Redemption
The Price We Must Pay
The cart is full to overflowing. Heavy with burdens, wrongs done in days past. Where did all this stuff come from and who placed it in my care?
Out of breath, sweaty brow, I approach the checkout counter, a black rubber belt meant to help get my purchases to the clerk and her cash register. Her nametag reads REDEMPTION, scrawled in all caps in neat handwritten letters.
Jet black, spiky hair, short on one ear and well down below the other, she grimaces a glance at what my cart holds. Her cornflower eyes look down at the tattooed words on her wrist. KEEP FUCKING GOING.
I smile, admiring her style, wondering about her name.
At least a foot taller than me, she rolls her eyes as I lift the first box precariously resting on top. It’s labeled MISTAKES. I know what’s in there. All the poor choices I made in my lifetime. Choosing work over family. Spending precious time with the wrong people. My impatience. Hurting people I love.
Lost opportunities.
REDEMPTION rang it in. The screen facing me read REGRET. The price for missteps, misunderstandings, mistakes. Seems about right, I thought. Maybe even a bargain.
The red blotch that stains my cheeks when I’m ashamed blossoms. How did I get here?
Next, I grab a plastic sealed whole chicken from my cart, labeled APATHY. Ding ding, the scanner rings. The screen reads UNCONSCIOUS, the price I pay for apathy. It’s true. I take for granted the sweat and labor it takes from others to get food on the table. I don’t think of the life of the sentient being killed for my benefit. It’s easier this way.
To my horror, the next item in my cart is in a clear jar, and it is heavier than it seemed it should be. Labeled GRANDMOTHERS, it looks like a science project, and smells vaguely chemical.
I give REDEMPTION a puzzled look.
“Yeah, I’ve been seeing a lot of this lately. It’s our grandmother's pain. Rape, subjugation, submission, powerlessness. That’s their collective uterus in there.” she says softly, reverently.
The screen reads GENERATIONAL TRAUMA.
Then she says, apologetically “It’s pricey for sure. But I do have a coupon for decades of therapy if you want it.”
Weeping, I take the coupon.
I heave a refrigerator-sized box out of the cart, resting a corner of it on the automation belt. The smell of death and decay overwhelms our senses, filling our throats. The box is marked BABIES.
REDEMPTION’s cornflower eyes drip. Her job sucks.
In the box are indigenous dead baby’s souls, torn from their mother’s breast and thrown into the river by my ancestors, the colonizers. I must pay the price. JUSTICE.
I’ll be paying this price in perpetuity until we collectively own and atone for the vicious violence our ancestors acted out – especially as we continue this cycle of genocide in current times in the name of power and control.
Shit. This is hard.
Tucked under my sweater at the bottom of the cart is another glass jar, this one much lighter than the one containing the uterus. It is labeled HEART, with a subtitle “JOY IS RESISTANCE” and its contents shimmer with sparkles and light. REDEMPTION’S screen reads FREE.
REDEMPTION finally breaks into a goofy grin, her first. “Will that be all?”
“Yes. There is more for another time. I can’t take any more right now.”
She seems to understand. “Alrighty then. Your grand total, including emotional tax, comes to ENLIGHTENMENT. Get honest about history, yours and your ancestors. Tap into your healthy ancestors and ask for help to heal generational trauma, seek justice. Release regrets. Avoid apathy. Locate spiritual integrity and act from that place.”
I understand this is the path if I want my grandsons to experience enlightenment.
Bone-tired, one by one I carry my baggage to my car. REDEMPTION does not offer help. It’s mine to carry.
Parting, REDEMPTION says “By the way, cool hair.” We have this in common.