America, Invest Time on Your War Here

Kevin Chicas

5:05 p.m. Another tedious day at Santa Monica College has reached its temporary close. I lean against another corporate-plastered kiosk at Pico and 18th, waiting for the Super 7 to come to a screeching stop. Students scurry like tiny ants, anxious to stand on the perfect spot on the curb, where they expect those creaky bus doors to fly open. They always miss it by a few feet. I slowly pace toward them, not caring about waiting in another line, not caring about a stuffy, crowded space in which I have to breathe for the remaining forty minutes before I pull a grimy elastic cord at my stop.

The ride home is always a window of opportunities, a glimpse into the kaleidoscopic carnival of Los Angeles. My eyes remain focused on the people who come inside the bus, young and old, pink and green, single and taken. In this contained space lie the real stories of my community, my city. The fellas' in the back cringe over a Lakers playoff loss, while an older couple in the front chatter about their long, arduous trips to the INS offices downtown. Cellular phones crash and clang against my crackling cranium. "Next stop, Sepul-VE-DA," chimes the annoying electronic voice system, muttering in abstract English. I pull up the crumbled copy of The New York Times inside my pack, looking for my daily dose of biased, filtered,American journalism:

"Looking to Elections, Bush Plays Up Domestic Issues"

They say our country is at war, scanning the outer world for THE THREAT. Weekly self-serving public announcements of high-tech weaponry and docile soldiers permeate our television sets, flickering crimson red. Another Hollywood mega-blockbuster action extravaganza is tailor made for blood-and-gut hungry consumer ogres. The Justice Department wants digital IDs for "potential terrorists" walking through the familiar borderland, a porous, cancerous sore in need of healing. The Times article offers a glimmer of optimism. Finally, loony Darth Vader shifts his interests to his crumbling Empire.

Made-in-China plastic flags cannot cover what is already bubbling and rising. I feel the tense energy from the Chicano dissident spewing reactionary lingo through my ears as I turn the page. I feel the fear as I remember coming home from an Earth Day festival with a friend one Saturday night, police tape covering my street as a loud helicopter hovered ahead. A disgruntled officer told us a suspected murderer was on the loose, and that I would have to wait a while before they allowed anyone to come through. It was nothing new in my neighborhood.

I feel the anger rise as the state of California cuts $857 million in education, politicians patting themselves on the back for taking "an important first step toward restoring California to fiscal health." I shudder to think that my sister will begin high school in another overcrowded room, with another novice teacher, awaiting textbooks and scholarship opportunities in a complex built over decades-old sewage. Our educational system fails because of a lack of statewide financial support and under-trained staff, but it doesn't matter. Its tired, ugly head turns toward disciplining and domesticating our kids.

"Next stop, La Ci-NE-GA," goes the robotic voice again. The linear structure of Santa Monica morphs into a twisted, convoluted spatter of concrete. Billboards, graffiti laden walls, and R&B beats from a car stereo mesh together to form a virtuoso urban concerto. I gaze with newborn wonder at the ever-changing mural of Angelino asphalt and sky. I return to an advertisement for ghastly tummy-tucks and liposuctions and heave a sigh. The world seen through my tinted lenses clashes with the big, bad world reflected in the monochromatic newspaper.

While our investments in Starbucks and Walmart purchases go to combat THE THREAT somewhere in the postmodern heart of darkness, our spirits, our loved ones, our schools, and our communities demand care and attention. Some of us fight lifelong wars with the American Dream, struggling to stay afloat with Lady Liberty in a violent sea. Others strain to keep pace with the clattering steps of the elusive Uncle Sam, tempting us with his baggy pockets of empty dollars and dimes galore. We remain naive and innocent to our nation's hyper-industrial infrastructure, overlooking potential social changes in favor of making familiar selfish mistakes.

Pico and Fairfax is my stop. I fold my paper and tuck it inside my pack, looking at faces masking and unmasking stories in silent and screaming tongues beside me. The doors fly open, and I step down, feeling the gentle night wind soothe my aching thoughts. There is much work left to be done. I walk home, wondering if America will ever invest time on its war here.

Kevin Chicas is a student at Santa Monica College.