All That Glitters

I’ve wanted to smash that thing for my entire life. It was a glittering, pompous, pernicious thing – everything one could hate about any one thing was there, clear as day. It was erected in honor of the “Founder,” the so-called pioneer who came here from overseas and settled this place, tilled the soil, erected this city and made Commerce the bustling, shining metropolis it is today. It sits in the town hall, for the pillars of Commerce society and tourists alike to gasp and make impressed noises at.  

“My, how lovely it is!” says one 

“Shining like the hope for our future!” says another. 

“Glittering like the wealth of this prosperous nation!” says a third. 

“What is it?” asks a tourist. 

“A metaphor,” 

“A metaphor,” 

“A metaphor,” the three wise natives say, nodding sagely. How could an outsider ever understand? 

When I was little, and my mother would comb my hair, she would tell me about our ancestors who lived here long ago, so I wouldn’t whine when she pulled at the napps and knots. She would talk about how there was a forest here that stretched on endlessly, and a city amidst the trees. People full of joy, full of purpose, full of pride, who lived with the forest creatures. Sometimes at peace, sometimes in conflict, but always with respect. 

When I was little, and my father would fix the expensive watches for the wealthy men of Commerce, he would tell me about our ancestors who once settled this land, so I would wait quietly for him to finish and take me home after school. He would tell me how their leaders once tamed the wild tigers that would roam the forest, and trained the eagles to fight with them in battle. 

When I was little, my brother would walk me to school so my mother could sleep after coming home from her job, sewing the fine black handkerchiefs of the ladies of Commerce. He would talk about how our town hall was once the oldest tree in the forest, the place we would bury our greatest leaders, our most honored men and women. He told me that our great great-great-great-great grandmother was buried under that tree. 

But all things come to an end. Founders must come, trees must be cut down to build cities, the tigers must be killed and caged, the eagles must be chased away, my brother must go off to war and die, father cannot work for his arthritis and mother cannot see because she’s sewed black lace in low lighting for thirty years and I must find a job or else we all must starve on the streets. And so I clean the town hall, and I must look at the glittering thing in the center every night and want to smash it. 

Every night I clean the town hall, alone. At the end of every shift I look at the thing in the center, in the wooden hall with exposed beams and a domed ceiling, like the inside of a massive beast’s ribcage. This thing sat in the center, like the beating heart of Commerce. These beams were once a monument to my people, now cut up and filled with strangers. They’ve put their heart where ours should be.  

Tonight I polish the glittering thing and stare at myself in its reflection. I want to do it. I want to smash is so badly. For my family, for my ancestors, I want to do it. But like every night, I see myself and I cannot. I am not one of them I wasn’t born in a city of trees. I was born in Commerce. I don’t know my own story. I am a stranger everywhere I go. I leave the glittering thing in its place, sparkling brighter than when I came in. I still don’t get it.