Tag Archive | History

Charleston Shooting: Appearance vs Reality in the US

As an American citizen living abroad, I often have an idealized vision of my home country. I’ll defend its honor when people verbally attack it, I’ll stand with my hand over my heart during the national anthem. I love the United States of America, but what I love I now realize is only the tip of the iceberg of a truly messed up place.

When I wake up, 4000 miles away from reality, and I read that 9 innocent people were shot in a historic black church by a white 21-year-old, I feel physically ill.
So many times before, we’ve seen atrocities where children get shot and students lose their lives. And for each one of those occurrences, I feel sick to my stomach, I wonder how it’s possible for a person to be filled with so much hate, how someone could so recklessly take the lives of innocents and forever change the existence of the families of the victims. Each time, I am angry and sad, but filled with hope that finally something might change in the consciousness of the American people, in our hearts and in our government, and that something will be done to stop these senseless killings. Then, I forget. It’s a truth that I hate to admit, but that I must. After a few months, I stop remembering what happened to the children of Sandy Hook and the people of Aurora, as the stories gradually fade out of the media. Discussion changes to the threat of ISIS and of Al Qaeda, to how we can protect ourselves from the foreign terrorism we so fear.

Well guess what. Terrorism doesn’t only come from the outside. The FBI defines terrorism as “the unlawful use of force or violence against persons or property to intimidate or coerce a Government, the civilian population, or any segment thereof, in furtherance of political or social objectives.” When Dylann Roof allegedly told one of the victims “I have to do it… You rape our women and you’re taking over our country, and you have to go”, he had a social objective. When he told a survivor “I need someone to survive”, that survivor was most likely kept alive to tell the tale of that horrible day and reach a wider audience. By killing 9 and provoking fear in millions, Roof was not only committing a hate crime, he was committing an act of terrorism. We need to recognize this, and stop thinking that the only terrorists are people from different faiths and cultures, because by doing that, we’re blinding ourselves.

I studied the fight for African-American civil rights in History class this year. I dissected the demonstrations of white racism and thought about how far we’d come, how reformed the United States was. I thought that the acts of violence executed today were perpetrated by lone madmen, and that the very reason we couldn’t understand and couldn’t explain them was because they were isolated. But sooner or later, I have to face the facts: if the confederate flag has been flying on the grounds of the South Carolina State House since 1962, it isn’t so much a symbol of southern heritage as it is a constant insult to the African-American population of the state. Racism is alive and well in the United States, and Dylann Roof, with his Rhodesian patch, acted because of personal convictions that were nourished by a discriminatory culture.

This morning, I watched the families of the victims make statements to the gunman. Whereas I felt intense anger towards this perverted assassin of a boy, the messages in the courthouse were those of love. The daughter of victim Ethel Lance spoke to Roof, telling him that “you hurt me, you hurt a lot of people, but God forgive you, and I forgive you”. The granddaughter of victim Reverend Simmons stated that “hate won’t win”.  These people have lost loved ones, and yet still they are able to forgive the one that caused the pain.

As I sat, head in hands, watching Roof’s expressionless face on the television screen of the courthouse, my respect for those speaking deepened, and I knew that what those families were saying was true: love will prevail, but not automatically or because it should. Love will prevail because we as a people are realizing that we need to remember, need to talk, need to fight and need to change our country. Let’s not let another horrific shooting slip into the darkness of forgetfulness. When Jon Stewart says that “we’re bringing it on ourselves”, he’s right. But it’s the “we” that’s important. If we can bring acts like this on ourselves, then we can change. So let’s.

Live long and prosper \V/
Yours sincerely,
The Mostly Confused Teenager

I Left my Heart in the Coffin (and no, I’m not suicidal)

I live in a town called the Coffin. Don’t laugh and turn away, I’m quite serious! Our town’s name is le Cercueil which translates literally to “coffin”. My house’s name (here we have names not numbers, we treat our houses with respect, only not really) is the Suffering. And my parents thought that it would be a good idea to raise two children here. HA! I don’t even want to think about what they’d been drinking the night they made the transaction.

I’ve known my home ever since I was a baby, and although now we only go to the house on weekends because my brother and I go to school in Paris, my heart belongs there. Isn’t that a weird thing to say? My heart belongs in the Suffering of the Coffin. People might think I’m dark or something, but actually, no. I love it here and I wouldn’t change the odd consequences of my being here for anything.

The picture above is of the main part of our house, which is 400 years old and hasn’t changed much since I’ve known it. In fact the little girl at the table on the front lawn is me! I knooow right?

Anywho, I guess I owe you an explanation as to why the town is called the Coffin. In a time far far away, the Gauls (original French people) were fighting the Romans around here during the Gallo-Roman wars. The battle fought on the very grounds where I sit typing this was a bloody (hence the suffering part) and costly one, with a high number of victims. The Gauls won, and their victory allowed them the right to bury their dead. So they buried them right here on the land that they had fought for and the town earned the name Sarcophagus. Over time as no one used the word sarcophagus anymore the term became ‘coffin’. The Romans, forced to retreat, did not get the luxury of burying their dead, instead having to pile them up and burn them. The village neighboring ours is called Montmerrei, which in Latin signifies ‘mountain of the dead’. I kid you not.

You can still see the trenches left over from World War I in the forest, and our old neighbor saw the Germans set up camp in our fields because we had a water well there during World War II. After the Germans came the Americans, and finally the British. When I go down there, I try to imagine what the scene would have looked like and how different from my reality things were.

Well, I’m pretty sure our whole county is haunted, but in a town without any shops or commercial activity where a sparsely distributed 130 people live, no one pays much attention to the tales of our old homes’ glory days. Although, on nights when the ancient house creaks in the wind and lashing rain, it sure is pretty freakin’ scary to think of all those stories.

The Coffin has a lot of historical baggage (not to mention psychological, I mean I pity the shrink that has to deal with the town called the Coffin), but to everyone around here, it’s just another little sleepy hollow. Explaining it to visitors, however, can be a little more challenging. And no, there are no old bones lying around. To my knowledge. Then again, my dog might have eaten them all.

Live long and prosper \V/

Yours sincerely,

The Mostly Confused Teenager