Green Light, Red Light

“We don’t think that if we say something cruel and destructive now, it can go down generations in terms of its consequences. But it strikes me that this is true — and the thought makes me experience a certain fear and trembling about our political life at the moment. When we speak, we should ask ourselves: How will this ultimately play out? What will be the moral consequence of the fact that so many people have resorted to such crude, cruel language? We know it won’t be neutral. We know it won’t evaporate. It’ll be in people’s minds for generations.”

―Marilynne Robinson

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Dear Alex,

Easy is the game: guess the number of M&M’s in the sealed glass jar.

The challenge has confounded my coworkers and me for the past week. We scratch our heads and paper scraps with our best anticipation, folding our prophesies as origami before slipping them into a ballot box.

456 M&M’s, my guess in nominal rhyme.

When the winner with the closest estimate is announced in the break room, the real game emerges from our guffaws. Now struts the deep mystery that humors us: of all possibilities, how did the victor know the actual M&M count of 1,500+ by a slim margin of error?

Easy is my strategy to know his secret: seek, ask, knock. He laughs and looks away.

The game feels perpetual now. Did he trial with a scale and calculator at home before casting his magic value? Or maybe trend past outcomes on spreadsheet to expect what I and the crowd have missed?

Few of us could have expected the Korean drama TV series, “Squid Game” to trend as #1 across 90+ countries in Netflix history within the lifespan of a fruit fly. Its winning formula is as obscure as obvious in our pandemic marathon. The thrill of a game converts player to pauper, gambler to guardian.

You’ve asked why I write in metaphor and speak like an arrow. I’ve wanted to win a game never meant to be won, missed the field paved not for the champion but the child. I am angry about having missed the pleasure and joy of “green light, red light” game at the school playground without the umpire.

Thank God for us, the game is not over yet.

Yours, Kate

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Dear Kate,

Interesting what I found in my Inbox this morning, the quote you sent me above, on a topic I spoke to a friend before bed last night.

We are what we tell, first to ourselves, then naturally to each other, every word goes "viral" in some fashion.

What we tell and how we tell it, there is no telling them apart no sooner than the moment we speak.

Last night I told my friend how it took me years, until really quite recently, to know how thankful I am for what and how my parents spoke--or did not speak.

My friend told me another friend is getting married and all sorts of speculation about how moneyed this fiancé is.  I gave him some words of gold on the matter, garbage that he would have already gathered much of if he's been gathering properly all these years, and then I went on to sing him a freedom song that I didn't know I have in me.

I spoke for about 15 minutes straight recounting what and how my parents spoke, how dollar figure, any numeric figure, has never been used to put a value on a human being.  My parents are no saints.  We worried about money as much as we needed to, living in a mouse-infested old-timer for a long time.  Yet the way my friend put things forth just now has never been the way how things were put forth for me.  The gold my parents served the family was that there's no garbage on the dinner table.

The world was full of garbage then as now, and my parents didn't succumb to the convenience or justify any necessity to feed on junk.  As a family of course we had our moments of great weakness, cruelty in words and deeds.  But the goddammed norms, the tyranny of this world was adamantly resisted.

On earth we could see glimpses of heaven.  Hell though is always the easiest choice, because death just kinda happens.

Yours, Alex