They came one by one, ferried by dark chariots. Until they stepped out, no one could see them. Power is preserved through hiding—that is the first principle. Faint clapping greeted them. These few individuals were privileged to come up close to them (A curse did not allow the rest of the kingdom to go out and celebrate).
They climbed up the long flight of stairs of a majestic temple. On the porch waiting for them were potentates and guards. They entered the dark lobby and walked through a long hallway. The women swept the floor with their long gowns in colors of gems and grandeur. The men were somber in black and long capes and toxic masculinity.
Inside the hall it was spring; outside it was still winter.
Then they descended again. This was the test of the gods that they be able to have strength and never falter as they passed through the maze. Anytime, if we follow the old myth, the Minotaur could come out of any of the secret passages. The virgins and princes, however, made sure the divine monstrosity and its cohorts were reined in.
A few days ago, not one but thousands of Minotaurs went on a rampage outside the temple. The words of a defeated king urged his followers to go wild. The seers have a name for this—politics.
But that was bad and sad memory. The morning was deemed auspicious by the council of men in black.
There were rumors that retired and aging kings and queens were arriving to pay tribute to the new ruler. Indeed, they were there. For when the huge door opened to the sound of trumpets, they walked in pairs, down the flight of stairs and onto the front of the temple. Then as soon as they were seated, all eyes were on that door again. It was to open twice: first to a woman who possessed the honor of being the queen if the new king would die. The woman was also described as a woman of color. This meant simply: she was not white. White, of course, is the absence of all colors and therefore not a color.
In this kingdom, only people who are white, and therefore with no color, are deemed important.
Every now and then, out of primal fear, the white people would allow in the center stage a person of color.
That morning, a woman of color was up there. All women rejoiced because not only was she, the second most powerful individual in the land, a woman, she also was a woman of color.
The men in this land were wise: they knew how to fool the women. They knew when to release the pent-up rage of their wives, mothers, sisters, and female colleagues. Once the simmering was over, the equality was also over.
After the woman came out of that mighty door with her husband, who would never be king anyway even if the present-day king would perish, the door closed again.
Trumpets were raised and the blaring notes came out. Were they stronger this time? I could be imagining things.
The door opened again. The applause began and went on and on. The new king was coming out of the door, with a woman who would bear the title, “First Lady.” What that title meant, no one really knew. But it made the woman feel important. It made all women feel important.
Soon, everyone was seated. More words and more men talking.
From upstage came this woman with a gown as wide as the rings of Saturn. She looked dazed because her armor was heavy. The woman was to sing the song of the kingdom. She started singing, her hands moving here and there as if pointing to the elements that were in the song. Her voice was going up and up. The crowd was loving this kind of singing.
Everyone was waiting for her voice to crack but she went on and on. The crowd was hysterical. More songs would follow. Even a cowboy was invited to sing about how grace can be amazing. Amazing redundancy.
It was beginning to feel like a grand variety show.
In between the singing, an old priest was called in. He was very confident. He seemed to know well the new king.
He started talking, dispensing wisdom and humor from God himself.
Then the new king was introduced. Strange that he was to be introduced when everyone seemed to know him already.
The new king talked for a long time. It was his right to talk and talk. It was the beginning of more talks in the future. His task was to talk even if he did not mean what he talked about.
A young woman—a woman of color—went up the lectern and read her own poem. She called for unity and the warriors of the new king made sure they were around to protect her so she could talk about the nation being one. They were all ready to use force if only to foster togetherness. Nice.
At the edge of the forest, before the festival at the steps of the huge temple started, another man was bidding farewell. He was the king before this new king. This king was the better showman. As his plane began taxiing for departure, a sentimental old song emanated from somewhere. Perfectly timed with the takeoff were the words of the song: I did it my way.
Indeed, the old king was fond of doing it his own way, which was very much the favored conduct in the land. Do it your way.
The dedicatory event at the temple ended. Then with their family members, the rulers and their families had to hold each other’s hand as they walked down the street—a fitting but tired ending to any sad, bad romantic film from the land.
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Image credits: Jimbo Albano