Chapter 6
“Oh, that’s right, tonight is the meeting of The Young Statesmen,” I say out loud. The meeting is mandatory for everyone between the ages of twelve to eighteen. They take place about once a month and usually include ice cream, which is more than enough reason for most people to go and allow themselves to be propagandized. It’s funny to think the State has managed to make people think they are the only solution, that there is no other option.
In the beginning, according to my parents, more people spoke out because they remembered the old ways. Most of them are long gone. At first, the State ignored those who spoke out, but as the State’s power grew, so did their policies and those who abused the new regulations of the State were said to be conspirators against the State. Most of the time they were executed to show the consequence of rebellion. So the rebellions faded as time passed.
I quickly shower for the second time today, grateful for the luxury to do this. I dress again in my uniform and walk the short distance to the church building in which the meeting is held. It’s ironic that we meet in an edifice of God, where no words are spoken or allowed except those who have been assigned to do so. We are taught that we are watched over by the State and we are here solely to serve the needs of the State.
I enter the musty smelling building. Its brown pews with red cushions look to be hundreds of years old. I sit in the back next to my friends and a few members of my squad, and we listen to the official ramble on about how “all things you have are from the State, and it is because of the State that you have anything at all.” And then they say, “Don’t listen to your parents, the State knows what’s best for you. Your parents don’t know anything, only the State can help you. Listen to us, we are your friends. We care about you; the president cares about you. He wants only what’s best for you.”
I seriously doubt anyone believes what this man is saying, but if they do, I feel sorry for them. They believe in a world where everyone has to be told what to do. That no one would do anything good or anything helpful or anything charitable, if the State doesn’t tell them to. That is a sad belief in humanity. I believe as my father does, that people, in general, want to do the right thing. They want to help each other and when they see a need, they will fill it, if only given the chance.
Such discussions are forbidden, because the State believes it would cause a rift amongst the people. It is why the State was created in the first place, so people would be treated equal. If that were the case, then why is it that the Young Army has special privileges? Why is it that only certain families have permits to grow a garden? Why is it that each person is given a life value each year, and it is what determines what the State will invest in them, and if it exceeds such resources, then that person is allowed to become extinct?
Such questions rush through my mind as I continue to hear the bantering of the State representative, who, might I add, is wearing very costly apparel and was driven to the church in an air-conditioned car. How do I know this? Well, simply by the fact that when he stepped out of his car his windows were still rolled up, which no one would do on such a hot, blistering day even if they did happen to have a car to drive in the first place!
When the propaganda speeches conclude, I get ice cream with the rest of them. I see Stephanie Jenkins standing near the door; she eats her ice cream slowly. I think she is trying to leave with hers in order to take it home for her little brothers and sisters.
I walk casually over to her. “How is it going, Stephanie?” I ask.
“Not good, John, not good at all. The little ones are so hungry, all they do is cry. Mark brought some things home from lunch, but it wasn’t enough. I don’t know how to get them to bed tonight with them being as hungry as they are. They don’t understand. But how can we make them understand, how does someone so young understand hunger?”
I put my arm around her and walk her quietly and quickly to the front door. We are not supposed to leave with our ice cream. What we don’t finish is supposed to stay here, but I know no one will question me. So when no one is looking, I scrape mine out of my dish and into hers and send her through the doorway and on her way home. I put my disposable bowl in the trash and start my own trek home, grateful to be away.
Away from the continuous lies we are bombarded with, I wonder how this great nation had gone backwards and why the people don’t fight back! I feel anger building within my breast, and so I take a few deep breaths to relax myself before the watch, which is always monitoring, responds to my increased heart rate. Though the watch can do a lot of things, it still does not have the capacity to read our minds, though I would not be surprised if the State were working on such a device.
I am most of the way home when Sean, Lane, Frank, and Jackson catch up to me.
“Hey, man, what have you been doing with yourself?” Frank asks me.
“Not much, just staying in shape, doing homework, you know how it is,” I answer.
“Really? Because I heard that you handled three of the toughest cadets in the Young Army single-handedly!”
“Well, we had a new program from the State, and we tried it out today. I guess I was kind of lucky.” I can’t believe it has gotten out so fast, but what do you expect when you are the best in your group and people have a tendency to over exaggerate.
“Oh, man, all work and no play makes you a very dull boy, John,” Sean says. “This weekend, Sandra is having a party at her house you need to come; it’s going to be the best.”
“Okay, sounds like fun,” I say, stopping in front of my house.
“John Hancock Bates, get in here now,” my mother’s voice rings through the night air. “John Hancock Bates, get in this house, your father wants to have a word with you, mister!”
“John Hancock? Ha, ha, put your John Hancock here,” Lane says, pointing to his hand and pretending it is a piece of paper. The others join in on the joke, but they seem unsure as to why it is funny. At first, I think I should put my John Hancock on his face, now he has caused me to be late and in trouble. But I know if I do my parents would be even more upset with me. Either way, his remarks don’t bother me; I am surprised he actually knows the saying. Only older adults know it nowadays, but even they don’t really know how the saying started.
I am named John Hancock after John Hancock, the original signer of the Declaration of Independence of the United States of America; he wrote his name on the Declaration of Independence with very big letters so “the King of England would not have to put his glasses on to read it.” John put his life, his fortune, and his sacred honor on the line for the cause of freedom. One could still see most of his signature, one of the few things still visible on the original document. Or at least, they could before they burned it. That’s why my parents named me John Hancock, so someday I, too, will stand forth boldly for freedom like John Hancock and the others, such as George Washington and Benjamin Franklin. Men who had bravely put their names on documents they believed in. Documents like Declaration of Independence and the Constitution of the United States of America that would provide freedom for themselves and others, even though it might cost them their very lives.
I run up the sidewalk and onto the front porch, taking care not to step on any of the dandelions. My mother’s diminutive but authoritative figure stands in the doorway. I hurry inside.
“Hurry, close the door, your father is watching a recording of You Know Who, and I don’t want the neighbors to hear.”
I close the door as quickly as possible. “Which episode is he watching?”
“One of the Founders,” she whispers as I hear my father turn off the television.
I walk into the living room where my father is sitting in his favorite chair with the Bible in his lap. Next to him is a pile of seemingly unending food.
“What is the meaning of this, John?” he asks, pointing to the pile of food next to the chair. “You know I don’t like to take things from the government. It’s bad enough that they already send home mor
e food than you can possibly eat.”
I want to argue I can more than easily eat all that food, but I hold my tongue. “Now they tell us your rations are being doubled. You know we can’t take from the government and become free. We must stand on our own two feet. If we take from them, they own us. We are bought and paid for.”
I hear the anger in my father’s calm voice. My father’s parents had high integrity and fought valiantly to protect the freedoms of this land. In the end, it was my grandmother who was taken by the State, because she continually spoke out against it. My grandfather and their children fled to survive, in hopes someday we and others would rise to stop the State and make this country once again free.
My father rarely speaks of the night his mother was taken. My father had to grow up quickly and in some ways this had hardened him. But thanks to my mother who met him in his early adult years, he has learned to channel the energy to do good and to prepare for the time when all good people will stand united to once again make this a free country.
“Mark’s father lost his job” is all I say.
“I see,” my father says, sitting back into his chair, “Well then, you brought this food to our door tonight, You will be the one to take it to Mark’s.”
“Yes, sir,” I say, saluting my father and dashing off to wait for it to be dark enough for me to take the food to Mark’s house. In my room, I wonder again why so many have to suffer because of a handful of self-serving people. How did the State ever manage to usurp so much power it now oversees almost the entire world with but a few left to fight against this massive machine?
Later that night, in the cover of darkness, I steal away to Mark’s home, dropping off the life-saving boxes of food that I know will keep his family going. I can’t carry it all in one trip but when I turn around to get the rest, I find my father with the rest of the food. Silently, he places the food on the step and knocks so hard on the frail wooden door that it shakes from the onslaught. When a light turns on inside, we back off into the darkness so we will not be seen.
Rebels Page 6
