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Triggering incident
August 30, 2000
2:30 p.m. Washington State Capitol
Olympia, Washington
Washington Governor Gary Locke, the nation’s first
Chinese-American governor, introduces me as "the next
President of the United States." I graciously thank
him but note that the electorate will have the opportunity
to make that decision in November.
Flashback
February 13, 1971
8:10 a.m.
Saigon
Stewie is on the Royal, which is a rickety beast. The shift
key can jam up on you like that. He’s handling it okay—he’s
a tough swing state kind of kid who’s capable of anything
he sets his mind to—but the bell is busted. If he doesn’t
pay close attention his lines will run clear off the page.
In other words, powerful forces—in this case, the typewriter
conglomerates and others who colluded to develop the alphabet—are
putting up obstacles in his path and limiting his opportunity.
I’ve seen too many words already become casualties
of this war: "truth," "honor," "chow,"
"assembly," and, most frequently, conjunctions.
Stewie’s polishing a piece on a mandatory meeting to
be held the next day, and he has a deadline—ironic,
that word, because people are dead here in Vietnam, and
the line they are dying over was drawn on maps as the border
between North and South Vietnam. He’s a passionate
young man with a real knack for emphasis, so he types—and
the sound is kind of like fire from a tiny machine gun that
could hurt a really little person. "All G.I.s are to
report PROMPTLY at 8 a.m. SHARP for a ROLL CALL." The
emphasis helps the others understand.
He’s hitting carriage return—ironic, again, because
so many of us want to return, and there are only so many
carriages to take us back—when his face freezes up,
and it happens.
He screams, "A gook done locked my shift! A gook done
locked my shift!" There’s fear in his eyes, and
all of us in there—Big Jim from California, Taylor
Phipps from Florida, Ron Kovic from the movie, an African-American
senior citizen from another place—know that it’s
not the typewriter that’s locking. The war is locking
Stewie—his eyes, his fingers, his grammar, his soul,
his boundless talent for emphasis. The war is locking the
shift key in Stewie’s mind.
"Calm down, Stewie," I say. I sigh, which is how
I react in times of stress and strain—a reflex designed
to calm my nerves and summon my resolve. "Take note
of my leadership qualities and calm down! Gook is an offensive
term! I don’t see any ‘gooks’ here. There
are a number of non-American Vietnamese delivery boys in
the office today, and your shift key is locked. Let’s
not confuse correlation with causation."
But Stewie won’t calm down. "A gook took my ribbon!
A gook took my ribbon!" He is getting angrier—violent,
perhaps, and the music’s growing tense. I approach
him when suddenly he pulls a staple gun out of thin fucking
air. It’s like all those girls in the villages who
turn out to have grenades tucked in their clothes. I’ve
read about that.
"Whoa, whoa, Stewie. Hey. Take it easy. I’m not
gonna lose you. Remember ma and pa in your key swing state
back home. Remember how they’re trying hard to make
ends meet with the help of targeted tax credits. Remember
how much they value Social Security and Medicare, and how
happy you were when your girlfriend back in your key swing
state went out and got that abortion she was entitled to.
And that other one—third trimester, right?" I
can sense his panic starting to break. "Take it easy,
Stewie. The ice caps are thin, man. I know. They’re
40% thinner than they used to be… I know. But it’s
okay. We’re going to fix it. One day we’ll have
universal health care and universal pre-K. Let’s see
if she’s still stuck, okay?" I touch the shift
key and it comes loose beneath my finger.
"Yeah," Stewie says. "Thanks, Albert."
He returns to the announcement. But he just types exclamation
points, row after row like white crosses in a field.
"The horror," I say. "The horror. Pass me
the correcting tape."
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