the raising of funds
we went to one of those rich people fund raisers. we always wanted to. there was feedback on the microphones all night long. there were old, wealthy, drunk people every square foot. there were young, cheerful twenty-something interns with fancy wine in hand and boyfriends at home. there were refugees from all around the world there to give thanks. they felt entitled.
we made music taught to us by iraqi refugees and felt entitled ourselves. but when we played, when they played, people danced. families danced. damaged hearts danced. and rich people watched with smiles on their faces.
an african group played. they sang and danced. their foot stomps rang through the room. i stood on the side with my beer in hand, trying to hear them louder than the american entitlement party across the floor.
important people spoke, struggling mostly to pretend they didn’t notice that no one was paying attention. struggling to figure out that they needed to point the microphone away from the speakers. excruciatingly long moments passed. and then a girl got up to speak.
she hadn’t said anything yet, and hadn’t even been properly introduced. but as if she had magnetic powers, everyone in the room stopped talking and waited attentively. her size was underwhelming, but her presence was undeniably intense. an intensity that could make samson fall.
she spoke of her father’s shop. she spoke of her brother coming to pick them up and waiting in the car. how the front of the store was blown to pieces by parts of the car and likely her brother while they were hurrying to meet him on the street. how they lived. how her father is able to do art again. that iowa has shown them kindness. we listened, and i’m sure we all didn’t really care. we felt more entitled than ever.
