THE WATCHERS
By Mel Waldman
I
Prelude
I am the author of the “Letter to the Editor” and poem-“A,” whose consequences I cannot conceive. My intentions were honorable, and certainly in this age of terrorism, racial profiling, and mass paranoia, I consider myself an all-American patriot. Indeed, I wrote a song praising our police officers and firemen as true-blue American heroes. Yet I am also the author of “A,” a poem that explores a young man’s innocence and quintessence, illuminating the ironic, poignant symbolism of his American heroism. Although I do not overtly point blame at the officers who murdered him, the tragedy of A’s death is obvious, with frightening implications. I am compelled to ask the reader: “Have the policies of the police department changed as a result of A’s death? Will others be saved from similar fates or will this tragedy be perpetuated? Will it?”
II
Letter to the Editor
Dear Editor:
In this time of national trauma and uncertainty, I believe it is necessary to honor and celebrate the lives of individuals who embody the transcendent principles of peace and love. Recently, after appearing on a cable TV show about problems confronting our youth, I met Dr. C. Dr. C, a dynamic pastor, also has her own TV and radio shows, and is collaborating with A’s father on a book about A. When Dr. C discovered I was a poet and writer, in addition to being a director of a mental health program in the Bronx, she requested I write a poem about A for their book. Enclosed please find the poem-“A,” enlightened by the apocalyptic information I obtained about his life.
Both in life and in death, he is the avatar of the hero, a spiritual zephyr passing over humanity. He is also the quiet voice of the Muslim community, reminding America that terrorists are the fringes of any religion, never the quintessence, never the true, gentle core. A is, indeed, an American hero. He embraced the innocence, purity, and vision of the American dream when he lived. It is our responsibility to continue the quest for ubiquitous justice, freedom, and peace.
Sincerely,
M.W.
III
“A”
“A” is written in invisible ink and encrypted. A cryptologist is needed to determine its meaning.
IV
Aftermath
“A” is an innocent poem. But the only response to it is a blue wall of silence. I have catapulted it to magazines and newspapers of different political persuasions, including a black newspaper in the city. No one wants to touch it. Is it because A was a black Muslim? Do they wish to forget? “A” is untouchable. And what about A, the man?
Perhaps, I too will be buried in a Waste Land of the Forgotten. That is okay. I love what I do. I save lives! Yet I must confess I have experienced some “healthy paranoia” about the consequences of my writing the poem-“A” and launching it into our community.
What will They do? Who are THEY? It may be much safer to run a mental health program for the underserved who live with trauma and violence every day than to write a pretty poem that points toÉ Well, it points to something-real and terrifying. At the other side of the poem is an infinite, labyrinthine wall of silence. Still, I write. I send “A”-out there. And I wait.
V
Postscript
Dear Poet:
We are watching you! We know your history, demographics, favorite authors and books, andÉ We have total access to you. Yesterday’s blood pressure reading. All medical, academic, and financial records. Your honors. Your failures. Your dreams. Everything!
You can’t hide! You can’t run! Be careful what you say. And what you write! Maybe you ought to write children’s books.
Don’t step over the line! You say you are a patriot. Don’t associate with certain individuals of questionableÉ We hate freakin’ liberals!
Don’t screw with us! We can alter your “clean” identity or simply obliterate you. We think you have a dark side too. We’ll find it-or create it!
We were here! We could have killed you! We chose not to. But if we discover that you are part of a cabal, we will. And if we suspectÉ
We wait too.
THE WATCHERS
This is Yesterday’s anonymous letter that was slipped under my door. It vanished this morning. I think they were inside my home last night. I slept for only one hour. StillÉ
I wait. (Should I call the police? The FBI? The CIA? You?) I think. (What a heavy price for freedom of speech!)
Later, I grin sardonically at the distant face in my mirror hanging in the bathroom. I whisper: “But it’s such a pretty poem. Really!”
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