Brian Spenser

CW 8 - Loss

At times one’s trust can falter

In dire doubts and danger

There are those who seek to crucify

Rather than to come together

Three words, when spoken freely

Are better than three million under duress

For when free speech is ended

Then comes a state akin to death

A great and terrible paralysis

The rigor mortis of the soul

If they can keep you from thinking

There is no hope for us all to grow

But I am sure they’ll never win

When all they have is deceit and lies

There is, I think, still an interest

In whether democracy lives or dies

I will always remember it. In the summer sunshine the park looked beautiful. The shafts of light coming down through the trees’ obscuring foliage, for me, hinted at the general state of darkness that seemed to have fallen over world politics. Deep shadows of distrust loomed large on the landscape. I saw my numerous books and editorials as little gusts of wind that blew the foliage aside and helped people see that there was really still bright sunshine out there. Though the administration may be trying to silence those who believe that invading Iraq is not the right way to disarm Saddam Hussein, assuming he really does have weapons, I intend to keep writing. People deserve to hear all sides of the story, though President Bush seems to have his heart set on war from the huge run-up he has been giving it.

Ever since the horrible events of September 11, 2001, people had been locking up not only their houses, but also their compassion and understanding of fellow humans. I tend to think that’s why we were so eager to see war as the solution to our problem. Suddenly, when the old Lebanese widower from the apartment next door comes over to break the loneliness of his monotonous life with a conversation about how bad our football team is, or how he thinks the administrations tax policy is favoring the rich too much, he’s not just the old man down the hall anymore. He is a Muslim, isn’t he? Who are his terrorist contacts, the ones who he’s surely passing information to? We were so eager to find enemies that we forgot the value of friends.

It seems to me that, as the administration’s rhetoric was getting increasingly more urgent and fiery in its call to action, it was only appropriate that my own writing should likewise escalate. The week before, I had published my most incisive article yet. It was angry—even hostile—and it made a point. The New York Times refused to run it, though they had never refused me before. Sad times are those when the propaganda machine has done such a complete and effective job that media censorship becomes internalized and freedom is speech is willingly curtailed.

I have never been much on conspiracy theories, but the whole September 11 thing seemed like an inside job to me. I will probably be branded as crazy for even suggesting it, I know, but there are so many bizarre incongruities that I feel just can’t be accounted for under the accepted explanation. I had been consumed by the task of trying to find out why the twin towers had been hit and why so many innocents had perished—among them my treasured wife, Helen. My writings had been suggesting my own deeper feelings for some time, but never had I come out and actually endorsed a conspiracy theory. I valued my reputation with publishers too much; I valued my comfort.

After Helen died, I didn’t know what to do, but, recently, things were really starting to look up for me again in life. Right after it happened, I was completely devastated, and threw myself even more into my work to try to ease the grief. We were planning on kids, a nice place up in Maine for the summers, and everything else. But I hadn’t been doing badly for myself these last few years since she died, at least in terms of money. I had even been considering getting the Maine place, just as a memento or something.

On that gorgeous summer day in the park I was thinking about finally moving on and maybe trying to meet another woman. The sun was helping my spirits. Then it happened. A black car with tinted windows pulled up and three suited men got out. They walked over to me and asked me, by my full name, to come with them because they wanted to ask me some questions. I remember that at that moment, my throat tightened with the most horrible fear I had ever felt. What if these men were from one of the alphabet soup organizations and all the conspiracy theories were true? What if they were going to take me away for what I’d written or said? My worst fears were confirmed as I realized I wasn’t being asked to accompany them, I was being told. The knot in my throat tightened to an intolerably degree. I must have turned the most deathly shade of pale as I walked to the car with them and got in.

During the drive, I was too dazed to say anything for a very long time. Finally, I managed to whisper, “I want to exercise my rights.”

“Sir, you have no rights,” came the chilling response. “You do not exist at the moment.” I said nothing more for the duration of the trip. How could I have gone from a full-fledged human being with rights and liberties to utter non-existence in just the blink of an eye? As the car pulled into the parking garage of a nondescript building, my fear gradually subsided and was replaced by a sort of unbelieving numbness. I did not exist. The thing that scared me most about it was not the fact that someone who did not exist could be held forever or beaten or tortured or killed, but rather that someone who did not exist could not speak. My life was communication, and when communication was taken away from me, I could not be sure I was still alive.

The three suited men escorted me upstairs into the nondescript building. They sat me in a small room, hooked me up to a polygraph machine, and began to ask me questions. I said absolutely nothing. This was not a battle I would let them win. If they would seek to take away my communication, then I would be obligingly silent.

“Why won’t you answer any questions?” asked one of the men. “You have nothing to gain from non-cooperation.”

“You have nothing,” said another. “Tell us what we want to know. Have you ever been involved with terrorist organizations working against the United States government?”

“We can hit you if we want,” said the third. “You know that don’t you? We can hurt you. You don’t exist. This never happened; you can’t prove it did. Tell us what we want to know, or this could become painful for you.” I closed my eyes, signaling without words my stolid refusal to cooperate.

The rest of the story doesn’t matter. I can’t prove it. How do you know that I’m not making it all up? Even if you don’t believe me, though, I think that you can take something from it. I only seek to make the point that, after the disgusting and tragic events of September 11, 2001, the world fell apart when it could have come together. People turned against other people; my countrymen turned against me just as I turned my writings against them. In closing, you must speak. Free speech promotes the broadest, most meaningful understanding.

Writing Journal:

In designing a fictional piece around real events, I found that I was given great leeway to express my own views through the character’s thoughts and actions. Any number of modern and ancient authors use and have used this technique; the form is especially suited to satirical writing. I’m not sure if readers really can determine how factual a personal account is; instead I think it’s better to judge personal accounts by how moving or powerful they are. The goal of someone reading a personal account should not be to obtain an exact history, but rather to gather a certain source’s interpretation of the events and integrate that source’s point of view into his or her own modes of thinking. Personal accounts are necessarily biased because they cannot, by nature, present all points of view equally. A history written with a plurality of views is more reliable for learning the nature of actual events, but personal accounts can be thought of as adding necessary “texture.” The writing on the walls of the German SS headquarters reminded me of the necessity of hope in dark places, and I think that theme plays a big part in this piece. I chose my subject of writing for this piece because it allowed me write about issues that I find very important.