This country is condemned
by David Benjamin
MADISON,
Wis. — When I was twelve, the apartment I shared with Mom, my sister
and my brother was condemned — officially — by the town’s building
inspector. We were in the rear unit above the S&Q Hardware on
Superior Avenue, and people weren’t supposed to be living there.
Inhospitable though it was, there we were. Nobody ever tried seriously
to move us to safer quarters.
Our building got regularly
condemned — and routinely reprieved — for good reason. There was no
evident insulation in the walls. In winter, our windows — huge single
panes — frosted over from top to bottom, on the inside. Our oil-burning
stove heated one (of four) rooms indifferently and posed a fire hazard
that would have reduced Smoky the Bear to a cowering cub. We hung
laundry, played games and housed my pet turtles on a rickety wooden
porch screwed precariously to the building’s back wall and held up by
several warped four-by-four timbers. The stairs to this teetering
deathtrap had steps missing, wobbly handrails and a lot of rusty
ten-penny nails that seemed reluctant to stay nailed. On one corner, we
kept an oil drum. It had soaked the floor so deep with heating fuel that
a stray spark or a smoldering matchstick would have made us — in one
spectacular instant — the Monroe County reincarnation of Mrs. O’Leary’s
pyromaniac cow.
Once, I naively brought two schoolmates home.
They paused in the doorway, round-eyed and traumatic, as though they’d
just walked into the middle of a Hitchcock movie. Another friend called
our apartment “a walk on the wild side.”
Whenever a condemnation
order came down, our landladies, the Kuckuck sisters, would gradually
husband just enough resources to do as little as possible to keep the
rent flowing. Perhaps a new plank on the porch, one step on the
staircase, a strip of flannel on the doorframe against the subzero blast
that swept the building like the Red Army. Ironically, the Kuckucks
were sweet old gals. They often gave me a cookie when I delivered the
rent. They were just tight with a nickel.
Living in a condemned
building tends to bring down other forms of contumely. My seventh-grade
teacher, Sister Mary Ann, openly disdained me as the dead-end son of a
damned mother, lucky to occupy even the crumbling hovel where I shivered
in my bed, warmed my clothes on the oil stove in the morning, and did
my homework wrapped in a blanket in front of a black-and-white Philco.
Her message was that I had no more future than my crummy building.
In
a way, Sister Mary Ann was right. The money we paid to rent that dump,
and the pittance the Kuckucks spent to fend off the sheriff, might have
been better used to subsidize decent lodgings on another street, in
another town, or even Minnesota. Mom might have rejected such charity.
But the option would have been humane, and it might have made our future
lives a little less of a struggle.
Which brings up the subject
of Afghanistan. Just as Mom kept us too long above the S&Q Hardware,
Uncle Sam has lingered in Kabul and Kandahar way beyond the
condemnation date of Afghanistan.
There are, let’s face it,
countries that just ought to be condemned, and the people living there
offered a better, safer, kinder place to live.
Today, for instance, women are fleeing Kunduz en masse
because the Taliban — who occupied the city briefly — are targeting
educated women for unspeakable punishments, declaring them
troublemakers, traitors and sluts. In the same town, the hospital
is gone because the United States (accidentally) blew it to hell with a
bomb that was a lot more expensive than the oil drum on our porch.
In recent months, we’ve learned that rich Afghan men
consider it part of their “culture” to kidnap small boys and turn them
into sex slaves. This is OK because, as it turns out, Afghanistan has no
laws against sodomizing children. And then there’s the “honor killing” tradition — fathers murdering daughters who fall in love with the wrong boy. Afghan agriculture
consists largely of growing opium poppies to enrich the Taliban and
torment the junkie population in America. The Taliban are the latest in a
long history of medieval throwbacks who stifle education, enslave
women, distort Islam, oppose modernism and feud incestuously among
themselves. Afghanistan is a military tarpit that has sucked down the
young men of the British Empire, the Soviet Union and now the bungling,
unwelcome troops of the U.S.A.
We shouldn’t be there. Nobody should be there, especially little kids.
For
less money than we’re now spending to train and equip thousands of U.S.
troops to slog pointlessly around a Third World hellhole, to fly
multi-million-dollar airplanes that drop ten-thousand-dollar bombs on
hospitals and “terrorist compounds” next to kindergartens, we could
afford to offer the refugee women of Kunduz a nice double-wide on the
outskirts of Little Rock, or a slab bungalow in Bakersfield, or a
first-floor flat in Prague, Lyons, Manchester, Waukesha…
The
first step toward sanity is to issue a notarized Condemnation
Certificate on Afghanistan — the whole country. Syria, too. And Somalia.
Possibly Yemen and Liberia. Definitely North Korea! Invite anyone in
those miserable, futureless, heatless, no-elevator tenements who wants
to leave. Offer a new home elsewhere. Build them a subdivision on Long
Island or just outside Minneapolis — with bike trails and a municipal
swimming pool, an ice rink and a Starbucks.
Not everyone would
sign up. A lot of people prefer the devil they know. But nobody should
have to live forever in a condemned walkup. Mom, for example, eventually
got fed up and moved us to an uncondemned fourplex on Simpson Street in
Madison. I never really thanked her for saving my life.
I guess
if we saved the Afghans from Afghanistan, I wouldn’t mind the Pentagon
sticking around there. But, in that case, Uncle Sam would be wise to
emulate the Kuckuck sisters. They understood that the best you can do
with a rotten structure is the least you can do to keep the building
inspector off your back.
Thursday, October 15, 2015
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