PROSE – RANDOM THOUGHTS

In 1988, Chuck D hit us with this unforgettable line: “I got a letter from the government.” That line has lived rent-free in my head ever since, resurfacing when I least expect it—usually when I need it most. Those moments when I need a reminder of the mess we’re in.

I think it stuck with me because of its quiet punch. Public Enemy was known for sonically assaulting your eardrums and shaking your soul, but the opening of “Black Steel in the Hour of Chaos” starts like a casual conversation, just a couple of guys rapping about something that was on everyone’s mind.

“Man, can you believe this shit?”

Every time I got a letter from the government, that same question echoed in my head. It wasn’t some tinfoil-hat paranoia—it was my job. I was the source of that dread and anxiety. I was the one delivering news people didn’t want to hear, the harbinger of bureaucracy, the bearer of all things stamped, sealed, and official.

And you know what? That shit weighs on you.

Driving to an appointment one day, I saw someone I consider a member of “The Homeless”—and yes, I call homelessness a government-sanctioned movement because the fact that we even have a homelessness problem in this country is absurd. We act like it’s some unavoidable force of nature, like hurricanes or earthquakes, instead of a system we built and continue to uphold. We hold charity galas where rich people sip champagne and bid on paintings to “raise awareness,” while outside, a guy is digging through a trash can for half a sandwich. Cities spend millions not on housing solutions but on hostile architecture—park benches with dividers so no one can lie down and spikes under bridges to keep people from taking shelter. We pretend to care just enough to feel good about ourselves, but not enough to actually fix anything.

Some people have sacrificed everything to make this country function, and yet, this is the best we can offer them?

“Is this shit… the best?”

Really? This is it? The pinnacle of civilization? Get the fuck outta here!

But then I saw her. A woman draped in a mink blanket, rocking a floppy hat, standing on the corner like she owned the world. The traffic light changed as I drove past her, and she didn’t flinch. She was unbothered. Cool as she wanted to be. It was almost poetic.

I muttered to myself, “Yes.”

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“You’re quite hostile.”

“I got a right to be hostile. My people are persecuted.”

Public Enemy said it best.

For me, “My people” has never been about race, color, or creed. It extends to everyone, no matter how they see me. We like to pat ourselves on the back for how “connected” we are, how much “progress” we’ve made, but let’s be real—we are more divided than ever. Dignity, honor, and respect? Those are punchlines now. If you’re lucky, someone will just forget them entirely instead of twisting them into a joke at your expense.

And “persecuted” doesn’t always come with fire and brimstone. Sometimes, it’s death by a thousand inconveniences. It’s getting pulled over for a busted taillight and knowing you’re about to make some cop’s day more exciting than it needs to be. Seeing corporations celebrate diversity initiatives while their leadership remains overwhelmingly homogenous is infuriating. It’s working twice as hard for half as much, and if you dare complain, you’re labeled “difficult.”

People lie to the very ones they claim to love. We open ourselves and share something close to us; we let them see us, only to be judged, only for them to rip our hearts out, show them to us, and then crush them just to make sure we know who did it and why. And then, just to rub salt in the wound, we’re told we have to be strong. We have to rise above. Sure. No problem. Let me just pop on my superhero cape and pretend I didn’t see that betrayal coming from a mile away.

But what really gets me, what keeps me up at night, is the way some people pick on the weak like it’s a sport. The sheer audacity of it, the cruelty, the absolute bullshit of it all.

Why can’t we just let people be who they are? Love them as they are? No adjustments required.

A movement preaches this very thing, and while it’s well-intended, undoing a hundred years of supreme malarkey is no small task. I admit that I used to be one of those people who judged unfairly. I can’t undo my past, but I can control who I choose to be moving forward. And that, at least, feels like something.

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How cool would it be if we could bob in and out of time, cruising in a pink Cadillac with plush velvet seats, Robert Plant belting out the opening verse to “Heartbreaker”? Traveling back to the moment before we became assholes, before bitterness took root. Imagine if we could just press eject and launch all that baggage out the window like a bad mixtape.

But it doesn’t work that way.

Nothing lasts forever. Not even earth and sky.