My favorite reading genre is science fiction. This is just a tale of the future inspired by current events. It is written in the first person.
It has been 15 years since Imperator Trump became leader of the New American Federation. No longer the 50 United States but some 30 disparate states, many with new boundaries and names. In 2018 we were unaware that medical and DNA facilities were collating data about our ethnicity. Under the guise of scientific advancement, the government had colluded with the data gatherers to make America as white as possible. Anyone with 85% white or Caucasian genes was reclassified as Pure Citizens. All others were no longer citizens but subjects; in a caste system. On rare occasions, subjects could pass as citizens but dare not procreate for fear of recessive genetics. The caste system is not truly based on darkness of color but your worth to this new society.
A Nigerian doctor might be part of Caste #1 but a Guatemalan farmer could be Caste #4. Many people of color fled after rezoning to Free States such as those in the Pacific West (formerly known as California, Oregon and Washington) or to other continents. Curiously, white Neo-Nazis from Northern Europe and Argentina flocked to immigrate to New America and they were welcomed by Imperator Trump. No one dare call him any other name but they can’t control our thoughts. I am now an old woman stuck in a country I despise, the country of my birth and ancestors. Despite my mixed blood, I have 85% Caucasian genes and look as fair as any Aryan. My hair is snow white, my faded dark blue eyes are cloudy and my skin as fair as milk. I am treated with veneration to my disgust; for safety I smile at all the compliments and kindness. Even monsters have some capacity for good, don’t they?
Those subjects who were unable to escape New America now live in ghettos. Some are better than others; just old suburban areas but clearly differentiated. No one from Caste #1 can marry, live or have a relationship with someone in Caste #4, for example. Two doctors of different color in Caste #1 can marry even if one is of Chinese ethnicity and the other Mexican. To the white citizens, they are all less than pure. The 85%, as we are known, live in fully armed and gated communities. A very few are similar to the Mar-a-Lago estates of the old days. Fort Trump is an example with multi-million dollar homes, gilded from top to bottom. Imperator style is ornate and gaudy; like one of Imperator Trump’s many casinos.
When the states separated, I hoped that democracy would prevail in Texas but “Make America White” struck a chord in a Republican State. El Paso had always been blue and was able to create a new territory which is governed and protected by Mexico. New Mexico, mostly Hispanic, is a Protectorate of Mexico. Oklahoma and Arkansas merged into what they once were – Indian Territories. In this strange new world, Native Americans have retained power and sovereignty but are not Citizens. Louisiana is a wasteland; devastated by flooding, hurricanes and poverty. It has become a disease ridden swamp that only Cajuns and other indigenous people can survive in.
Houston too did not survive the vagaries of the increasingly turbulent weather systems. The coastline has retreated further north and Galveston has reverted back to a sliver of sandbar. New Houston has taken the place of Austin as State Capitol. It is a grim city with no rainbows or sunshine. It is full of dangerous ghettos as is South City formerly known as San Antonio. All Spanish words are banned, so Amarillo was renamed Yellow City, a literal translation. Many times over the years I wished I had kept my Spanish maiden name but a white name kept me safe. I whisper it under my breath to remind myself of who I am.
So why didn’t I escape to Mexico or Pacific West? By the time I realized that Texas would succumb, I was a widow and too frail. I live in the Big Thicket in the same house that I always did. The forest has encroached and the roads are barely passable. The ocean is much closer than it used to be and you can smell the ozone on the breeze. Since I was stuck inside the New Federation and inconspicuous, I have secretly volunteered for the Underground Railroad. We are close to the Louisiana border and despite the danger many people are willing to brave their lives just for a chance at freedom. Small boats are guided through swamps by the Cajun Navy until they reach open water. If they are lucky a refugee rescue boat will attempt to take them to safety.
I laugh bitterly because all we used to worry about was a wall.
My current life and the geopolitical world have left me lost for words. I have been feeling anxious about everything, which is part of my diagnosis, and nightmares have exhausted me. There is a short break before I start the Super Bowl work then I will stop feeling anxious because of focus and tiredness. Sometimes writing lifts me up or helps ease anxiety but despite taking more medication, I am like a cat on a hot tin roof, yawning with insomnia.
I have peppered this short post with some final photos from Puerto Vallarta – just to take the edge of my writing. I work alongside people who have immigrated from Iran and Iraq and wonder if their American dream feels as ephemeral as mine. Even at the shops, people are talking in hushed tones about executive orders and I don’t know if they feel happy or afraid. When we went to Puerto Vallarta, we were seriously considering a retirement home somewhere in Mexico but now I doubt that they would want us. Do you think I have enough Mexican ancestors to request entry? Should I print out my Ancestry family tree?
Almost every week I soothe people whose relatives have been detained at immigration. It is usually something relatively minor such as an incorrect visa or a similar name. We were stuck in Egypt until the very last minute, whilst my husband’s employer desperately tried to get a work visa for him to go to the USA. I remember being at the airport in Cairo, wondering if they were going to accept our cats’ paperwork or my husband’s. I have an American passport, so I could go anytime. Nonetheless, it was terrifying, especially since it was during Gulf War II.
I can support passengers and myself by being as helpful as always. A smile can work wonders, for the recipient and the person feeling depressed.
I don’t recall any bullying before I started Primary School but almost immediately was aware of the potential from the High School right next to ours. Ours was Catholic and the other was not. This was leading up to the height of the IRA conflict in the ’70s. From age 5 to 12, I was occasionally bullied by children of another faith on my way home. It would have been more sensible to have walked with a friend but sometimes I wanted to walk on my own and had to face the consequences. They threatened violence but didn’t follow through with me.
I looked very different to the children at my primary school and that made me feel alienated. There was some mean girl behavior but most of that is normal for our species. When I look at our cats, I see bullying and Alpha behavior all the time. When I was about 10, a new girl who went to the other school, moved into the house two doors away from me. I had to pass her garden to come home and she started bullying me. She was a big girl and would threaten to beat me up if I passed her house. She terrorized me and I sobbed to my mother at home. Rightly or wrongly, my mum said that it was time I stood up for myself and didn’t speak to the girl’s mother. I just went home by a different, longer route to avoid this girl.
When I was 11 and just about to leave primary school I was sexually molested by a slightly older boy at school. That was frightening in a whole other way. I have no happy memories of primary school whatsoever and had many days when I sobbed, asking to stay at home. Finally it was time to go to high school. We were annexed into girls and boys. Our classes were streamed for both IQ and test results. For once I was with like minds in Class A1 although there were still bullies… How do they know how to find the weak? I guess it is the same in every herd. One girl liked to stab safety pins into your behind or wherever she could reach. Another was verbally abusive. Other like-minded girls and the drama group was my savior. We clung to each other for safety and most of us are still friends. Later, a suitor commented that I looked unapproachable but I was just intensely shy and concerned about people looking at me. I had no idea I was prettier than average and was very aware of my faded poor clothing.
In five years I didn’t use a bathroom at school because I was scared of the mean girls who patrolled them – I had to run home to go to the bathroom after classes finished. I had a light bulb moment when I knew I was applauded for a speech that I read and my confidence was boosted exponentially. This is the link to the post. The day I knew I could write Our school decided we would all be safer if both boys and girls had self-defense classes because of the regular bomb threats and the ongoing hostilities between Catholics and Protestants in Ireland and parts of Scotland. That was what provoked me to make my comment on Kate’s blog aroused That led to this series on bullying. It dramatically improved my fear of the world and the techniques are still with me to this day. This confidence regarding violence allows me to travel to unusual places without any consequence, so far… I use common sense as well.
Even then, there was one final bullying episode before I left school. My speech which criticized the Catholic Church had so incensed one of the senior principals that she refused to give me a reference for college and used a small infraction as her excuse. This time I refused to give in to her threats and got a reference from the bank manager. That wouldn’t have been sufficient for some colleges but it was fine for me.
Today I have retreated to bed for the day. As hard as I try, it is very difficult for friends and colleagues to understand the peculiarities of my mental illness. You have all seen me with my happy face on, sometimes it’s forced but mostly it’s not. My mood today is nothing to with our current circumstances. I have days like this every fortnight or so and somehow I will have to relate this in an application form to apply for Disability Benefit. If only you could just attach a photograph, eh?
My intellectual capacity and usual appearance will undermine an application so I expect to be refused at least twice even with the backing of my psychiatrist who has known me for 11 years. I saw him yesterday and although he cannot take any more patients he said he would continue to see me no matter the future insurance. What a sweetheart he is.
The holiday season always takes its toll on me. I take on too much, forget that no amount of wine will take away my social anxiety and everyone tells me how great I look, ironically. I was looking forward to going to work today despite feeling tired. My ‘healthy’ appearance at the Christmas party had fooled my boss into giving me an extra duty that I always excel at but it wipes me out. When I got the schedule last night I wanted to cry – I just couldn’t do it.
The extra duty was training. I have a variety of post college training certificates in this and myriad other fields (the oddest was funeral counselling skills). When you are feeling mentally exhausted, you may as well be climbing Everest. I am annoyed at myself, at my boss, at the world and at my genetics. It is so frustrating to see other people working normally. My psychiatrist is the same age as me – he had worked at a hospital in the morning, was seeing out-patients until at least 6.30 pm and looked as fresh as a daisy. He was mentally sharp and even made me fall over laughing at his wit.