I have often taken a position that the soul of a criminal defense lawyer is revealed early. Much like a birthmark identifying kin, spanning generations, telling a tale, sometimes foreboding, other times a blessing. Not like Catalan popular cultural beliefs with regards to witches, “a witch is a woman who, by means of a pact with the Devil, has acquired supernatural power, which she uses for her own benefit and for evil purposes.” No, no, mine’s eye is different, believing the markings are not visual, instead sometimes bundles as a riddle, hidden, not hidden, confusing, not confusing. Sometimes obvious signs are seen: rooting for the Indians to rout the Lone Ranger, even though the Lone Ranger appeared to be a nice guy; shouting “lock her up” and pointing at the screen at Dale Evans – yes Dale Evans – believing instinctively there has to be an “other side of the story”; hoping that someone would eventually make Clint Eastwood’s day. No, the signs are oft-times obscure; nary a mark of the devil on their posteriors, only one pupil per eye – not two – no horns. Matters not whether the indicators are open and obvious or obscured, everyone knows the child is different, and none are shocked by the child’s declaration years later of his/her intended vocation, to defend the criminally accused.
Walt Disney’s movie 101 Dalmatians was adapted from Dodie Smith’s 1956 novel The Hundred and One Dalmatians. Without viewing the movie, or ever cracking open the book, one can readily assume the title references the power of collective action, exceeding the power of one; a similar tale told in various parables, fables, lessons learned in life. This muse however is not about 101 Dalmatians, the Lone Rangers, Dale Evans, or Clint Eastwood.
We have a President at war with the intelligence agencies in this country. Complaining when they reported the Russians interfered with the presidential election. Screaming fake news, lying and ranting over leaks when the leaks clearly are designed to show the American public our president is lying to us. Insisting there is a bug in the White House, parsing his words, walking gently over the coals, careful not to over-speak, fearing there is actually a bug in the White House. Tweeting … tweeting … tweeting, directing his rage at Jason Bourne, wanting us to root against Jason Bourne.
The initial confession contained in this muse is heartfelt, meaning it is difficult to admit a bias when the majority is rooting otherwise. Something about color, being an active participant in that thing called southern heritage and known and unknown history of this country. Imposing a minority paranoid, leeching, controlling thoughts, persisting much like a neglected bath tub ring. Screaming at the movie screen – at no one in particular – throwing books down, away, against the wall, complaining about the distortion of history, seeing the distortion. Seeing and remembering history differently than others. Disagreeing with the assessment that Andrew Jackson was a hero, (seeing the travails of Trail of Tears), refusing the blame the victim, screaming, screaming, screaming when the Patriot Act was passed, reading, seeing abuses the language concealed, instead of protection promised to the American public. Wishing against Tarzan’s, telling a different tale, seeing him deported back to Los Angeles. Understanding the punch-line when the Lone Ranger turned to Tonto, speaking in a united tongue when surrounded by Indians, “What do we do now Tonto?” Understanding the point when Tonto finally awoke from his previous submissive slumber, replying, “What we white man.” So I confess. Oh Lord do I confess.
However, this time I have to work against type. Casting aside my paranoia, much like Superman’s cape. Running toward the door, the window, hearing Johnny Nash’s voice, singing, singing, signing, “I can see clearly now.” One foot up, one foot down, one foot down; turning as the song resides, understanding it is fundamentally necessary to root for the Jason Bourne, the one hundred Jason Bournes; those whom our President has declared war against.
Throwing the book of protocols out the window, telling others the lies, recognizing we are experiencing a difference the country has seldom seen. Recognizing the ability to outrun, out-shoot means nothing at this time, calculating their survival, the country’s survival, exposing the duplicitous nature of he and his cohorts’ conduct. Ignoring party lines – telling, telling, telling – hoping others too will awaken from their slumber and do the same. Not caring that in movie and books, Bourne is always white, always blond, eyes sparking much like the blue seen in the Mediterranean Sea, the sky after a cleansing rain, projecting the historical-embedded argument of superiority, of supremacy, much like Tarzan, John Wayne and Clint Eastwood. Seeing a connection between “He Who Wants to Fight One hundred and One Jason Bournes” and the violent attacks occurring daily around the country, resurrecting and affirming hate, dividing us, pushing us into distinct and separate camps. Hearing Bourne’s theme music, rooting for the enemies’ demise – because it is the patriotic thing to do – eating more popcorn, waiting for the other shoe to drop.