I woke up and shot my eyes across the room at the clock’s loathsome red digits. It was 7:59, and five seconds later my alarm sounded, preventing me from falling back to sleep. Drowsily I lumbered to my closet, got dressed, fetched my green Native American parka, and was about to step out the door when I remembered that today was the day I had planned to undertake a brilliant, spontaneous act.
I had been assigned to undertake an act of nonconformity. I like to think that nonconformity is firmly entrenched in every aspect of my lifestyle, every ion of my soul. My psychology is extreme, my personality eccentric, my interests esoteric, my costume unconventional and my politics revolutionary. For me to dress strangely for a day is redundant, for me to act out is typical. Nonconformity has become a uniform that I wear, and so I decided that it would be much more rebellious for me to undertake an act of conformity. It would be an act of rebellion to disobey the assignment, and it would jar the image I emanate day in, day out.
I had joked a few days ago that I should complete the assignment by wearing normal clothes for a day. Catherine had suggested that I cut my hair as well, a suggestion that never fails to irritate me whether it’s sincere or facetious. Flabbergasted, I retorted, “Why don’t I just become a fucking republican, huh?” Brilliant. I decided out loud that I would do just that, and demanded she not tell a soul.
It wouldn’t be the first time I was a republican. In the third grade I had, most enigmatically, developed an insatiable interest in electoral politics. Being as my parents and everyone else in New York City were democrats, I decided to be a republican, you know, to do something different. There I was, cheering on Bob Dole and advocating the right to life. But by fourth grade, my concern had dwindled. It wasn’t until late in seventh grade that I learned how to really rebel: Go Left. I learned about the Green Party, which was radical enough to make the differences between republican and democrat seem like mere footnotes. And in another year or so I had rejected capitalism outright. But now it was time to regress into the reactionary instead of the radical, and so I removed my parka, tossed it into the wash (I do wash it every now and then, contrary to popular belief), and walked to the other end of the house to fetch a polo shirt and khaki pants from my brother’s illustrious wardrobe. He’s two years younger, but taller than me. Yes, the mention of that fact was a desperate attempt to elicit sympathy before I take you with me, down into the bleak, dire world of the conservative.
I tied my hair back, purged myself of all oddity and compassion, and walked a schizophrenic block to school.
I dropped my backpack on the floor in the corner of the sophomore area, and dramatically removed my jacket.
“Whoa! Richard! What are you wearing!” Chelsea, a fellow republican, exclaimed.
“My guess is his mother finally stole his parka,” Hannah conjectured.
“No way! Did your mom finally burn all your hippie clothes while you were sleeping!”
“Nope. I became a republican,” I stated matter-of-factly.
All were aghast. Chelsea pretended to faint.
“It’s true. I had an epiphany.”
Dan Taylor sprinted across the area to discern what had happened.
“Richard, what’d you do?”
“I am now a republican.”
“Really?
“Indeed. I had an epiphany last night.”
Kelsey, a fellow socialist, queried, “You can’t be serious…”
“Oh, I am. I’m through with our sinning ways.”
“What made you do this?”
“Well, I was watching Bill O’Reilly last night… doing my thing, you know, yelling at the TV screen. And I just realized… wait a second, everything I’m saying makes no sense. And I realized, as shocking as it was, George Bush is our last hope! It isn’t his that the world is so chaotic! It’s the liberals trying to block him that screw everything up!”
“I’ll believe it when you cut your hair. No republicans have long hair.”
“Oh, I am. This afternoon.”
With that shocking statement, Mr. Nichols converged on the horde to prod us into the chapel. I couldn’t believe it; people believed me! Either I am one hell of an actor, or I am incredibly unstable. Hopefully both. But alas, my scheme was nearly foiled! As we hobbled into the pews, Davy shouted from behind me, “I get it! It’s your act of nonconformity!”
I whipped around, shot my index finger to my lip, and discreetly hissed, “Shhh!” He nodded, opened his wallet, and handed me his father’s Republican National Committee card. “There you go, now you’re a card-carrying republican.”
“Awesome, man. If only it didn’t say ‘Stephen J. Rosenblum’…”
I read the back of the Republican card: “The support RNC members provide to President Bush, Republican elected officials and Republican candidates at all levels of government is vital to enacting our reform agenda for a better future for every American”. I listened to the speakers on the environment, suddenly consumed by an urge to decry them as pinko hippies and unpatriotic commie spies, an urge to reveal that global warming is a conspiracy theory hatched by the insidious liberal media to discredit the conservative’s loyal agenda. I had plunged headfirst into the vicious world of conservatism.
Passing my fellow communist agitator Devin in the hallway on the way to double physics, I announced, “Yo, I’m a hardcore republican now.”
“Word. I decided to be a Nazi just the other day.”
“No! He’s serious! He told me on the phone just last night!” Catherine butted in on my behalf.
“I’m telling you, man. All us lefties have to repent. Our chance is lost, our time is past.”
While we waited for class to begin, Alexi commented on my change of pace.
“Yes. I’ve become a republican,” I recited in response.
“Wait… aren’t you just doing this for your English assignment?” somebody inquired from the ever-skeptical peanut gallery.
“Nope. Dig my card.” I snapped Davy’s card out of my wallet and flashed it briefly.
“No way! There are only, like, five out-of-the-closet republicans in the school!”
That struck me. My act was not mere satire of conformity. Being a republican in Trinity School was pure rebellion. It was like cheering for the Red Sox at a Yankee game. I was like that guy I once saw standing to the side of a peace march chanting “For More War!” at the top of his lungs. I had asked him why he supported the war, and his response was “Use your tuckus!” This confused me, because I always thought that the tuckus was one’s rear end. But hey, he had the right idea! Make War, Not Love!
“Well make that six, man. George Bush is a national savior. His face is replacing Che Guevarra on my wall. I already have my ticket to the anti-war protest in DC on the 15th, so I’m gonna go as a counter-protester.”
“Is Trevor in your English class? It would’ve been so funny if you did this and he dressed up as you at the same time!”
“Man, I told you, I’m not doing this for the English assignment. I’m writing my English paper about the importance of conformity in order to keep society stable.”
“Republicans don’t say ‘man’, man!”
“My apologies. This was a very abrupt shift, as you know, and I have not yet mastered the art of refined speech.”
Peppiat took over until adhoc, at which point I was once again thronged by curious souls.
“What did you do to yourself?”
“Why, I became a republican! Join me, one and all!”
“Oh. You look good like this.”
I always knew that republicans were dead sexy. Between zesty Bob Dole and the charming Newt Gingrich, they’re simply irresistible. But, unlike Robert Palmer, we know where the money went: corporate welfare and tax cuts for the top one percent.
I took a seat with Catherine, Kelsey and Davy. Avril approached, shocked and incredulous at my metamorphosis.
“What is this, Richard? You can’t be a republican!”
“Dude, it’s true,” Catherine supported me, “He was talking to me on the phone last night and he had this sudden revelation! It’s crazy!”
“No way! I won’t believe it!”
“I think he’s serious,” Davy seconded, “I’m just wondering how I’m gonna kill him. Shotgun, 12-gauge… maybe just a sledgehammer will do the trick…”
“I'm cutting my hair too.”
“You can’t do that! No, Richard! Stop this madness!” she lamented.
“I have to do it. This hair is a part of my sinful past. It’s time to evolve.”
“Is this a big joke? I don’t get it! You’re confusing me!” She retreated, and I retrieved my notebook from my backpack and began to scribble what I could remember of the conversation for the assignment.
“Richard, republicans don’t write like that,” Davy criticized. He seized my notebook and demonstrated the proper writing style. I obeyed, fixing my posture, making a snobbish face, and trying to write with an iota of neatness.
“This is for your English assignment,” Kelsey realized out loud. “Thank goodness, I was going to slap you!”
“Yes… you caught me. Don’t tell anyone. Let’s go to Greek.”
Upon sitting down in Greek class I was greeted by the exclamation of a fellow student: “Oh my God, you look like a preppie!”
“Yes. I’ve become a republican.”
“Did someone in my class just say the word ‘republican’,” boomed Mr. Tobin, “Prins, you fail for the quarter!”
Before I could launch into a soliloquy, and lament that, indeed, “For nonconformity the world whips you with its displeasure,” Mr. Fornara attempted to expurgate me. “Republic? As in the Roman Republic?”
“Okay, Mr. Prins, I’ll assume you were talking about Rome, and let you off this time.”
“Oh, no. Make no such assumption. I’m now a real-life, modern-day republican.”
Peter was indignant about this change. “You’re ridiculous! How could you give up your ideals!”
“Easy. Jesus and Trent Lott appeared in my dream last night, hand in hand. They told me that only the Republican Party could lead us onto the true path, and save our country from sure destruction.”
Tobin shot me a glare, and Fornara once again pled my case. “Jesus? Trent Lott? Cynicism? Sarcasm, right?”
Devine asked, “So, do you think abortion should be illegal?”
“Well, of course.”
Peter seemed downright betrayed. “Just last week you were talking about how until a baby is born it is absolutely and only the mother’s choice whether it lives! What about freedom?”
“Man, that was back when I believed in human rights. Screw freedom, we need security in this day and age. The moment you give somebody the right to kill something, chaos will ensue!”
“Just Friday night you read three poems at coffee house that were ‘fuck Bush’ this, ‘screw Bush’ that. Shit, what’s the matter with you!”
“What is this? Prins, you’re a republican, you fail for the quarter. Dreyer, no cursing in my class, you fail for the year!”
I was free after Greek, and immediately upon reaching the sophomore area I was accosted by an anonymous student who has already appeared in this story, but whose name has inexplicably slipped from these pages. “I can’t get over this, yo! So, let me get this straight, you like war now?”
“Well, yeah. War is a very important institution. What are we gonna do, sit idly by while Saddam and Ossama destroy our lifestyle and democracy? Bush is risking his ass, his political and international standing, to save our ass! It’s bold and brave, man. It’s the American way.”
“That’s what I say! But what about drugs? Do you still think they should be legal?”
“Well, now that I’m a republican I realize that people are irresponsible… and should be protected from their own actions.”
“But what about responsible people? What about me? Do you have a problem with my smoking marijuana?”
“No. But I hope they put you in jail for it.”
“Man! I liked the old Richard!” He stormed off, and I sought Catherine that we might grab some lunch together.
She went to McDonald’s to get coffee. “Now that you’re a republican, you don’t have to lecture me about giving money to the ‘insipid corporate machine’.”
“Indeed, I will abstain from lecturing you about your choice of cuisine. God bless McDonald’s! God bless lies and capitalism and slaughter!”
“Are you gonna have a hamburger?”
“Yo, enough is enough. So long as I’m out of school and so long as you know the truth, I’m pinko-hippie-vegetarian Richard, alright?”
And so we walked an extra two blocks to Winston’s, where I bought a bagel with a gratuitously thick, jagged, glopped layer of cream cheese.
“Ugh, there’s something in my eye,” she complained while I ate.
“Hmm.”
“That was so unlike you! The real Richard would have made a stupid comment if I said that, like ‘why don’t you poke it with a stick’ or something!”
“Yeah, man, this republican thing is taking me over! I have to submit to it in order to be convincing.”
“It’s so great that everybody believes it!”
“Yeah. I guess that either means I’m a good actor, or they think I’m incredibly unstable.”
“Hopefully both.”
“Word. But seriously, this is like an out-of-body experience. I feel that I now know what it is to be a republican. And I hate them all the more for it… but at the same time I feel a cosmic connection to them.”
“Face it Richard, no republican would ever say ‘cosmic connection’. But god, you’re a total schizo.”
“You know it’s funny you say that. Just yesterday I was convinced that an alien was living my brain and all my thoughts were bugged and the rest of the world could hear them telepathically. I began to talk to my inner-child so that the rest of the world would hear what it has to say. Between talking to myself, imagining aliens, and this sudden split-personality thing -- I’m well on my way to a schizophrenic crackdown.”
By the time I’d swallowed down the gargantuan hunk of cream cheese, it was time to scurry back for Latin class. Connor was handing back the tests, and when he extended mine, and beheld my latest fashion, he did a self-conscious, accentuated double-take.
“What happened to you?”
“I became a republican.”
He jumped back as if I had confessed to leprosy, stomped to the front of the room, and flung my test to the ground with rage. It wasn’t that my ideology was suddenly more disparate from his; the average democrat has much more in common with George Bush than with Karl Marx. They might argue (well, democrats have been doing less and less of even that over the past year) about how much to cut taxes, how much to increase the military budget, how long to wait until declaring war. Daniel Quinn explained the difference between old minds and new minds: “Old minds think, ‘If it didn’t work last year, let’s do MORE of it this year.’ New minds think, ‘If it didn’t work last year, let’s do something ELSE this year.’” But, to face facts, the bourgeoisie liberal would not take a stand that personally affects him. Either way, he is extravagantly wealthy in comparison to the rest of the world. And so he would never consider taking on the Almighty Phallus of capital, never consider removing the all-American values of amassing wealth and owning private property from their odious shrines. Instead, the home team battles futilely over trivialities with their arch-nemesis, the grand old party. How do we tell the teams apart? One’s uniform is blue, the other red. One has a donkey for mascot, the other an elephant. One is a little more aggressive, and a little less likeable. But the game is never-ending, no one will ever win, least of all the world. The game will end when the world does, when these two misled franchises prove their failure to save the world from the crashing downward spiral of entropy, and we are mutually raped by eternal greed and violence in one glorious sunburst of ephemeral flame and eternal judgment. Every one of you contributes to the apocalypse; your ecological footprint tramples life and beats its final breaths out from its gasping diaphragm.
“I don’t give republicans grades!” he griped, but then appeared to have a change of heart, picked up my test, and handed it back. “Are you mentally deranged, or just joking?”
“Nope, I even have a card,” I said, producing the RNC card from my wallet.
“Yeah… ‘cause they send those out in the mail.”
“Yeah. I kept mine.”
“So did I. ‘Cause it had Richard Nixon’s signature on it and I thought it was hilarious.”
“Mr. Connor, could Richard explain to us why he did this?” came a student’s voice—likely a plea to stall class time.
“Why don’t you look at your own leg—and see how far it’s being pulled?”
Witty. I had to feign even more fervency with my Bill O’Reilly anecdote and “Bush as national savior” harangue in order to do damage control. It appeared to work, because Petrou, who had been present for Connor’s slight, engaged me in zealous debate over a second lunch in the cafeteria. Just a week ago, before we had swapped sides, he refused to concede that there were any setbacks to the capitalist system, and now the words escaped his mouth, “I can’t even argue with you! I’m too much of a humanist.” While I was espousing the moral integrity of war, he asked me, “Then why aren’t you eating any meat for lunch?” I had to quickly change the subject so as to avoid accumulating bad karma and participating in the murderous, presumptuous act we know as carnivorism.
“All this talk about democracy! About Bush not winning the election! Democracy is crazy! We would’ve had Al Gore handling this country after September 11! Yes, George Bush cheated, and yes he damn well should have, for the sake of our survival! After all, Jerry Falwell said it, it was liberals like Gore and yourself and abortionists and the ACLU that caused September 11! They incurred the wrath of God!”
“Jesus! What are you talking about!”
“Hey, don’t you say anything about Jesus. Jesus is an antiquated figure. He was great two thousand years ago, but now we have a new messiah. We have George Bush. The president of our country should be the manifestation of our savior, should he not?”
It was quite a relief to go to photo class, and clandestinely print pictures of the antics our police state used to undermine the protest of February 15th. And a relief to return home, log onto the internet, read my anti-war-activism emails, peruse Marxists.org… only to be bombarded by instant messages, a total of 9 in the first hour after I got home, inquiring whether I had cut my hair. And then came the angry phone calls from my out-of-town friends. Apparently someone or another had gotten in contact with a number of them to informed them of the strange new development in my personality. I would lead them on for a while, describe how short my hair was, how wonderful capitalism was, how psyched I was to bomb Iraq. It was good fun. I recommend that everybody live to an extreme, and once in their life take a day to switch extremes. But by the time I prepared to go to sleep and plunge into the trippy, warped world of surreality within myself, I was thankful that it was over. Although continuing life as a republican would certainly prove a shocking act of nonconformity, I prefer my own nonconformity, creative psychedelic eccentric passionate revolutionary bizarre colorful mystical musical life-song of phantasmagorical trippiness.