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Reply #14: We either laugh at our broken ones, or elect them to office. [View All]

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Dora Donating Member (1000+ posts) Send PM | Profile | Ignore Tue Jun-14-05 10:01 AM
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14. We either laugh at our broken ones, or elect them to office.
People are thinking, and that's good.

A couple posts have compared Jackson to Bush, and with sarcasm, wondering if we are expected to have the same compassion for him as we are for Jackson, thereby implying that Jackson deserves no such compassion - because we would never open our hearts to Bush.

However, WHAT IF we have compassion for Bush?

If we considered his childhood trials as if they were our own...
- growing up under the thumb of a bitterly angry, oppressive, and possibly drunk mother
- having a father who was consistently absent and consummately disappointed in you
- enjoying the companionship of a beloved sister who died, and then watching your parents deny their grief and yours
- understanding that the expectation is that you excel at any cost, and the only tools given to you are your family name, money, and tutelage in lies and cheating (vs. hard work, diligence, and personal accountability)

I'm sure the list could go on. I am a new parent, and each time I gaze into my child's eyes I see the ecstatic algebra that makes our son so much greater than his father and I together. As we all are, he is but the sum of his parts.

Jackson... Bush... you... me... The similarities are there, but so are the differences:

Jackson has his celebrity to both imprison and comfort himself with in these post-verdict times, not to mention ownership of the Beatles' song catalogue (coming soon to an auction block near you). Everything is impermanent.

Bush has his phalanx of yes-men and black-magic workers to spread the cancer that is the Bush DNA, asserting dominion over the poor, the sick, and the pious in a quest for money and oil. The wells will dry up, the money will blow away. Everything is impermanent.

You and I have our hunger, our wish for a better day. We aim our eyes at silent flat-panel displays, into aping televisions, through the window on the bus as it belches its gaseous way across town. Our eyes are empty sometimes, and sometimes our hearts are heavy. Everything is impermanent.

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