ROSETTA_MAGAZINE_201303

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clue, took pictures of the events that took
place with his mobile phone. Someone
intervened and so the argument died down.
As a result of this, now you have a layer
of blue-cheap-environmentally unfriendly
piece of plastic sheathing on top of you as if
the concrete blocks weren’t enough. Please
don’t be mad at me, I couldn’t intercept. At
the time, I was trying to stop myself from
bursting out in laughter by biting the insides
of my cheeks as I knew what you would say
if you could see these events taking place
at that moment. You owe me big time for
getting me in that state in that last moment.
Then they gave me a shovel. A shovel with
a warm handle… An unfamiliar male voice
told me, “Throw the soil in, my son!”
I wanted to turn around and hit him on the
head with the shovel and shout, “Do not
call me son, I don’t want anyone to call
me their SON anymore!” Rage is such a
strange bird; it picks one up with its beak
and takes him to the skies.
Were you an angry person, father? I have
this vision in the forefront of my mind: The
red light has just turned green. The driver
of the car behind is impatient. He keeps
honking. You take a deep breath. Your
nostrils expand and shrink. You take off
your thick bone framed coloured glasses
and your Seiko watch and pass them to my
mother. You pull the handbrake and get out
of the car. I lean against the back window
and prepare to watch what’s to happen. I
cannot lie, I feel some sadistic pleasure.
But nothing happens. The driver of the
car behind gets scared by your advance
towards him with warrior-like steps. He
makes an abrupt manoeuvre and drives
past you. I like that my father scares off the
enemy forces, I feel proud to be the son of
the heroic sheriff. When you return to the
car my mother starts nagging, “I cannot
believe it, what do you think you are you
doing when your child’s sitting in the back
seat?” You do not even turn around to look
at me and I discover that being a sheriff
means you need to hide your feelings. You
snapped at my mother, “What have I done?
He should see his father like that so he
learns to protect his rights.” As I look at
his hands clutching the wheel I remember
what my deceased aunt used to say, “He
has small hands but they are very powerful
and if he gets angry, oh, oh, oh…” In that
moment I think that we have some super
powers, a power that only belongs to the
two of us, a power that is passed down
from father to son: We have hands that
become super-duper-powerful and which
grow when we get angry. We can strike
down skyscrapers with one punch and
crush bad men under our pinkie fingers.
Father, my hands have not grown at all.
They get dry, wrinkly and become covered
with freckles but they do not grow.
Now I understand that those rages and
harangues of learning to protect my rights
was all baloney. You were no different
to me either. You know how I always got
beaten up when I was a child and you
scolded me because I got beaten up and
no matter how many punches I took
I never hit back? For years, I thought you
were the cause of that. But, you never
taught me how to deal with brute force
and you wouldn’t have anyway because
the only thing you knew was how to take
your glasses and watch off, too. Your
concern was being able to be the Red
Indian who could embrace even a cactus
with love amongst tens and hundreds
of intruding cowboys in the Wild West.
However, if you had read a bit more
carefully you would have understood
Captain Miki. No tribe gives the village
story-teller a war axe!
I think your generation had a problem as
such; your lives were spent with the raged
search of the power you couldn’t take over
from your fathers. You see, if you hadn’t
died we would have sat down and talked
about all this. If it occurred that I could
ask my question and it happened that I got
your reply, I’d have said, “Fuck power, dad!
Come and be a party to another feeling
with me, be a party to the rage that dries
my insides as long as I cannot find the
equality that wasn’t inherited to us from
your generation!” Yes, I am swearing
because the cost of this cowardly rage left
to me from you is far too heavy, father.
Anyway, let’s stick to the subject. I am sure
you are wondering about what happened
after you, where the world is headed and
the circumstances of this beautiful country.
Isn’t this even slightly the hang-up of your
generation? I know that if you don’t follow
the evening news you feel incomplete.
What can I say my dear father? The
world is not a better place. Everything
has become more insufferable. Let
me summarise roughly… We are going
through a great economic crisis, the US
is committing homicide for the sake of
freedom and democracy, the arms trade
continues in the west and in the east, tens
of people are dying every second in the
hunger-exploitation-epidemic triangle of
Africa. In Europe, anyone with a gun raids
a school, the convicts of unsolved murders
are still very much unidentifiable, illegal
workers are rotting in illegal workplaces
and shipyards are the graveyards of
the uneducated workforce. Newspaper
headings continue to aid noun pollution.
You know how it is, the secret government
is yellow and the trade unions are green.
Children die in one corner of the world
before they turn five and in another
corner cosmetic surgeries are performed
every five minutes. Genetic research has
advanced to the point of being over the
top. Pardon me? Did you say this much is
enough? It’s not enough my dear father,
there is much more that needs to be told
as these are just snacks beside reality. In
actual fact, what we know is limited by the
sugar-coated pills that certain hegemonic
powers, investment groups, governments
(whatever you want to call them, those
sons of bitches) want us to swallow.
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The world is a rotten and shitty world
and, like everyone else, I am a letter that
is frequently repeated in this poem of
stupidity. However, I do not want to talk
about these further as it would dispirit you
my dear father; I am sure you are probably
plenty dispirited because you are dead.
You might be more curious about me
rather than these things. You are right;
the fact that you are dead doesn’t change
this identity information. I thought and
pondered a lot after your death just as I did
before. You see now there is a distinction:
before your death and after your death.
You have also managed this, haven’t you?
My dear father, you have actually given me
a milestone with your death, thank you so
much! Oh how my tongue twists, please
don’t think that I am making fun because I
express gratitude.