Where were you when America died? Do you remember?
We lived in a little town called Pegram, Tennessee. It was February of 2015, and I was ten years old.
The military officers were nice. I mean, they seemed nice. No voices were raised. My Dad was clearly upset, but there wasn’t any shouting. It’s strange, how I remember that. You’d think shouting would be easier to remember, but somehow the quiet stands out more.
I never got a chance to ask Dad why he was so subdued. Maybe he thought it was futile. Maybe he was just too shocked by what was happening. He died before I thought to ask.
There were people standing on the sidewalk when they led us away from our house. Some of them were neighbors. Some of them were the parents of kids I knew from school. None of them would look at us, not the adults anyway. I thought they were dressed strangely. I wouldn’t figure out why for a few more years.
The soldiers were putting signs on our house that said “Government Protected,” but Dad didn’t get to keep the housekeys; the soldiers took them. We were all carrying stuff, lots of it, as much as we could. We were told we could come back for the rest later, so to just take what was important.
I took my dog Sadie. I guess “carrying” the leash was good enough. I’m glad now that I did.
It was a long time, years, before I understood what was really happening that day. Before phrases like “This is for your own protection,” started to make sense. Before I figured out why Dad had been talking to our neighbors – and plenty of other people – on the phone in the prior weeks. Why he had sounded happy – a kind of forced cheerfulness – at first, then later desperate, then resigned. He was asking them to speak for us. But they wouldn’t, you see. We didn’t go to their church. We didn’t go to any church. And if you didn’t go to a church, how could everyone be sure you were a good Christian?
And if you weren’t a good Christian, of course, you simply couldn’t stay around people who were. “They might not understand. This is an important time of transition, and it's vital that there be no trouble. This is for your own protection.” (And, of course, because the VOting Integrity and Comprehensive Equality [VOICE] Act said we had no choice, though I wouldn’t learn that until later.)
As we were walking towards the waiting deuce-and-a-half truck that would take us outcasts to the “Transient Relocation Center,” our former neighbors began to loot our home.
I remember the War. I remember being asked all those questions by more military officers. Were my parents possibly “sympathizers?” Did I know everyone dad had talked to in those last weeks before our relocation? Did anyone come to the house late at night? Did I believe in God, and did I understand that Christ had sacrificed his precious life on the cross to absolve me of my sins? Me, personally? (“It’s an important question, son.”)
I remember hearing the word “balkanized” and asking Mom what it meant. She lowered her head and didn’t answer.
When we finally got out, after the Breakup, most of us went north or west – west overseas. North to Canada was easier – less expensive – but some of us who went were scared it wouldn’t be far enough, that the madness would keep growing. The Faith war wasn’t over, after all.
I remember helping to build the Wall. It was one of the ways we repaid our immigration debt.
I remember my older brother James hugging me, hard, when Mom and I were getting on the truck for the ride north, telling me we would see each other again. That someone had to stay. That someone had to help put America back together, into what it was before the Second Civil War. The Faith war.
I remember wanting to say something, but not being able. It wasn’t because I was crying – I was – but because the words hadn’t formed yet. I was fourteen, and a little more articulate than I’d been at ten, but there was still a lot I just couldn’t get language around.
What I wanted to tell him – what I wish I had told him, maybe convincing him to come with us and not get killed – was that there was no point. The point was moot.
Because America had died in February of 2015.