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“No, you’re right.” I nod, taking the pen and grinding it between my fingers. “Most Christians are Christian because that’s what they were raised to be. Most Americans are loyal to America because this is where they were born. I’m a Pirate because…”
“Because…” he presses.
I remain silent. I’m not the only student in this class. Someone else can participate.
“Because of your roots,” a young woman replies off to my left, near the windows. “Your parents, your friends, your history…”
With the pen, I trace the figure eight that was already etched onto my notebook cover.
“You don’t question it,” she goes on, “because something to believe in gives you an identity. It feels good to stand for something. To wear a label and say ‘this is who I am,’ oblivious to the fact that you are only who you were ever taught to be.”
I turn the eight that someone else drew from blue to black, burrowing into the cardboard cover deeper and deeper.
“How easy it was for them to shape you to drive what your daddy drives,” she tells me, digging in, “and vote for your uncle’s politics as soon as you turn eighteen.”
“Isn’t it the same here?” the teacher asks us. “The colors, the rivalry, the pranks?”
“So, what if it is?” the guy behind me replies. “At least we’re aware of it.”
I pinch the pen tightly.
“And it’s fun,” someone else adds. “It kills time.”
The corner of my mouth lifts just slightly.
Mace looks to Mr. Bastien, chiming in, “You know my grandma would be pissed that you’re calling religion propaganda.”
She holds a Hydro Flask and hands it to the girl on her other side. I wonder if the teacher can smell the rum in it. I do.
Mr. Bastien gets up and goes back behind his desk. “Your grandmother can talk to me about that over spaghetti dinner this weekend.”
“She invited you again?” Mace whines. “No…”
But Mr. Bastien moves on. “So, what do you think?” he asks the class. “Refer to the examples we discussed last week. Rosie the Riveter, Uncle Sam, Triumph of the Will…a lot of which was commanded with the task of grooming youth to think a certain way. To work for the state in some capacity.”
“Yeah, a hundred years ago…” a guy argues.
“Social media then!” the teacher interjects.
“Oh, here we go…” another student grumbles.
“Like the radio, like the television…” Bastien lists off, “…the Internet connects the world, but it does it almost instantaneously, the massive amount of influence—”
They continue on, but their words and assumptions keep spinning in my head.
…drive what your daddy drives and vote for your uncle’s politics…
As if they’re better.
Why do people do that? Why do they think they’re the only ones with deep thoughts or awareness, like the rest of us aren’t really awake? No one is truly human until we know them, are they?
I suddenly interject, “It’s not, actually.”
Whatever conversation was still happening immediately dies, and I look up, meeting the teacher’s gaze.
He stands behind his desk. “What’s not what?” he asks, confused.
“It’s not the same here.” I clear my throat, answering his question from earlier. “It’s not the same here as it is in the Falls. You’re actually more loyal to being Rebels than we are to being Pirates.”
