Sorry, Google. I know you had the best of intentions, but this is scary, not sweet.
February, 2009:
Cost Of Living
I decided to post the misattributed Stalin quote the other day because I wanted to write about something that has been really upsetting me for the last month: the current salmonella epidemic we are experiencing in the United States of America.
When this first started catching nationwide attention, all I knew was fear. Obsessively checking the FDA website for the latest recalled products, looking up the most recent count of related illnesses, the latest death toll.
However, as the month went on, another emotion crept up to keep fear company: anger.
The more news that comes out, the more scared and furious I get. Apparently, the plant in Blakely, GA was filled with roaches, mold, and plagued by perpetual leaks. Salmonella or not, it shouldn’t have been open in its unsanitary state: something like this was inevitable, easily predictable. And, lab tests even showed that this was no surprise; inspection records reported they sold products after already confirming they had been contaminated with salmonella.
Why? Because it all comes down to the bottom line. Someone… several someones… decided that the monetary value of the peanut butter was worth more than the price of human life, the cost of any lawsuit that a devastated relative could file. Someone made some calculations and then made a deliberate decision to ignore the risk of fatalities and ailment because it was more profitable.
So far, there have been 8 deaths. They were people, but I haven’t been able to find out that much about just who these unfortunate “casualties” were. For the most part, they remain faceless and nameless in the media’s eyes.
However, death is serious, the final period to end a life sentence. There is nothing casual about it, but to countless corporations who have killed for the capital that fuels capitalism, don’t ever forget: you are just a number.
You are nothing more than a statistic.
The Weight Of Pleas On Deaf Ears
It was last Tuesday, and I was walking up 7th St, on my way home from work. Lately, I’ve been feeling a bit more social than usual.. well, at least more accepting of the world around me, and the possibility of unsolicited conversation.
Homeless people haven’t been talking to me as much as they used to, the way that they used to, and on that particular night, I was willing to listen… wanted to listen, even.
I was in-between Howard & Mission, and as one might expect in January at 7:30pm, the sky had darkened, and that particular stretch of road wasn’t very well-lit.
Despite the lack of light, I saw a man gesturing at me; he had seen my cigarette, and he wanted to pay me for one. He walked over, and as he sorted through the bills he was clutching in his dirty hands, I said, “No, no, it’s okay. Don’t worry about it.”
He looked like he was on the verge of tears with gratitude.
“Listen”, he said, his voice and words urgent, his face close enough to mine that I could smell the stench of alcohol on his breath.
“Ok.” I took out the other ear bud I had tactlessly left in my ear, in anticipation of a much shorter encounter. It suddenly occurred to me that this was what he had wanted to pay me for, and a request for a cigarette was simply an excuse to initiate conversation.
“Listen.” he demanded once again.
“I am!”
“I used to hurt people for a living.”
“Really???? Why??” I was intrigued.
“Used to”, he repeated, as if I had just wrongly accused him of what he had already admitted.. as if he was someone who had a long history of accusations and admissions to guilt.
“Yeah, but why?”
“Come over here”, he said, motioning over to a dark side street.
I had been surprised by my bravery up until that point, but it had dissolved at the suggestion of listening to a confession of his deepest darkest secrets in an alley.
“Oh, no… I want to go home and see my husband, I’m sorry…”
Now, his back was against the brick wall of a closed storefront. As he slid down further, he begged, pleaded, the way a child would… “pleeeaaaasssseeeee?”
“No, no, I’m sorry…”
He whimpered, even pouted.
“It’s okay! I’m sure we’ll see each other again! Don’t get upset!”
More sorrowful puppy dog eyes. I said goodbye, and he barked in response: “woof!”
As I continued to walk down 7th St, I uneasily wondered if he’d follow me, make me listen. I wondered what he would have told me had I not run away.. had I let my curiosity take priority over my fear and just listened to him the way he had asked me to, the way I had agreed to.
I wondered if he even had a light for the cigarette I had just given him.