SUBURBIA

i’ve hated suburbs for as long as i can remember.

they are society’s bulging waste line.

the extra elastic band sewn into pants that used to fit.

rows of identical, vinyl-lined pine boxes to house the hoards of identical, directionless humans and their offspring who will need a box of their own to dwell in. it’s a never ending nightmare of mortgages the humans can barely afford and netflix accounts and dominos pizza delivery. tupperware full of flavorless leftovers. amazon boxes headed to trash bags destined for landfills already full to the brim.

every driveway is adorned with debt - RV’s, golf carts, F150s - and clemson football flags that correlate with the season. the sole purpose in suburban life: consume, replicate, consume.

i look out from this boeing 737 at the civilization growing more distant by the second. are our structures really so low and flat? from here humanity looks like mycelium or viral bacteria with suburban pock marks on the surface where the forest used to be - where the dirt used to be before them. it’s hard not to view humanity as disease from this vantage point.

growing up in middle america, i saw the inflammation happening to the earth all around me. i could see the sams club carts full of ultra processed foods, dads stressed about the debt they collected to go on the vacation with their family so their wife and kids wouldn’t hate them. i saw people struggling with obesity return to the buffet at ryan’s for another load of banana pudding, yeast rolls, and sweet corn. i returned for my third plate, too.

i watched programs about the extinction of animals, the destruction of rainforests, wars in the middle east, news of planes flying into towers. i saw hundreds of kids like me going to school to take exams on subjects they don’t care about. and when asked about the long term significance of filling in the right bubbles with a number 2 pencil, no one could provide me a convincing justification.

i remember hot cars left running in the church parking lot bellowing fumes into the atmosphere. the glare from their windshields, the simmering blacktop. it assured me the pastor was right about our world being corrupted and evil. hopefully i would get to leave this place soon and not go to the worse place where sinners go.

afternoons on the way home from church i ask in my head what it all means as my dad argues with the pastor out loud to my mom who has decided their relationship would look like her submitting to his will as head of the household. she faithfully listens and nods. why does any of it matter?

checking on job sites with my dad, we would drive around and look at the homes he was building, that i was helping build. he would ridicule the cookie cutter houses coming up in the neighborhoods around us and scoff at their lowly construction, how they won’t last 2 years before they need reconstruction.

he didn’t live long enough to watch any of his houses need renovation.

how could i be expected to desire the addition of my offspring to the earth and live in a bland stack of wood and sheetrock with a nagging wife and hungry animals when i’ve seen all this? i see how much space humans take up and it makes me curl my legs under the airplane seat, suck in my stomach, and pass on the complimentary soda and cookie offered by the flight attendant.

i was brought up to believe i and everyone i love are evil. then told that i should have children because it’s the greatest joy of life.

so creating more evil humans to live in small boxes - who’s souls will need to be spared from eternal damnation - is my life’s greatest contribution?

surely there has been a mistake.

when my mother asks why i don’t want to have children, i should think it is obvious. with the world i’ve seen growing up i have barely wanted to be a part of it myself, much less bring another unwilling soul into the mix. i am not necessary and neither would another one of me. i am the final copy of this gene set. there will not be another human along my line to be fed, housed, employed, entertained, indoctrinated, and spared from eternal torture.

choosing to disengage from the pursuit of sprawling humanity across the earth’s crust is acceptance of death as my genetic fate. i willingly go to my end without the illusory hope of afterlife found in replicating my DNA.

is my lack of willingness to participate a condition of my depression? is it simply a lack of serotonin? perhaps.

perhaps i’ve peeked past the curtain and don’t think there should be a second act.

my father tried his best to indoctrinate me and so did my mother. they both ultimately failed in their attempts. who am i to think i would be able to break the cycle with my own seed?

no, the earth doesn’t need another stubborn motherfucker who would consume the planet, working his fingers to the bone everyday just to afford for his own pine box.