The Privilege of a Tunnel
A line in one of my water troughs was cracked.
The cows were thirsty.
I could not fill the trough until I fixed the line.
As I was digging a tunnel six feet down and then horizontally under a concrete slab, I received news that my friend had been tear gassed.
Brooke had been my brother’s girlfriend when he was killed in a motorcycle crash.
When Rob died twenty years ago, the cop encouraged our family to sue. After all, the driver who turned left into his lane was a federal employee, on the clock. Clearly, the driver was at fault and clearly our family would likely be awarded a large financial settlement.
The family discussion revolved around paid college tuition, homes without a mortgage and maybe even a ranch for Lisa.
My family did not sue the federal government over my brother’s death.
My stomach turned at the thought of placing a monetary value on my brother’s life.
Twenty years later, that thought still makes me sick.
Brooke is a nurse now, married, with three bright sons.
She helps homeless addicts heal their feet when soaked socks cause them to rot and heal their minds when they are ready. She has been relentlessly fighting Covid-19 for the past five months.
Brooke is a compassionate, generous mother, teaching her sons to be responsible citizens.
She lives in Portland, a city known for its weirdness and funky food.
She rode her bike and her son skateboarded to a peaceful protest last week. They waved and smiled at neighbors and teenagers who attend school with her son. Others stood on street corners, visiting in the warm sun.
Without warning, tear gas and flash bangs enveloped them, filling their eyes and lungs. Days later, Brooke’s son and the other children who were performing their civic duty are still recovering.
I don’t have TV and I only listen to local radio so it has been easy for me to worry about cracked water lines, wobbly fences and a multitude of other projects at the ranch.
Despite burying my head in my own 6-foot tunnel, I have heard of the looting in conjunction with the protests.
I’ve heard that bad apples are taking advantage of peaceful protests and even that some groups are inciting violence as a means to reach political goals.
I’ve read enough history to understand that, time and again, weaponized authorities have turned against their own, unarmed citizens. That’s one reason I support the second amendment.
I’ve heard the discussions that put a value on protecting material goods versus a human’s life.
I’ve thought about our collective right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness and the privileges of that pursuit that I enjoy.
I enjoy the privilege of knowing I usually have enough money to pay my bills.
I enjoy the privilege of knowing that if I lose everything tomorrow, I will start over.
I enjoy the privilege of knowing that if I need help defending my possessions, I can call the sheriff and he will listen to me. I know this because I’ve called him before. He responded with concern and respect.
As agricultural producers, we are accustomed to battling aspects of life that we can’t control – weather and commodity markets top the list – but we have the privilege of being heard.
While we would rather bury our heads in our tunnels, we enjoy privileges that give us the power to engage change.
If we had listened 50 years ago and insisted on justice, demanded that every life is priceless instead of hiding in our own personal tunnels, protesters wouldn’t be using violence to get our attention.
Police wouldn’t be tear gassing the protesters.
We wouldn’t be putting a price on a person’s life.
It is time for us to use our voices. It is time to listen and to be heard.