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I Am In

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Message David Cox
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A fter thirty hours of a bus rumbling across the roads of America I have arrived in Washington D.C. It is a city of burglar bars, graveyards and monuments to the dead. My first view of the city was of a cemetery filled with thousands of small government issued white tombstones, this land of the scared and last home of the dead.


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The road passes beneath us, across one thousand miles littered with chain stores and sterile corporate fast food outlets. As we passed through Chicago at rush hour I was struck by how little this city ever really changes. It is a city of brownstones and of small alleyways, of gritty skylines filled with smokestacks and Catholic church steeples.


We rolled into Cleveland at midnight, a city that is better seen at night, illuminated with skyscrapers advertising major banking concerns. The bus station was huge and impressive structure built in a 1930's Art Deco style of permanent materials and conscientious care. A tall ceiling with drop lights, with a massive double stairway dominating a
room punctuated with large lighted clocks located on either end of the room to remind the passengers that we are prisoners of this building and trapped here. I was fortunate enough to have good friends who braved the bus station's neighborhood to visit with me in the middle of a long, long night.

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I who am I? Born at the pinnacle of American prosperity to parents raised during the last great depression. I was the youngest child of the youngest children born almost between the generations and that in fact clouds and obscures who it is that (more...)

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