The Lamp and the Golden Door, and the Toupee'd Orange That Obstructs Their View

Posted by Matt Morris on September 15th, 2019

You never really stop to think, what is this rug I'm stepping on made of.

Well, unless you do. If that's you, humbly beg your pardon from the deepest part of my apology centers. Which I think I heard lives in your liver. Or maybe that's anger.

Regardless, I think it's safe to say that most millennials and centurials and cereals and whatever else don't probably overworry about whether their host took the time to research natural fiber rugs to ensure they're getting the best buy for their conscious.

At least not until they have to buy one for themselves.

Then, suddenly, all the things we thought our parents or crazy aunts were nutso for worrying at.

Turns out, you don't have to be a hippie or a hipster or a hamster to be entirely dedicated to populating your own space with something meaningful.

Jack (or the narrator) said it best when he rambled on about finding that coffee table that defines him as a person and cemented his dedication to the "stuff" by buying the dishes with "with tiny bubbles and imperfections, proof they were crafted by the honest, simple, hard-working indigenous peoples of... wherever."

This is an interesting example, because it denotes a larger and more disturbing phenomenon that follows us through our entire lives.

This phenomenon is that, as humans, we seriously never understand what goes into the behaviors of others until we face the same circumstances for ourselves.

Another striking example is what you think of parents before you are one.

There are thousands--literally, thousands--of examples in fiction and non-fiction literature showcasing how we always think we're going to be the better parent.

We see kids on iPads and think, that'll never be my kids. We see that little toddler turning purplish in the candy aisle in a bustling Target as his parents politely ignore his very existence and think, "God, what arseholes, and how could their child EVER get be so horrible!"

News flash folks. Everyone who doesn't have a toddler thinks that's a funny little example of something that will never be them. You thought it, don't deny it.

And everyone who DOES have kids has nodded sardonically and looked around to see if anyone noticed. Or took a minute to observe the toddler doing this very thing this very instant.

You NEVER know what someone goes through until you go thorugh it. You ALWAYS think you'd be better or your kids would be different until you're there.

Why does this matter?

Well, I dunno, does it?

You look around at the landscape, and you might just find one or two examples where, maybe--just MAYBE--we might be able to find a tiny little bit more tolerance for the plight of others. Here and there. If you squint.

Say, on the freeway when that jerkoff cuts you off, which was absolutely inexcusable, even though you did the exact same thing when that jerkoff earlier wouldn't let you merge.

Or maybe, along those spare thousands of miles down south where immigrants desperately seek to start a new life in a place that they have NO RIGHT to be because they weren't lucky enough to have been born here.

To parents, who were immigrants.

Or parents, whose parents were immigrants.

Funny fact, unless you are a member of a handful of tribes we tend to refer to as "indians" even though they have nothing to do with India, YOU ARE THE IMMIGRANT.

It shouldn't be necessary for us to be cast from our homeland or scattered across national boundaries for us to find a modicum of understanding, and here's the testament to that. Take in this little ditty:

"Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door."

Is it florid crap? Did I overwrite that? I've never had the knack for poetry, but I kind of like that it. Open to constructive criticism!

Oh shucks, you recognize it? Caught out like a fat kid in gym class! I borrowed it. Blush.

If you don't recognize it, here's a fun fact: These are the words literally carved into the greatest and oldest icon of our independence.

Which icon, you ask?

These are the words embossed upon a plaque inside the STATUE OF LIBERTY, and they go on to name this beautiful bronze lady the "Mother of exiles".

I don't know if you GOT (or you did before it got cool and subsquent sucky), but I think I would say this title is literally second only to "mother of dragons".

Give us your tired, your poor, and your huddled masses. Don't force them to climb a wall and risk falling to a horrible fate, clutching desperately to their three year old daughter in those last catastrophic moments.

Our lamp is shuttered and the shine is definitely off our golden doorway. Someone is standing in the light, and his very presence is soiling the metal.

To the false prophet of hatred and the regrettable steward of our country's wellfare, to the man who seeks to choose who should stay and who should go, please get away from my golden door.

Get out of my goddamn lamplight.

My tempest tossed brothers and sisters want to come home, and to deny them is not your right.