Nearly a decade ago, I often found my summer days spent at a local community swimming pool. Tucked away in a quiet, boutique municipality along the Granite State’s Connecticut River border, locals and summer transplants alike found respite from those occasional scorching summer days that can make New England feel absolutely miserable. On cue, each time when my time was up on the diving board, I would perform a “watermelon dive.” For those unfamiliar with this unique aquatic display, imagine a dive in a seated chair pose, with one hand on the head and the other on the stomach, entering upside down. Though perhaps not as conventional as the cannonball, I found after all my years that a watermelon would, more often than not, bring about a larger splash than it’s bottom-first counterpart. Then, of course, the inevitable happened. The diving board was removed. My memory escapes me if any announcement was made, though years later I found out the reason why.
By chance, I was employed by the very town which owned my beloved swimming pool. One of the long-standing town figures, when I asked him why such fun would be taken away from a people too broke to own their own swimming pools, answered in one word: “liability.” The phenomenon of “insurance” reared its ugly head, and the result was a number of disappointed kids … and of course at least one grumpier dad who refused to grow up.
The steady decline of joy in our culture appears, at times, to be just a game of never-ending hot potato. As less and less is outside the scope of internet coverage and critique, so too does the hesitancy of the human being increase to slave-like proportions. Enter the certificate.
A couple weeks ago I ventured down to Washington, D.C. and got myself a fancy, brand spankin’ new certificate. Now, with an entry-level coach certificate from the United States of America Wushu Kungfu Federation, I guess now I’m bona fide tough guy, right?
Maybe not. Just like a certificate to be a therapist or a restaurant chef, paper only takes a person so far. Though not to completely discount the “official verification process” by which the commonwealth sets its heartbeat to, I still would be willing to guess that the readers themselves have each personally known numerous people who have done all sorts of criminal and unethical things, all under a plethora of licenses and certifications.
The fear of being the one held accountable seems like a disease. Whether our collective culture of victimization was a seed planted on September 11, 2001 is hard to say. Of course I could play the conspiratorial card and start holding signs of accusation, but honestly at this point it seems too cliché. What am I talking about? The conspiracy theorists appear to be the only ones telling the “truth.”
Joking is all one can really do with the systematization of American division. Papers are held up to claim truth over adversity, but who is the “real” enemy? Is it the person who disagrees, or the one who abstains? Look to our leaders, and the answer is clear. The demon assigned to each of us is comfort for the sake of compliance.
As we enter another election year riddled with secret group chats, “organizing,” and hoping for the best, the flavor of our imported coconut waters will once again be put to the test. As the United States of Trump continues to bomb the peace out of nations who threaten the interests of those who could not care less about the woes of Greenfield, the commoner within the commonwealth may have to make that ever-dreaded choice of agreeing with a tyrant, or disagreeing with one.
But, who am I kidding? There’s no one brave enough to do that. Yes, send your $5 to that group who you think will improve the situation. When you are done with that, march in that march and don’t forget to protest in that protest. This “connected” society is yoked by the anxiety of exclusion. If you step out of line, you may lose your credibility. In other words, the certificates by which we authorize human labor have somehow evolved into the sort of thing a manipulative lover holds over their prey. “Do what I say, or it’s over!” Reality is much less a comedian, since one’s livelihood is nothing to poke fun at. Would you stand up against injustice if it cost you your license to consume? … Sure you would.
Ahmad Esfahani lives in Greenfield.