💜 Show Me the Money Trail — This Is Not a Fete, This Is Madness
There’s a song from home that keeps looping in my head — David Rudder’s refrain, “This is not a fete in here, this is madness.” He sang it as social commentary, a Caribbean parable about chaos dressed as celebration. And yet, today, it sounds like the soundtrack of a nation that has mistaken excess for leadership, and moral bankruptcy for strength.
We live in a moment where federal workers have been furloughed, contractors sit unpaid, and families scrape together the last month’s rent — while billionaires toast themselves under golden chandeliers. Courts are backlogged, attorneys brace for an onslaught of bankruptcies, and government offices gather dust behind locked doors. Meanwhile, the richest among us thrive. Donald J. Trump — the self-proclaimed man of the people — reportedly earned over $1.6 billion during his presidency. Millions in taxpayer funds flowed to his properties. And now, as the government sits in gridlock, a $300 million “privately funded” ballroom rises from the rubble of the East Wing. The White House insists it’s all donor money. But who will pay to maintain it? We will — the people footing the endless bill for the pageantry of privilege.
The deeper madness is not just political. It’s personal — ours, mine, yours. Because even as we denounce the billionaire class, we continue to fund it. We click “Add to Cart” on Amazon, we Google every answer, we tap our phones at Target, and every purchase trickles upward into the pockets of the very empire we claim to resist. The oligarchy doesn’t need our approval — it thrives on our habits. Every click, every stream, every delivery box stamped with convenience is a small act of surrender. We rage about inequality, yet we refill the coffers of those who bankroll it. We may not be in the ballroom, but we’re paying for the champagne.
Some days I wonder if this is simply how the American story ends — not with rebellion, but with rationalization. We tell ourselves it’s all normal: the shutdowns, the self-dealing, the spectacle of a president turned influencer, peddling grievance like a brand. We normalize what once would have been unthinkable, and call it politics. But it isn’t. It’s performance. It’s madness.
And yet, beneath the fire, I still believe in decency — the quiet, unfashionable virtue that built this democracy in the first place. I think of the elders like Nancy Pelosi, mocked by those too young to understand that endurance is its own rebellion. I think of my own generation, weary but unbowed, still daring to speak truth even when dismissed as relics. And I think of every Trini mother who, seeing the disrespect hurled at wisdom, would mutter under her breath, “Like yuh mudda…” Because some things still deserve to be called out.
The wrecking ball of greed has swung hard, but it hasn’t destroyed everything. Somewhere between the smoke and the scaffolding, the human spirit is still standing — ragged maybe, but real. We can still choose conscience over convenience, people over profit, sanity over spectacle. The path to redemption isn’t paved in gold; it’s walked in humility.
So yes, this is not a fete. It’s madness. But maybe, if we face our own complicity and reclaim our decency, we can turn down the music and start rebuilding the world we keep dancing around.
Comments
Post a Comment