Nature and Detriments By Eileen Ramos
I don’t remember the last time I saw the sky.
I heard it used to be a gentle blue with white puffy cotton clouds strewn here and there.
That the crayon “sky blue” was its actual hue, before they banned it. Maybe it was too sad to hold onto.
Now we have this thick, impenetrable smog crushing above our heads and forcing us to hide beneath gas masks. Yet I never recall a time when we didn’t wear them outside.
Above us is a solid gray with streaks of pink and red. One may even call it pretty if long exposure didn’t cause a slow, dreadful death. I see homeless people trying to survive with a simple paper surgical mask, gasping for breath, clutching their necks, as they lay on the grimy sidewalk. A cardboard sign begging for a bottle of clean water, any food, a gas mask, a safe haven. The necessities of living in Hazleton but only the middle class and above can afford them.
I can’t look them in the eyes anymore. Especially the little ones.
It hurts too much.
I spend hours hiding in the garage, away from society, looking at old movie projections on my makeshift screen composed of white bed sheets and clothespins. Although it’s been at least a decade since anyone hung laundry to dry in their backyards. When we had backyards. It was all Elsa’s though. I’ve added a few salvaged reels during her absence. Shots of lush greens and vivid blues behind a miscellany of background characters. When was the last time I saw a green plant that didn’t have a dusting of a toxic yellow on its leaves?
I only watch for that certain blue, nevermind the dialogue and exposition. I usually turn off the sound. What I want is a clear blue sky with no presence of the current state of the world. Which is why I like the garage: there are no windows to peer through, to ruin my reverie. And no one can witness this taboo of mine. This dangerous indulgence that would call for my detention.
But such a risk and fear of punishment only make me crave that aquamarine even more so. From vintage books, I’m learning to splice and copy the film strips, to create my own movie that will only star the sky that no longer exists. It’s a lot of trial and error at the cost of some negatives, but it’s worth it. Next step is learning how to erase the people in these clips. Humanity cursed the sky into this unearthly, unsightly monstrosity.
They do not deserve to be seen.
They do not deserve to exist.
Such dark thoughts once known would force me into The Closet once again and I do not like being there. It is dark, cramped, and jagged. And it feels like the smog is just above your head, where you can barely raise your hand to cover your mouth and nose. So you choke on the terrible heat and are utterly helpless to stop the flood of stinging tears caused by the miasma.
Once should have been enough, but I have been there five times and I’ve grown no better at withstanding the torture. They say it’s to cleanse you of your sins and bad thoughts, but it’s only emboldened me and made me more stealthy. They claim they only allow people to be in there for twenty minutes but it feels like hours. There are still dents on my back from the spikes I accidentally leaned against weeks ago.
Yet I would tear off Jane’s gas mask again and again. It was worth it to see her choke on air. She shouldn’t have said Juniper Industries saved us, that my older sister, Elsa, is dead and deserved it. I don’t care what our life manuals say nor what The Highest Court ruled. That hellish conglomerate sacrificed a generation to become the elite and we’re still paying for it dearly decades later. I know in my heart that Elsa is alive and safe now that she escaped her prison, though I haven’t heard from her in years. No one has. Our parents no longer speak of her and would try to silence me when I mention her name.
Do they no longer love her? I don’t understand. She was their firstborn, their first creation, their first love. All Elsa did was spread the truth she uncovered from banned and burned books. Among them diaries that were on the impact of the Juniper factories from when they first started and their horrible predictions which all came true years later:
The waste and sludge from the factories corrupted our water sources and eroded our pipelines. Not only did they render the water undrinkable, it’s become flammable. It used to be funny to light it on fire, but it ceased once we realized we can no longer boil our tap water without an explosion.
At one time, we were a prosperous and vibrant community composed of teachers, lawyers, doctors, historians, engineers, councilmen, craftsmen, nurses, writers, artists, and so much more. Once the factories opened, they shut down our universities and trade schools and we were forced to give up our callings and vocations to become workers and cleaners at menial wages. That’s it. We could no longer follow our dreams and chosen paths and instead had to build novelties and gadgets for the elite. Or clean up the aftermath. The devices weren’t even useful nor necessary. All frivolous.
We were a democratic society that transformed into an oligarchy. The power of our masses turned into a dictatorship led by a few. There was no longer a voting system for the citizens and none of us could be city leaders anymore. They discarded our constitution and rights because it was not the Juniper Industries way. It wasn’t how God intended they said. The manual was now the way, our Bible.
How did this all happen to our Hazleton? This degradation of our natural resources, the removal of power from the people to plutocrats, the annihilation of jobs and education? A generation was massacred systematically, slowly at first. Most adults above 21, and over the course of two decades, as Juniper doctrines were instilled into the young, the leaders were bribed into building the factories, promises of better work conditions & opportunities within those jobs, and the religious fervor of the cult of Juniper was established. Even grand promises of the holy, perfect afterlife if they willingly gave up their jobs and degrees to serve the elite.
First they took the vagrants, the ones we looked down on, that we have forgotten and ignored, that we wouldn’t miss. Then the poor and working class adults, the ones that we were told we’re better than, who deserved to be destitute, their abduction leaving their children to starve. Then those of marginalized sexualities and genders, who couldn’t or wouldn't procreate, who are seen as sinful and destined for Hell according to old religion. All taken in the night, their property up for grabs for their greedy neighbors, their falsified crimes dictated in the next morning’s papers. When we had newspapers. Then eventually the middle class were hit next and by then we were all divided, terrified, and in despair. No neighbors trusted each other anymore, and even within the families themselves, people were wary of one another. In fact, the children have become such fervent followers of Juniper Industries that they started to turn their own parents in. Believing that their fathers, mothers, grandparents, aunts, and uncles were treacherous and devils in disguise. Only Juniper was in the right and for the people, not the old Hazleton. But not all the children believed and they cried when their parents were taken away. They knew that they would be next if they spoke up, so they decided to hide the details of this massacre in secret diaries for future generations to uncover. Never able to tell their own children the truth for fear of retribution.
My Elsa was the first, she unearthed the journals from the attic when we were cleaning it out after our grandmother Teresa Ibalio died. The diary belonged to Grandma’s older sister Primrose, who ran away from home when she was young, a few months after their parents were abducted by Juniper. Lola Teresa barely mentioned her when she was alive, and didn’t speak of her parents either. Elsa was so engrossed with the journal, spending hours poring over it in the dusty attic. This was the last entry:
May 25th, 2020
Dear Diary,
I don’t know how much longer I can stay in Hazleton. My parents have been gone for a season and it’s hard to even glance at their photos on the walls, so I stowed them away in the attic. Teresa is only 9 and fully indoctrinated into Juniper’s teachings. She believes that our parents deserved to be punished for daring to rally against them, against God’s will. I keep trying to tell her she’s not seeing the truth but she refuses to listen. I’ve been getting glares from the neighbors, they whisper when I walk past them. I think they know that I help made the protest signs, though I never attended the rally, since I had to watch Teresa. Our parents told me that they used to be filmmakers and journalists, before Juniper Industries took away their equipment and shut down the newspapers and agencies. That there was more to this world than Juniper and how I must seek a way out because I will be next. I tried to convince Teresa to go with me but she won’t listen to me.
I’m 16 and I don’t want to end up in the factory, following the commandments of some maniacal fascist megalomaniacs. We refuse to cater to the rich and corrupted. I want to be free. I’m starting to see the effects of Juniper Industries factories. How they poison the water and defile the land of life. How the workers look so tired and drained after so many hours. The buzzing fear and tension among the people. And I hate having to be stuck with a ticker in my own room. I feel like they’re listening in, and watching me, so I’ve taken to writing in this diary in the attic so they cannot see or hear my thoughts.
Teresa, if you’re reading this, I’ve decided to leave my diary behind so you can see what’s real. I’ve run away and I will not return. I love you dearly but I can no longer remain in Hazleton. Not after losing our parents and so many others. You must understand that Juniper Industries is not good for our beloved city. We are not meant to make gadgets for the plutocrats. We have hopes and dreams and we should not be limited to mere factory work. We need to learn beyond the manuals and ticker. You’re much younger than me so you don’t know what it used to be like before Juniper.
Hazleton had their own leaders and council. We had libraries and bookshops. We were free to practice any religion or even no religion. The sky was deeply blue and changed color depending upon the light. We didn’t cough when we went outside. We had newspapers and websites where people were free to share their opinions. We interacted with the world outside of our city. There was no glass dome between us and the elite. There were no elite actually. I didn’t see all of this but it was shown in the reels that our parents left for us. I hope you watch them one day. I hope you share the Truth with others. I hope you’ll forgive me but you’d be safer without me, I promise.
I love you.
Primrose
The other students just glare at me when I say speak of the truth: how our world was better before Juniper, with clear skies, flowing streams, and actual sunrises and sunsets. They try to quiet my declarations. Scoff at the concept of a sun that moves when ours is no longer seen. Just years of unending gray and blight, though they would never say the latter.
They call our weather success, an omen of a prayer answered. The treasured outcome of our factories and sweatshops manufacturing at all hours luxuries for the elite. Fancy talking mirrors, glimmering idols, fake and beautiful exotic plants. None of my classmates or our families get to touch it, much less see it. They simply package it with their plastic gloves after the artisans are done, though some are at the conveyor belts, slowly piecing parts together. They never get to see the final product though. It all gets shipped to the center of our city where they live beneath large glass domes with filtered air. While we on the outskirts must deal with the smog and pollution of their niceties.
It must be nice to breathe well. To enjoy life unburdened by clunky masks or burning eyes. They tell us we must live in these terrible conditions to atone for our sins and for the betterment of our community. Though we never interacted with them directly; they lecture us in humongous screens all over our city, in the heavy manuals that reside in the mandatory altars of our homes, and on the constantly updating tickers that must be installed in every bedroom. Never sharing any physical space with us.
I wonder sometimes if they’re actually real.
Still no one around me questions them or their orders. And you can get thrown into The Closet if you dare complain. As if Juniper is this untouchable god we cannot besmirch. But not all gods are holy, and this Beast will drag us all down to the abyss no matter the cost of the living.
My mother, Helena Mercado, is getting sicker and sicker. Yet she is still commanded to work at the factory despite her bodily condition. She sleeps as much as she can at home, but still looks weak when she is awake. Her skin has gone pallid, and sometimes she can’t muster the energy to even have a conversation with me, always having either a migraine or a hoarse cough. I think I saw blood in her handkerchief but she quickly folded it away.
Once I begged her to stay home but she refused, saying it was her duty to serve Juniper and how else are we going to eat if she doesn’t work. They deny us our rations if only one adult is working in the household. My father, Joseph Mercado, is a cleaner. From dusk ‘til dawn he and his crew scale the land, focusing on the most polluted areas. They are the ones waist deep in muck, trying to clear it out, but every day the factories produce more and more waste that clog the drains and sewer pipes, unable to improve the status quo.
I doubt the Juniper elite would want that. In their eyes, it was best for us to remain underneath their heel and gain no traction upwards. But I have a plan. I’m going to show Primrose’s diary to a classmate. Let them know that there was a better world before Juniper Industries.
And we can create a new world after it.
One day.