Eat the Rich

A car parked in my expensive neighborhood bears this sign: EAT THE RICH. The car is not a junker, and the house in front of which it is parked probably is listed at 1.5 million—or more; a modest-sized house but in this attractive almost country-like city neighborhood, no house lists for much less. This is especially ironic since these adobes were built sixty or seventy years ago for working-class Hispanics who now live in big low-cost subdivisions south of town. It’s a familiar story and will become more familiar as one of the results of this scourge is that those who can afford it are fleeing the coastal cities.

So—EAT THE RICH.

I would probably advise against making a meal of us since most of us are pretty stringy from years of dieting and the curious menus we require: vegan, paleo, low-calorie and others too many to be described. Better stick to half-starved chicken.

“Those who can afford it are fleeing”—this is based on a recent news story. Real estate in Montana has gone way up in price, a boon, it would seem, to this poverty-ridden state, as it would be to New Mexico, with many of the same demographics: poverty, absence of industry, poor education, inadequate health care.

But wait… as the same article points out, these newcomers have deep roots in their home states: most of them are middle-aged and have long been sponsors of the local symphony, the theatre (when there is one), and possibly of homeless shelters and crisis resources. They will not cut these donations when they move to “purer” locations. And so, while using the resources of their new home—the water, electricity, etc.—they will likely contribute nothing to the non-profits that keep the soul of the place alive. They may not even pay local taxes since, in an attempt to lure just such people, some states like New Mexico exempt newcomers from paying taxes if they spend a limited number of months a year in their new abodes.

Now, it might be a good idea to eat THOSE rich but the hungry are not likely to discriminate.

So—where are we to turn for sustenance, the well-off as well as the less comfortable? The traditional answers have been to the churches or to the arts.

Here, the churches are still closed due the wisdom of our Democratic mayor, Michelle Lujan Grisham. We are at the beginning of a new surge in cases due to crowds of tourists from our neighboring states that never did close down—Arizona and Texas—and the refusal of half of the out-and-about to wear face masks. Oh yes, they are sort of uncomfortable as it gets hotter… but what, really, is life—especially the life of other people—worth?

Ah, the arts. The arts have never reached people who lack advanced education, except perhaps in the case of music. One singer markets her songs as “curbside delivery,” stopping to sing outside homes and businesses, surely offering relief with her sweet voice and the folk songs she offers. I wish we writers could do the same—but I doubt if it would work. It would require shouting, or a megaphone…

And does our writing matter to begin with?

It has been painful recently to ask this question. What that I write is relevant? Attempting to carve the current crisis into art seems unlikely to succeed, since all art contains a necessary element of mystery. We don’t provide answers, if we are worthy of calling ourselves writers. And answers to our many dilemmas seems to be what we all want.

And yet… And yet…

The human heart and its mysteries is always worth exploring, perhaps especially in poetry. And poetry is being used to protect the odious obelisk in the middle of the Santa Fe Plaza, which for years has angered many with its chiseled reference to the extermination of “savage Indians.” Since it is too heavy to be moved, our mayor had the good idea to sheath it in plywood and commission lines of poetry to be painted on the plywood.

Perhaps our words, made out of so much misery, can still protect and provide a little comfort.

I hope so.

In New Mexico Santa Fe New Mexico