And so there I am, just living my life, eating an apple and reading the funnies, when the next thing I know, my mom bursts in the kitchen, just home from work and fit to be tied.
"We're going to war!" she cries. Her face is white and her eyes are wide.
I munch on my apple. "War? Yes? Aren't we in several already?"
"Ah!" She moans. "Just listen to this!" She runs to the refrigerator and turns on the small radio above it. The crackle of an NPR broadcast fills the kitchen.
"It's Terry Gross interviewing The New Yorker reporter Seymour Hersh. Ah! Just listen!"
I listen.
What Hersh says: US readies for war with Iran. Military plans have been drawn. Navy warships have been positioned. Planes sit on standby for massive air strikes. Propaganda incriminating Iran is, as we speak, gurgling from the White House and into America's thirsty ears.
The interview ends and I look at my mom.
"But...! But...!" I'm sputtering. I'm turning red. I'm throwing up my arms. "But...!" I sputter again. Finally the payoff, "But it can't be true!"
What's this? Am I actually defending Bush? Miracle of miracles, I begin reciting the tender folk witticisms of our president and the carefully concocted catechisms of Tony Snow that have denied such plans. But I want more. I want charts and graphs. I want any and all evidence to prove to my mom, to this empty room, that no one, not even Bush, is idiot enough to bomb Iran.
"Why, even the general denies plans for an Iran War!" I find an NPR article on the web and read, "'Pace said those reports are 'categorically' untrue.'"
There is a pause in our discussion as we look up the meaning of "categorically."
Definition: adj, with absolute assertion, absolutely, positively, unconditionally.
Ah, yes.
"See?" I cry.
But even as I look at my mom, my eyes filled with such hope, we both know the truth.
I am a sucker, by and large.
We both know my history when it comes to getting my heart broken. And with the exception of not a few poorly terminated infatuations during a very long (and arguably continuing) adolescence, my heart has been broken mostly by the flippant falsehoods of Caucasian age 50ish politicians.
Let's backtrack. January 1998. School bus. Rosie paces the aisle as the bus winds through neighborhood streets. Rosie is talking. Nay - she is delivering a speech. Her eyes are moist and her cheeks are ruddy. Fellow grade-schoolers listen. What is Rosie saying?
"If Clinton says he didn't do it, then he didn't do it!"
"Aw, come on! Sit down already!" someone at the back of the bus yells.
Fast-forward several months. The president's mistress' dark blue dress is in the papers.
Oh farewell, naivety! Oh hello, premature disillusionment!
It was a quiet, quiet bus ride that day.
So what have I learned? Do I take a hint from the Clinton days or believe that if Bush says we ain't goin' to Iran, we ain't goin'?
Back in the kitchen, I pause in my argument long enough to hear Hersh explain how legislation that allowed the Iraq War also allows preemptive action against any perceived threat. In other words, if Bush awakes tomorrow morning and says, "Gee, I feel like bombing Iran today," he can do so without Congressional approval.
Hmm...The Good King George plus unmitigated executive power plus Evil Iran...
All right. I'm feeling panicky.
Time to telephone my brother, fellow cynic and soother of Servis women.
"Paul! We're going to war!" I cry.
On his end, I imagine the crinkling of a brow, the inkling of a frown.
"Aren't we in several?" He asks.
Ah, sweet cynicism of our generation! It lets us forget world troubles! It lets us focus on the good stuff!
"So how about that new Arcade Fire album?"
"Oh, it's awesome."
Dear brother, word.
Rosie Servis is an English literature senior and can be reached at: rservis@asu.edu.
