When I was a kid, I used to hit the arcade and waste gobs of hard earned money shoving coins into machines to buy what you may call junk. One of my favorite pieces of junk were these little planes that fit together. They were just molded styrofoam, and lasted without repairs but a day, but oh the joy I got from flying them. They would twist and sail and crash until the poor wings just fell off. Yet last night, it occurred to me why I cherished them so.
You see I was not a wealthy child. Most of what I got, my folks had to work extra for. I learned later on for example, that in order that I get a Christmas my Grandpa had supplemented his job by riding around and collecting aluminum cans in the summer. In Texas. He would come home with boils from the sun. He did not tell me, if fact, only my Grandma ever explained it. It is a weird feeling, this sense of longing mixed with love and intense guilt. I did not need my Grandpa to go through all that for a toy. But he loved me. Before he passed, he would take me to the arcade, and feed me quarters and let me eat candy and be a happy little boy. Now I have always had a thing for planes. I just love them. I think it is so neat we can hop on a giant bird and fly to distant locales. So when I would collect my tickets I would usually go after either some cheap magnetic checkers, or if I was lucky, those silly little styrofoam planes.
I would fly these suckers and they would invariably meet up with a cat, or a fan, and chip and tear and wobble until they could not fly. At first, I was sad, because, I could not make them soar. But after a while, I decided to go and get some good old aged Scotch, tape that is, and piece them back together. And what do you know? They flew again, almost like new. With love and care I was able to revitalize them, and enjoy them once more.
And so, last night, pouring over returns it just hit me, I loved these things because they were like me, bent, but not broken, taped up and flying again. I suppose you are wondering what my point is, and I would love to share it with you. I heard a lot about how in Wisconsin $8 million dollars was spent to support the Tea Party. Analogous to toys, they would be plastic and metal and remote control planes. Top of the line, except, well, no. It could not be. It could not be that metal rusts and eventually turns to dust could it? That plastic once broken never regains is fluidity or aerodynamics. Could it be that our cheap tired, chipped little styrofoam planes we call activism and liberalism may actually have a better chance to stand the test of time? Could it be that these little plucky air marvels, procured with mere pocket change but cherished like gold could outlast the best machinery money can steal? Could it be that their well oiled machine is doomed to break down because of disparate parts, and a shelf life on mechanics? Is the brilliant and eternal simplicity of perfect science, in that styrofoam never deteriorates, and is flexible, and light, and can sail more valuable than motors and metal and electronics?
In Wisconsin, Walker tried his best to take our soul, our hope and our way of life. He stomped with all his might on our small little planes; loyal Union workers, our platform for economic equality and bargaining rights. He tried, but still we flew. Still, we managed to tape ourselves up and win a few battles, and while we lost some, our efforts showed that as long as we appreciate each other, and love each other, and back each other up, we CAN ALWAYS FLY. Sooner or later, their perfect machine, built of hate and injustice and intolerance will seize up. The oil will clog, or the engine will go and they will be stuck, a useless pile of metal that all the money they can muster can't make soar again. And there we will stand, the little planes, tired and weary, perhaps even a little faded. We will be covered in tape and maybe not that pretty, but because we are love, and equality, and fair labor standards, concepts that reverberate throughout history, concepts that are timeless and indefatigable, we will need but one thing to make us fly: loving hands to propel us. Our efforts prove, indisputably, we will never run short on those.