Written by Cecile Sarruf
Sister, I’m sorry to hear you chose to water a garden planted with seeds of misogyny, racism, bigotry, and hatred. Pathetic that you seem apathetic to the fact that you fell for the man whose macho posturing masticated your morality while grabbing your reproductive rights.
Keep your eyes open, ear to the ground. Stay woke, sister. Because he’s coming for you next. When the dignity, rights and freedoms of women are sprayed upon by orange agent, switching out welfare for a warfare program, the result is a basic biological defoliant that kills the leaves on all these trees, trees we’ve been growing for decades to embrace our rights as women, thanks to the suffragette movement. Did you really think your polluted water would actually bring about a garden of hope, compassion, forgiveness, tolerance and equality? It won’t.
Look at all these weeds you’ve got here sister, choking off all these pretty flowers of many races and creeds. See here, the bright yellow ones called Juneteenth? How they yearn to taste the rain of righteous freedom bestowed upon them back in 1863? All that history gone by, and we still can’t get it right. They’re tired of having to fight for their patch of blue.
I also notice you have strange fruit hanging from your poplar trees. Now, I recall when I was a kid, we swung on a tire and rope to catch the afternoon sunlight. Remember?
You were OK when they plowed those hard working – family-centric Muslims down out of your garden, but now you have your brother picking out marijuana plants to accommodate his lifestyle? And what’s he doing marching through the streets with a tiki torch, spouting off that mumbo-jumbo about how he’s going to save Americans from the Jews in the name of that Jewish man called, Jesus.
Sister, I’m sorry to hear you chose to water a garden planted with seeds of misogyny, racism, bigotry, and hatred.
Bet if you asked him, he’d say a woman’s place is in the kitchen. How will you tend to your garden then, sister? Funny. He must be confused because he’s also spouting off, “Jews will not replace us.” Your sister, your mother, your daughter, your niece, your best friend – are all next. So, it’s best to wipe off that smug self-entitlement grin you’re wearing on your face and turn the other cheek.
I feel a chill sister. I feel it in my bones. Seems a big storm is on its way from D.C. You don’t look too well either, now that your healthcare benefits have been taken away. I also notice all your braceros have left, they told you to pick your own damn fruit. They won’t be coming back anytime soon, now that you have that Wall of Jericho erected. You ought to know Blood and Soil make for bad agriculture and poor crop yield.
Here, take my hand. Why don’t you come over to my house? It hasn’t been whitewashed. We don’t have Russian moles either. Come take a look at my garden, where the skies of ambiguity won’t threaten to cloud up your thinking.
You don’t really want to stay with that indignantly horrible man now do you? Stay woke, sister! Didn’t you hear how that coward-in-chief made a play for his own daughter!? Incestuous festation! Like roaches, him and his lot. That out-of-touch 1% will have you losing your mind in a short time. Open your eyes. Keep your ear to the ground. Listen.
They’re coming from Charlottesville. Hurry! Follow me! Quick. Stop tripping on your ignorance and stupidity. They’re marching down the streets like Nazis. They’ve got guns, a Confederate flag and a vicious rottweiler called, “Duke.”
Hurry up! Remember how we used to climb walls when we were kids? You can do it, come on. Step up. I’ll help you regain your dignity and self-worth once we’re on the other side.
Whew! I think we ditched them. Now, this is my garden.
What’s that you say?
Oh yes, Heather…(pause). We planted fields of Heather, because Heather is known to be tough and resistant to capitalist predators and disease. She’s a great source of protection, from Laguna Beach to the New York Island. And that there is a Conway scarecrow. Yes girl, don’t laugh. Works great. Got that over at Mr. Keebler Session’s hardware store. Just the sight of her scares alternate facts away and keeps the seeds of truth planted firmly in the hearts of every hard working journalist.
Hey, why don’t we sit here on this back porch and sing us a song? I’ve got this radioactive plastic guitar I found by the sea (now that that pompous asshat has cut all funding to the EPA and National Endowment of the Arts), but it should do: