There are faint lines where once upon a time someone set up the numbers to engrave “1620”. Some kids were there and are certain the pilgrims engraved the fresh looking numbers themselves. Google will tell you differently, as any good researcher knows, of course.
The rock is in a cage similar to an animal in a zoo on display. It’s in an enormous and unnecessary structure and sits five to seven feet below so you can’t interact with it, except to throw shit at it.
A rock proudly representing the pilgrims finding freedom here, and the metaphor itself is a prisoner. It’s turning into an epitome of this country’s progression and it’s disheartening.
My ancestors helped the pilgrims survive, and they return the payment with slaughter and rape and an introduction to gun violence.
No DAPL is heavily on my mind as I stand there looking at the immoveable prisoner.
My family is on my mind.
Politics are on my mind.
The teenagers who joke around and Snapchat pictures of it stop and realize the moment. One says to the group “This feels sad.” And after they acknowledge the feeling that’s nudging us all she follows it with “Let’s do a photo shoot on the beach.” And they scatter into the sounds of the seagulls around me.
I wasn’t looking forward to going, but it felt like somewhere I should be.
I parked right at the beach, when I got out, on my left was a used condom, and on the right, a used tampon. And this arrival set the moment.
Who really gives a shit? Who has any respect for it?