, one of the girls lifted his shirt and started rubbing his massive beer gut, as another started scratching his shiny bald head. The old guy gleamed contentedly behind his magnifying specs; he was nearly blind. 

Disgusted, Pierre and I walked out. Along the way to finding a hotel, we were approached by about 10 or 12 kids begging for money. It was late night and they were no more than six or seven years of age. Perhaps they were older; frail bodies sometimes betray the truth of age. They were mobbing us for money, and Pierre and I angrily shook them off: "get the fuck away!"  I screamed after I noticed my book bag was suddenly open. We knew we quickly needed a hotel to stash our bags, or we were gonna get jacked. 

We continued walking, stumbling past families sleeping on the sidewalk. Many of the kids sleeping with their mothers were wearing nothing more than a raggedy t-shirt. Pierre and I got the very clear impression that the cardboard box they were lying on was the only thing on earth they owned. We eventually walked over a family blocking the sidewalk, and were approached by a man trying to promote his "club."

His club was patronized by 10 times more women than men, and the promoter was very eager for us to drink with some of the girls. We tried to shake off the promoter, and walked out into a mob of more promoters, each trying to outbid the other in interest for us. We kept walking and they tailed behind while promising drinks and "many regular girls," but we entered the first brightly lit hotel lobby we found and ditched them. We needed to change, prepare for the night, and stash our belongings. 

We each booked a 60 euro a night room, and I took the elevator up to the 51st floor. I dropped off my bag, showered, and changed into something clean for the night. Before Pierre and I met in the lobby again, I decided to look down from my window. Down below, I saw the same families we'd walked around, and some of the same homeless kids. I knew that I was as powerless to help them from up above, as I would be a few hours later while drinking down below.