Nothing Is Wrong and Here Is Why

by Alexandra Petri

  AGE: TWO

  Baby Hitler is now Toddler Hitler. The only thing worse than the terrible twos is knowing that the toddler currently dragging you through the terrible twos is Adolf Hitler. Tiny Adolf manages to eat a knob off one of the cabinets. He smiles knowingly at you as he does it. You become very upset and take away his Soffee Giraffe, which you brought from the future because everyone associated with it said that it was the One Toy Guaranteed Not to Screw Up Your Baby in Any Way.

  Toddler Hitler throws a tantrum that reminds you of the worst excesses of his speaking style later. “Adolf,” you tell him, sternly, putting him into his I LOVE GREAT BRITAIN, AND I WOULD NEVER ATTEMPT AN AIR CAMPAIGN AGAINST IT lion pajama onesie, “if you carry on like that, no one is going to listen to you or take you seriously.”

  AGE: FOUR

  You drop Young Hitler off at kindergarten. You put apple juice in his lunchbox and make sure all his snacks are kosher so he can share if he makes friends. You hope he makes friends. His early childhood felt interminable but now it seems like it’s gone in the blink of an eye. He is wearing his favorite sweater with a giraffe on it.

  AGE: FIVE

  Young Hitler brings home a drawing he has made. “That is a beautiful drawing,” you tell him. “Unless my telling you that this is a beautiful drawing will make you believe that you are a great artist and then later you will be rejected from art school and it will warp your psyche, in which case, no, it is not a beautiful drawing.”

  “Thank you?” Young Hitler says, uncertainly.

  AGE: SIX

  Hitler makes a friend, Kyle. You ask him what he wants to do after school and he raises his hand and shouts “SEE KYLE!” and you faint dead away.

  AGE: EIGHT

  Hitler says he needs a bigger bedroom because he requires more “living space.” “WHERE DID YOU LEARN A THING LIKE THAT?” you ask, panicked. “THAT IS A COMPLETELY ERRONEOUS IDEA.” You try to send him to his time-out spot but then panic that you are associating territorial restrictions with punishment. Instead, you announce that you are going to read Nietzsche to him. (“Nietzsche is always a punishment,” you say, “not something people voluntarily read.”)

  AGE: NINE

  Hitler drinks chocolate milk and it lands in an unfortunate pattern on his upper lip. You panic. Otherwise uneventful.

  AGE: TEN

  Hitler brings you a mug that says UBERMOM: WORLD’S BEST.

  “I am not better or worse than other moms,” you explain, nervously. “All moms are equal.”

  “Whoa,” Adolf says. “Okay. Geez.”

  AGE: ELEVEN

  “We had a career fair at school today,” Adolf tells you. “They asked what we wanted to be when we grew up.”

  You freeze. “And what DO you want to be when you grow up?” you ask, nervously. “Remember, you can be anything you want. The sky’s the limit. Just not a horrible dictator who kills millions of people. Unless, by putting that off limits, I make it the one thing you want to do. Wait, never mind. Pretend I didn’t say anything.”

  AGE: TWELVE

  Hitler asks if he can walk to school by himself. You panic. Without the Internet to tell you whether you are parenting right or not, it is difficult to tell what approach to take. Is Helicopter Parenting or Free-Range the right approach to take for a growing Adolf? Should you send him to camp this summer or not? Does he need a math tutor? Would being better at math help or hurt him in the long run? Why didn’t you think about any of this when you decided to take this on?

  AGE: THIRTEEN

  Hitler has written a report for school entitled “My Hero is Abraham Lincoln.” You go through it with a red pen correcting Hitler’s grammar.

  “There should be a word for someone who cares as much about grammar as you, Mom,” Hitler says.

  “There is,” you say. “Agrammarn—Lorax. A grammar Lorax.”

  AGE: FOURTEEN

  Hitler gets a growth spurt. One morning he comes downstairs and announces that he is trying to grow a mustache. “Absolutely not,” you tell him.

  AGE: FIFTEEN

  Hitler has been locked in his room all afternoon and you don’t know what’s going on in there. “You need to let me in, Adolf,” you say, knocking for a fifth time.

  “SHUT UP!” he yells. “YOU DON’T KNOW ME! YOU DON’T KNOW MY LIFE! YOU DON’T KNOW MY STRUGGLE!”

  “I WISH YOU WOULDN’T USE THAT WORD!” you yell back.

  AGE: SIXTEEN

  You should not have thrown Hitler a Sweet Sixteen, but he asked so nicely. He gave a speech, but it was bad. He looked at his shoes the whole time and mumbled and spoke indistinctly. This made you feel pretty good.

  AGE: SEVENTEEN

  Hitler doesn’t get into art school. You cook him his favorite dinner and repeat the family mantra, “Other people are not to blame for your problems.” He seems okay but he is so hard to read these days. Teenagers.

  AGE: EIGHTEEN

  He gets into college and you ride there with him. There are so many lessons you wanted to impart. But what can you possibly say now? You hope he packed enough sweaters. He outgrew the one with a giraffe on it years ago but you still have it in a drawer.

  “Don’t worry, mom,” he says. “I’ll be fine.” But will he? You don’t know.

  You leave him at the dorm and cry all the way home. Maybe you should have killed him when you had the chance.

  October 23, 2015

  You May Already Be Running

  WHEN YOU WENT TO BED, you were a senator or a governor or a representative.

  It had not touched you yet.

  But now it is 2019.

  You wake up in a cold sweat with only one thought: Somehow you must get to Iowa. You are not from Iowa. But it is calling to you. You think, “If I do not get my hands around an ear of corn, I will perish. If I do not clutch an Iowan infant in my arms, something horrible will happen. If I do not tell the people of Iowa what I think is wrong with America—and yet, what I think is right with America, too—then life will no longer be worth living.”

  You have been to Iowa maybe once or twice before. You thought nothing of it at the time. You saw John Delaney there, out standing in his field. He heard the call before anyone else. He dropped his plow and let his oxen run free and went straight to Iowa. You laughed at him.

  But now you must get there. You must get there this year. You feel the stirring in your blood. There is something there for you, and you must go.

  People asked you, “Are you thinking of it?” And before you said no.

  Now you are “not able to rule out thinking of it.”

  Once the idea has insinuated itself, it is only a matter of time. Even the act of not thinking about it admits the existence of the possibility of thinking about it, and by then, it is too late.

  Suddenly, your life begins to change.

  You have written a book. You did not know you were writing a book until you saw it at the airport one morning with your name and face on the cover. (When was this picture taken? You do not remember taking the picture.) The book is called Uplifting the Dreams We Hold Dear, or My Country ’Tis of Thee, or Sweet Land of Liberty, or Certainly We Must All Promise, or Every Day Is Extra!!!!, or This I Swear, or God Dreamed a Wish, or Six Things I Know, or I Dreamed a Dream, or Life Worth Living, or A Fight We Must All Fight, or We Had Better Fight, or We Hold These Truths, or To Be Self-Evident, or That All Men Are Created Equal, or And Endowed by Their Creator, or With Certain Unalienable Rights, or Among These, Life, or Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness, or My Uncle Made Me Swear to You This Day, or My Grandpa Made a Promise, or Neighbors, or United, or Divided, or Stronger, or Scrappy Little Nobody.

  You flip through the book. It has a very wide font. You have discovered a lot of things wrong with America, the book says, but also a lot of things great about America. You wish someone existed who could solve some of them and celebrate others of them.

  You find yourself sitting down with party leaders. Why? No reason. Can’t you sit down wi
th party leaders? Can’t you go to Iowa?

  You feel a great urge to prayerfully weigh the question. You find yourself having a conversation with your spouse about how best to serve at this time. You feel the need to consult with your family. You consult with them as you have never consulted before. Are they ready for this, you wish to know. They must be ready. The last thing your spouse said at the conclusion of your last candidacy was “IF WE EVER DO ANYTHING RESEMBLING A CAMPAIGN AGAIN, I AM MOVING TO A BUNKER IN CANADA AND TAKING THE CHILDREN.” But did your spouse wish to be taken seriously, or literally?

  You begin to listen for what the people want. What is America crying for? You must be ready to listen if America starts to cry for you specifically, say by forming a PAC in your honor.

  Your opinions grow vaguer. Someone asks what you think about Medicare-for-all, and suddenly you find yourself supplying a vacant answer as though you had never heard the words “Medicare,” “for,” or “all” before and are making up your own definition at random.

  People asked before, “Are you running for president?” And you said no. Now you say, “I am not not not thinking about it. I am beginning to consider the possibility. If the people ask.”

  The urge is strong upon you. You are like a salmon trapped below a dam. You cannot stay here any longer. You must go somewhere to better hear the people. To consider and mull, you and your family, together. To not rule things out. You must go to Iowa.

  January 2, 2019

  The Privilege Tree

  ONCE THERE WAS A PRIVILEGE TREE and it loved a little boy.

  And the boy played under the shade of its thick canopy, and the tree protected him.

  One day the boy was hungry. “Tree,” said the boy, “I am hungry.”

  “I know what to do,” the tree said. “Go to the corner store and steal some candy and run back here to me.”

  And the boy did. He filled his pockets with candy and ran back to the tree as quickly as he could. The man who owned the store chased after him, but when he saw the boy beneath his tree he shrugged and said, “Boys will be boys.” And there were no consequences, and the tree protected him, and the theft did not go on his permanent record. (For, after all, he was just a boy.)

  The boy grew older. “Tree,” said the boy one day, “I am bored.”

  “I know what to do,” the tree said. “Pluck one of my branches and carve it into a toy gun and wave it around. That will amuse you.”

  And the boy did. And the tree sheltered him under its thick leafy canopy of privilege and everyone who saw him shrugged and said, “Boys will be boys.” And there were no consequences, and the tree protected him, and no one even thought to telephone the police. (For, after all, he was just a boy.)

  And the boy grew older still. “Tree,” said the boy, “I must leave for college soon, but I am bored.”

  “I have an idea,” said the tree. “Pluck my fruit and ferment it and drink its juices.” And the boy did, and while he was under the influence of this fermented fruit he did something terrible.

  He ran to the tree. “Oh no,” the boy said, “what have I done? Do you hear what she is accusing me of? I will surely have to face consequences now.”

  “Nonsense,” the tree said, ruffling his hair with its leaves. And from its thick canopy of privilege the tree produced a lawyer and a big pile of paperwork to discredit the boy’s accuser and point out what a shame it would be for the world if the boy’s promising athletic career were to be derailed.

  And the judge in the case saw the boy sitting under his tree and shrugged, “Boys will be boys.” (For the judge himself had once been a boy with a Stanford tree of his own.) And there were no consequences, and the tree protected him.

  And the boy played beneath the tree and had all kinds of glorious adventures. He rolled up the leaves of the tree and put funny things in them and smoked them, and he drove his car twenty miles above the speed limit, and as long as he took shelter beneath the tree, everyone shrugged and said, “Boys will be boys.” And there were no consequences, for the tree protected him.

  “What a wonderful world this is!” the boy cried. “How wonderful I am!” He tore off several of the tree’s leaves and began to write a novel, which was very well received.

  And the boy grew older and taller still. He went away to a far away land and made merry and urinated in a gas station and tried to claim that he had been robbed at gunpoint.

  And the boy ran for his tree as fast as he could, but its thick canopy was very far away and without the shelter of the tree everyone could see that he was not a boy but a thirty-two-year-old man and they wondered why they had allowed things to go on for so long.

  But when he reached the shade of the big tree he looked so small and pitiful that they shrugged and said, “Boys will be boys.” They apologized to him, and there were no consequences, and the tree protected him.

  And many years passed and the boy committed a white-collar crime. And the tree was still there, although it was beginning to rot from within and several people with sharp axes had come and stared at it in a dubious manner. “Boys will be boys,” the tree whispered, “and besides, the details of this crime are quite boring and technical.” And the boy faced no consequences—or very few.

  And the boy grew very old and so did the tree. One day the boy heard his tree creaking in the wind.

  “What is the matter, tree?” the boy asked. “Are you all right?”

  “No,” the tree said, and shivered. “I am not. Trees like me should be for children, not grown men. Look.” And the tree pointed, and the boy saw for the first time that there were not many trees like his still standing. “I ought to have been cut down long ago.”

  “Cut down?” the boy asked, and for the first time in his life the boy was frightened. “But then what will happen to me if I do something wrong?”

  The tree shrugged. “The same thing that happens to everyone else,” it said. And the tree groaned and fell.

  And the boy saw that the world was not quite so wonderful when you could not shelter anywhere better than a Reasonable Doubt Shrub (which is nice, but nothing like a Privilege Tree). And the boy saw that it was not he who was wonderful, but his tree, which had protected him for so long, without his realizing it. And the boy, at last, grew up.

  Some say.

  August 19, 2016

  Part III

  THIS FOLLOWS

  YOU MAY WELL BE THINKING, “HOW PLEASANT it is to live in a world so blandly normal, so absolutely dull.” And you are right. This world holds no surprises. The voices you are about to hear are just logical, expected parts of life in the present—things that follow naturally from the established rules of our beautiful universe. There is nothing disturbing about them, because they are so routine and ordinary! These are things we have now, definitely. These are just things that we all know must happen, in accordance with the way we know the world to work. This all follows.

  Also, this section comes after other sections.

  Excuse Me, Director, I Have Some Questions About My Role in the Spring Play as a Crisis Actor

  After the Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School shooting, many students spoke out in favor of gun control—and certain very specific parts of the Internet accused them of being “crisis actors” hired for the occasion. Naturally, crisis actors would require a crisis casting.

  Dear Mr. Spencer,

  First, I am SO excited to be cast in the spring production this year as a crisis actor, and I look forward to giving the role my all! Since I have previously starred as Courtney (Legally Blonde), Chorus (Grease), and Factory Worker 3/Third Alternate for Madame Thénardier (Les Mis), among other roles, you know you can expect 100 percent commitment from me, even though I am only a sophomore.

  As an actor this gives me what I have always craved the most: total anonymity, no attention whatsoever, and a guarantee that no one will ever learn my name. My mom is always like, “Why do I have to drive you to the theater three nights a week, and why can’t you go out f
or track this semester?” and I’m like, “Because NOTHING, Mom.” She’s supportive, though. I have hinted that I am making great connections. I know that you are connected globally to a large network that literally pulls all the strings of the world, so I am wondering if after this you could get me onto Broadway or at the very least Off-Broadway.

  My mom has not asked about the big bag of gold bullion that I have in my room, but she wants to know if I’m really being utilized to my fullest extent, and upon reflecting on it, I have some suggestions to make about my character.

  I think the role of Crying Girl with Sign is actually the heart of the production and we overlook this at our own risk. I am already off book (no big deal; I am very devoted to my craft), and I have some ideas about how to expand my part. Right now, I am instructed to cry while holding a sign, cry while not holding a sign, and then, into a microphone, say, “I’m not a crisis actor.”

  I was thinking I could say into the camera, “I’m NOT a crisis actor,” and then I could wink, add, “Courtney, take your break!” and then do a split. I can do a full split. I didn’t do it in auditions but usually I can.

  I could also say, “I’m not a crisis . . . I’m an actor” in a voice. I can do a number of voices: old woman, Lucille Ball, something that sounds like an old-timey newsman, and sort of a Grover-Yoda hybrid. My voice is my instrument! It is just one of the many arrows in my acting arsenal.

  Another thought that came to me was that I could rap the line. “I’m not / a crisis / or a member of ISIS / I’m an ACTOR!” but obviously I’m not Lin-Manuel Miranda. (I WISH! Once he favorited a tweet that I did where I sent him a drawing of himself as a crab and it was honestly the best day of my life, not to boast.) But if you like the idea, I can write a longer verse. I am a triple threat! Not in the sense that anyone is in danger from me, just in the sense that I act, sing, and dance. Obviously no one is in danger.