My threads in MPSIMS usually drop off the front page within five minutes, and this will probably be no exception. But we were so excited about the news that we just had to share!
Our new house is a wonderful place. It’s a smaller town than we’re used to, but the neighbors are amazing. They welcomed us with open arms, and even the town’s mayor dropped by to see us a couple of times. To our delight, even though there were a number of people we met for the first time, there were old friends who, unbeknownst to us, had moved there also.
We’re going to miss our old place. We were there for almost ten years, and we felt we had some solid roots. We had a lot of friends, and we will miss them terribly. There were so many shared experiences.
We had vigorous debates amongst ourselves. We weathered storms and outages together. We read books, shared recipes, and discussed movies and TV shows. We asked brilliant people hard questions and got answers. We even got into some fights and arguments, but eventually came out the other side edified and a bit more wise. We were able to patch up a lot of damaged relationships over time.
As a community, we endured the most wonderful and the most horrible things together. We joined others in helping people buy homes in the neighborhood when they couldn’t afford it. We watched young people graduate high school, finish college, find careers, and take their place in the community. We endured September 11, 2001 together, sharing our grief, our outrage, and our dispair.
We cheered our best and brightest as they accomplished amazing things. Our own townspeople produced some of the best writing, art, and entertainment to be found anywhere. And we wept over terrible tragedies, including divorces, injuries, and even deaths.
The great thing about our old town was that, for the most part, people formed Neighborhood Watch groups. And we joined together whenever anything threatened our well being. Sometimes, people from other towns would invade us, and we would all pull together like family to repel them. I’ll never forget when a bunch of fundamentalist Christians rode in on busses and tried to take over. But we all pulled together. Everyone. Christians, atheists, Jews, what have you. And we descended on the invaders with one voice, until only a couple of them remained — those who had meant no harm to begin with, and who eventually became our friends.
Well, the new place doesn’t have much history for us. But it’s warm, and welcoming, and cozy. The town leaders call upon us for ideas. They listen to us. They even hold their meetings under the public eye. We can hear everything they’re discussing, and they do not shy away from suggestions, criticism, or new ideas.
I think a part of what makes it so special is that the mayor and the leaders established the community because they care. Simply that. They love what they’re doing, and they work extremely hard at it. They’re unpaid volunteers, all the way to the top. But we’re going to see about that. We neighbors are going to make sure our leaders are taken care of because they take care of us. We’re glad to do it, and they appreciate our offers of economic and moral support.
What happened in our old town was a sort of corruption, I think, born of complacency and just plain old being out of touch. The leaders were insular, protecting each other’s interests often at the expense of ours. They were matrons and patrons whose authority was so longstanding and entrenched that even questioning them became a cause for establishing special laws.
At first, dissenters were herded into a special building where their complaints and concerns could be heckled in an atmosphere of drunken brawling. Over time, city hall was opened for people with grievances, but the rules were so onerous that even the slightest satirical quip or perception of disrespect was grounds for being silenced, either by gavel or eviction. Eventually, even questioning a pronouncement from on high entailed having to go to a whole new room and lodging a complaint. There, isolated, nobody came. And nobody cared.
And then, suddenly, out of the proverbial blue, the mayor, whom we’d seen only on rare occasions, roared to life and decided that the town didn’t suit him. His matrons and patrons had failed to deliver him the kind of town he wanted. He exercised his powers of eminent domain and sternly announced that things were going to change. He signed new laws and ordinances that overturned years of customary norms. He would tell us what to do and how to speak and where to say what he wanted us to say.
He had been advised, it would appear, that nothing would dislodge this pack of drones and weebles who came to work each day, numbed on Soma, and willing to fawn at the feet of the leaders. Many many times there were crises and blow ups, and each time the dust settled after strained apologies and some backtracking, only to leave the populace to regather its senses and continue working. “No one will leave,” it seems the mayor was told. “Do your thing.”
But this time was different. Who the hell WAS this guy? He wasn’t there when we gathered to hear scraps of information about New York’s astounding tragedy. He didn’t attend meetings when neighbors had fallen on their luck and needed our help. He never once intervened to protect his citizens from the petty and arbitrary tyrannies of his city council. He dropped in only from time to time to remind us of his terrible power, and to tell us to shut up because at least one of his agents was beyond criticism of any kind.
His council elders failed to circle the wagons only when they perceived a threat from one of their own. And then they acted swiftly to rid themselves of dissenters among their ranks. There were exceptions, to be sure. There were kind and caring people on the council with limited powers who tried their best to govern in a fair and even handed way. But now, even some of them are gone.
In the last couple of days, the mayor has become a bit more, um, human. He has issued a conditional, passive voice apology, blaming a general lack of communication for all the hubub and rioting riff-raff. And he has promised new goodies to come for having indulged his book burnings — excuse me — word bannings, and his heavy handed hissy fit that threw the community into near chaos.
But in the words of George W Bush, “There’s an old saying in Tennessee — I know it’s in Texas, probably in Tennessee — that says, fool me once, shame on — shame on you. Fool me — you can’t get fooled again.”
Honestly, I think the worst of it was not the sudden and inexplicable tear of self-righteous anger intent apparently on ripping the community apart. It was more the utter disinterest in announcements by people that they wouldn’t stand for it and would move away. Well just go, they were told. We hope you find happiness somewhere else.
That was the give-away that this was no ordinary tirade, that in the mayor’s mind no community had ever existed. No deep binds. No valuable relationships. Nothing worth salvaging. A woman tells her husband she’s leaving, and all he has to say is, “Okay. I hope you’ll be happy wherever you go.” There could hardly be a more emphatic way of saying he just wasn’t that into her.
Well, here we are. We’ll miss our friends if any still remain. But we really love the new place. It’s almost spring and some of the trees and flowers are beginning to bloom. Domebo, we call it. Don’t know why. Don’t really care. I only know that it’s a wonderful place.
I must admit that I feel a bit icky for expressing early support to the mayor here. Unacknowledge support, by the way. But life goes on, I guess. New people will move in here. And even though the town’s welcome sign has graffiti about farts and people pissing blood, the ad salesmen will be appeased because forbidden words and phrases will not be found buried in a room in a building in a remote section of town.
Please take care. You’re invited to come look at houses in our neighborhood. We’ll help you move in and get acclimated. We do have a few beloved dipshits, but overwhelmingly you’ll be treated kindly and with respect. Especially by the mayor. He’s a good guy. He loves the town. He even lives there.
Here’s to those we’ve known and loved! […tink!..]
I’d better get out of here now. The streets are not as recognizable as they used to be, and it’s getting dark outside.
Much love,
Lib
