Red, White, and Blue

Please stand.

Hand over heart.

Eyes on the flag.

I pledge allegiance

to the flag.

Red, white, and blue.

We learn that part early.

Before bills.

Before debt.

Before we know what interest is

or why somebody else gets to decide

whether we are responsible enough

to borrow money

we will spend years paying back.

They tell us work hard.

Buy a house.

Own something.

Build a life.

So we do.

Or we try.

The bank buys the house.

We spend thirty years

paying them back

with interest

for the privilege

of saying—

Mine.

Then the bank finally steps away

and somebody else is still standing there

waiting for their cut.

Because apparently

you can finish paying for something

and still have to keep paying

to prove it belongs to you.

Miss enough taxes

and watch how quickly

mine turns back into theirs.

Funny word, ownership.

Does a lot of work

for something

with so many conditions.

And somewhere along the way

the colors start looking different.

Red ink

when the account runs dry.

White collars

signing the papers.

Blue collars

working the hours

to pay what the papers say we owe.

Red, white, and blue.

And I know that...

The roads cost money.

Schools cost money.

Things cost money.

That's not the part.

I keep getting stuck.

That's the choice.

Because everyone still calls it one.

You are free to work.

Free to choose

who gets most of your waking life.

Free to rent.

Free to buy.

Free to borrow.

Free to spend thirty years

paying interest

on something you still might lose.

And if you do not want any of that?

Okay.

Do not work.

Just stop needing food.

Water.

Shelter.

Medicine.

Land.

You know—

all the little optional things

required to stay alive.

And apparently

we agreed to this.

I must have signed something

on the way out of the womb.

Maybe it was tucked

under the birth certificate.

Name.

Date.

Tiny footprint.

Consent.

Close enough.

Then school teaches us

how this works.

Sit down.

Face forward.

Bell rings—move.

Ask permission to speak.

Ask permission to leave.

Ask permission

to use your own fucking body.

Then we graduate.

The bell becomes an alarm clock.

The teacher becomes a boss.

The grade becomes a credit score.

And nobody calls that conditioning.

We call it growing up.

Because the cage works better

when nobody thinks

it is a cage.

You do not need chains

if people learn

to clock themselves in.

You do not need guards

if missing a payment

does the threatening for you.

And most of the time

we cooperate.

Because what else

are we supposed to do?

But miss enough payments.

Refuse enough orders.

Eventually somebody comes

to explain who owns what.

Blood on the floor.

Paper in their hand.

Lights against the window.

Red, white, and blue.