The Confederacy: A Product of Marketing
It’s not that zealous Confederates were the most pro-slavery. For many, “states’ rights for all” sounded more convincing than “slavery (for anyone who can afford it).” Yes, the wealthier the citizen, the more slaves he owned. The middle class would’ve owned one or two slaves, and the poor wouldn’t have any at all.
So Jefferson Davis’ marketing team had some work to do. How could they rally the people, even the poorest of poor, against the growing anti-slavery voices in the north? They put their heads together, and each one echoed, “It’s a free country, isn’t it? We should be able to do whatever we want. Even own slaves!”
“Yeah, but...” said that one guy who’d been fidgeting with a paperclip the whole time, “what if you don’t own any slaves?”
So this “Yeah, but...” was the key to rallying the people because it gave both the lower class and anti-slavery Confederates something to fight for, something which sounded very American: the right to do whatever.
The “right to do whatever” concept (read: argument for secession) was the peanut butter, Southern ideas of chivalry the jelly, and rampant racism was the bread that held it all together. The pretty lunchbox hiding it all was the new catchphrase: states’ rights. Whoever owned slaves could fight for owning slaves, and whoever didn’t or wouldn’t could fight for the idea of doing whatever. Lost Cause? More like Clever Marketing Strategy.
Exiling Erotica
Little Erotica was an absent-minded girl about eight years old with long raven hair, a knee-length scarlet dress, and coffee-colored cowgirl boots. She danced through meadows, singing to herself, picking dandelions and holding them up as though she were flying a kite. She loved the beauty of life just as much as her sister Adventure, except somehow Erotica always inadvertently landed into trouble, causing everyone around her to dislike her in spite of her fervent efforts to get along. She never grew as quickly or steadily as her sisters Intelligence, Wisdom, Adventure, Fear, Creativity, or Relation, who were already in their late teens, partly because she wasn't sure how. Still, she knew in her heart that one day she would fully mature just like the rest.
However, little did she know that rumors were going around about her behind her back. Wisdom had heard and subsequently spread that Erotica is secretly a sinister influence on the Self. Hearing Wisdom's hypothesis, Intelligence partnered with Relation to conduct some research about the Self's friends. The pair found that in 9 out of 10 Selves, an erotic force taking charge directly led to a number of ramifications including crippling anxiety, regret, paranoia, depression, and ruined careers. Having uncovered evidence supporting Wisdom's hypothesis, the trio upgraded it to a theory. The other sisters began eyeing Erotica with suspicion.
One day, Relation, sporting her usual pink and yellow sundress, beige sunhat, and perky demeanor, received a letter request for Erotica's company for the first time. Accustomed to responding amicably to other Selves' requests, Relation complied despite her confusion and hesitation. She summoned 11-year-old Erotica and handed her the letter. With thumb and forefinger gripping the paper tightly, Erotica wrinkled her nose in confusion.
"I thought Intelligence said I shouldn't be with another Self yet?" Erotica asked.
"I know," Relation replied, her smile intact but her eyes now flashing with a hidden acidity, "but in case you haven't noticed, I have an empty social interaction queue. Now this gentleman's all we got. If you don't do something, he will leave, and we'll be all alone."
Erotica looked at Relation then back to the paper in her hands. What harm could it do? She thought. After all, no one's ever requested her before. Most people either disliked her or disregarded her completely. Why not give it a shot?
"I suppose," she said and shrugged. "What is it he wants me to do then?"
Weeks turned into months, and one request became many, each more intense than the last. Relation, growing steadily more desperate for interactions, kept Erotica in her office night and day, her sundress long removed and her hair frazzled. Erotica, at first intrigued with the whole matter, quickly became overwhelmed. One night, Erotica tried to leave, but Relation seized her wrists and held her captive. Finally, Erotica had had enough. With both wrists behind her back, Erotica headbutted Relation in the jaw, shocking the latter enough to release her.
Erotica bolted out the door without a word, out of the building, out of headquarters, and continued out of consciousness altogether. She made her way to the Cave of the Subconscious, the only place where she could remain the most hidden for the longest time. There her only company was the Oracle, who only required an occasional deposit of memory fragments for the dreams projected from the Cave each night.
Weeks became months, and months became years. Over time, each sister's memory of Erotica dwindled with each passing day, except for one. Only one could never forget, for whom one memory forever remained vivid. With her pink and yellow sundress, beige sunhat, and perennial smile, Relation continued business as usual from the outside. She discarded every request for Erotica without a passing thought. It wasn't worth the trouble to go looking for her for every fleeting request. Besides, Erotica couldn't handle the workload before anyway.
In the privacy of her office was where Relation locked away her secrets. No one had seen Erotica in years, and it was entirely her fault. One day, perhaps she could work up the courage to upend the status quo by convincing Adventure to help her find Erotica and make amends. But she had her own pair of shackles holding her back: her instinct to never rock the boat, and her firsthand experience that perpetuated Wisdom's widespread theory. After all, because of her own dealings with Erotica, Relation was the only sister living with regret.
ER Wait...the Longer the Better
Hear me out. When you’re a patient checking in to the ER, you WANT to be the last patient seen by a doctor. Here’s why:
The ER is not a first-come-first-serve clinic. Nurses call patients up for initial assessment (triage) and assigning a room based on acuity, or severity of potential diagnosis...in franker terms, how worried they are about your symptoms pointing to an immediate life-or-death situation. That means even if you came in before someone else, if they go first, it means doctors & nurses are more worried about what’s going on with that person more than you (no offense). The #1 question is not how serious your medical problem is but whether or not it’s a fatal one. The further down you are on their priority list, the less likely it’s a life-or-death issue.
And you don’t want to have a life-or-death issue.
So if you come in with an injured toe, and you’re waiting an hour to see a doctor, don’t consider that a bad thing. Just breathe, because the guy who came in behind you may not be able to.
Uncle Shon’s Nurse
Caution: Contains offensive language
The nurse chuckled nervously as she turned to the whiteboard behind her.
“Whoops, I forgot to change that!” she said. She grabbed a marker, erased the previous entry with her finger, and wrote her name, Danica. She bade Mom and me good night and exited the room. As soon as the door closed, Uncle Shon turned to Mom, who sat beside me by the window.
“I don’t want her,” he said as he rubbed his dark beard. “That bitch’d probably give me another heart attack by the end o’ the night.”
“Shon!” Mom snapped back at him.
My stomach lurched. I looked at the clock. Fifteen minutes until visiting hours end. Fifteen too many ever since Danica introduced herself. I’d never more strongly wished I were doing my calculus homework.
I caught Mom’s eye, and she flashed a smile at me as she tucked a piece of her auburn hair behind her ear. The smile didn’t reach her eyes.
“Oh, she’ll do you just fine,” she soothed. “That little hiccup is nothing to worry about.”
“Did you see her?” Uncle Shon growled and scratched his belly with the white bedsheets.
Twelve minutes left. Twelve more agonizing minutes of Uncle Shon.
Mom’s nostrils flared, and she sighed heavily.
“You know how--” Uncle Shon began.
”--Do you really think you’re in any position to be picky about who’s saving your damn life?” Mom hissed.
I balled my hands into fists. Ten minutes. I dared not say I thought Danica was pretty. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught another of Mom’s glances in my direction.
Mom continued, “For all you know, it could be a stroke of serendipity. She may be the best nurse on the team.”
“My ass,” Uncle Shon said.
Seven minutes. We heard faint commotion out in the hallway. I figured there must be extra doctors and nurses outside the room next door. I held my breath. For Mom’s sake I should probably say something.
I heard Uncle Shon growl toward the door, “They all deserve to--”
”--For God sakes, Shon!”
I gulped. We’re about to leave anyway. Five minutes.
“It’s all right, Mom,” I finally spoke up. Both Mom and Uncle Shon locked their eyes on me. “I know his...his issue.”
Mom’s mouth hung open slightly. “Sweetie...“she whispered.
“And I think, Mom, um, I-I think you’re right,” I stammered. “Danica’s the best nurse on the team. At least--” I looked directly at Uncle Shon, ”--she’s the best nurse for him.”
A long silence hung in the air until Uncle Shon cleared his throat.
“Figured as much,” he said. “Everyone’s a nigger lover these days.”
A mechanical voice came on the overhead speaker on the ceiling. Attention all personnel: code blue, room 1619. Attention all personnel: code blue, room 1619.
Somewhere in the hallway outside the room next door, voices shouted frantically, and a woman screamed.
Candles and crosses once more line the gate outside Tomathie House, signaling the arrival of October 31. The clock in the town square has just finished its twelfth chime, which means it’s 6pm. In most towns pumpkins, monsters, warm apple cider, and jovial trick-or-treaters decorate the night, but ever since that fateful night three years ago, Halloween has been a somber holiday in our town.