The American Dreamer

I was raised in service to the nation, a diplomat's son, taught to represent the country wherever I went. And I believed in it, I did, to my core. My blood beat the snare drum, my hand over my heart, a quick step parade of patriotism. My father gave everything to this nation as a soldier and a diplomat, my mother too, because she set the table and cooked the meals for all the presidents and kings who sat in our rooms. Nancy and Ed, two secret weapons of Kennedy, Johnson, Nixon, and Carter.

America, even though I was raised in foreign locales, I was always an American. Until I found that no such place exists. We loved a feeling, not a place.

America always walked a knife-edge between the People and the Fat Cats. The nation was built to serve the Fat Cats, and the illusion was that everybody could be a Fat Cat, but that is simply not true anymore.

I'll tell you, it felt true. I had a good ride. My blonde hair and white skin opened doors, and I made myself rich. But the price paid.

Capitalism without principle is a dark place. And even worse is pretend patriotism without principle.

Which is where we are.

The missiles fly, and Jesus, too, apparently, but it's not about any of that. It's just the Fat Cats getting fatter these days. They don't even try to hide it.