The Highway to Hell

William Blake (1757-1827)

But, sooner or later, what American society has told him he can do, what it has now made possible, is that George Zimmerman can load his piece, tuck it into the back of his pants, climb into his SUV, and cruise the rainy streets of Sanford in the night, all of his senses a'tingle, all his instincts honed, on the lookout with his hunter's eye for assholes and fucking punks. There's one down the block. What the hell's he doing here? Asshole. Fucking punk. Better pull over and check this out.

from What George Zimmerman Can Do Now by Charles P. Pierce****

So, last night. Henry, Oliver and I walked Valentine over to a friend's house as the sun was setting. We hung out for a while and then walked home. On the long stretch of La Brea, on a Sunday night, there were the usual cars, people walking out of restaurants, buses stopping to pick up lone people at bus-stops. We walked by several homeless camps, sleeping bags laid out, a shopping cart piled to the brim with what looked like crap but was probably essential. I yelled at the boys to slow down on their skateboards, to watch the edge of the street, to not get too far ahead of me. At Wilshire and La Brea we waited for a light and then walked through. We heard sirens in the distance, but we always hear sirens in the distance. This is Los Angeles, home to millions. And then they came. The sirens grew louder, and then they stopped. A police car raced by us, and then another. No more sirens, but lights flashed. Oliver yelled, Look how many! and we turned around as more cars raced by us, three, four, ten, twenty, forty, fifty. Look! Maybe that's an Undercover one! Oliver yelled as a huge black sedan, flanked by police rushed by. We stood there and watched them. We watched like we were at a tennis match, our heads back and forth. There was very little sound, except for the whoosh (the ball hits the racket, the player grunts). Where are they going? Henry asked. Oliver, being Oliver, yelled, They're on the highway to hell. When no more came we continued our way north, to home. We learned that there were protests in Hollywood, that marchers were heading north. We learned that earlier in the day, the police in tactical gear had been shooting beanbags at protesters that had gotten violent in the Crenshaw district, less than three miles from my home. My sons' friends who live in that district posted Instagram photos of events unfolding in their neighborhood. Nothing substantial did happen, but we saw it about to happen and we saw the response and it was silent and methodical and very, very powerful.

I wondered how, if I were caught up in an angry mob, I would convey my solidarity with the protesters. How I could possibly convey my feelings of shame about the Trayvon Martin/George Zimmerman verdict. How I could possibly convey my conviction that violence is never right. I am white. I am privileged, as are my sons, my daughter, and my husband. How could I convey these convictions without seeming like I have them out of fear or self-preservation?

Here's the thing. This culture of violence, of guns, of those who think people kill people and not guns, who believe that their liberty and freedom is at risk unless they can kill, or have the option to kill, is madness. It's insane madness. It's the highway to hell.




****Read that whole article by Pierce that I quoted from above. It'll knock you off your perch to the floor.

I started the evening last night with the above photo --  I was lying on my bed with The Soph, and we had had a fine day. Soon afterward, Mirtha the Saint came to take care of Sophie, and I got dressed for a dinner out with friends. I drank a Manhattan at my friends' house, a delicious concoction of vermouth and whiskey and a maraschino cherry from Italy that was threaded onto a silver toothpick. I've never had a Manhattan, but I drank it to the very last drop. I sat outside in the cool, Los Angeles evening air, laughing and talking with old friends and new --  four men, actually -- two couples, one being two dads of kids my boys go to school with and the other two older men who have been together since 1975 and are now 77 and 80 years old. I tell you their ages because it was significant. We went to an Italian restaurant in West Hollywood to celebrate my friend's birthday, I ate burrata and tomatoes and then linguine with clams. We drank champagne first and then red wine. We talked for hours and laughed uproariously. One man nudged me, said, He's a good looking old man, isn't he? and nodded at his partner across the table. I was told that my eyes sparkle, and I'm sure they did. I felt completely enamored by these men's love for one another and for the life they live. In two days they are going to be married and then they will go on a cruise to Alaska. I asked whether I could go with them, and I am certain that they'd let me if I were so inclined. When dinner was over, we climbed back into one car, and I sat in the middle of the back seat, between my dear friend and the new friend. We talked and laughed some more. We went back inside my friends' house and drank a perfect glass of port. It tasted like berries warmed up and we talked and laughed some more. After a while one of the older man declared that he was fading, and I realized that I was too, so we said good-bye and walked to our cars. I called out Happy Wedding! as they drove away and nearly skipped to my car. How grand life is! I thought, How lucky we are to live in such a world where two men born in the 1930's can get married and go on a cruise to Alaska. I turned on the radio and felt another frisson of perfection as Mick Jagger sang you can't always get what you want, but you get what you need. I sang all the way home.

My children were up when I turned the key in the lock. Henry said, I hate this country. Zimmerman got off. He killed that boy with a gun, and those people thought it was all right. Henry is so tall, so narrow still, a man in shape only, unfinished, captive. Oliver stood behind him, a nervous smile on his face. I close my eyes, now, and see them both -- my boys -- inside the doorway, their faces blurred, one lined and angry, the other vaguer, uncertain, Mick Jagger's howl still ringing in my ears. I hate this country, he said again, it's stupid.

What does one say to that?