To Be Chosen

By Stephanie Brumit

There was a time when Charleston was only Charleston to some.

See, there were men and women of all ages who did not know that name because it no longer existed for them. For the Quashie, the city was called something that couldn’t likely be shaped into a word. It wasn’t a grouping of letters. It was a marriage of disarrayed sounds. I can’t write it for you here- but that’s the point isn’t it? You can imagine a sound, if you like. It might be close. Then again, it doesn’t really matter.

The Quashie were the poor, the criminals, the religious, the liars, and the sexually adulterous. Some of them were hopeless from the start. You could always tell because they didn’t have true names like you and me. Theirs were just sounds that never quite fell into the patterns of real language. They couldn’t be written down because, well, they never were. Someone like this had parents who were Quashie and grandparents and maybe great-grandparents who were all Quashie. By that point, the child was so detached from the written language that a true name was impossible. Or improbable. Or impractical. Or, something. A few of the Quashie tried to use our common names for their children, even though they couldn’t write them. But then law was passed. And that was over. To use a proper name for your cub, you had to be able to write it and read it. They went back and took their names, the ones given before the law. None of them have true names anymore.

I guess the law wanted to  make it easier to see them.  As if it wasn’t already. Their portion of town was saturated with the sweet aroma of their labour. Sweet, but foul. And each of them wore the stench like a uniform. You would know one had arrived before your eyes stirred. And their speech, of course. It was basic. It was limited. It was wrong. But we didn’t have much need to talk, did we? Never. They had their jobs, their families, their communities, and they knew it all well. What would we have to say? They walked the streets with us of course. We weren’t unjust. They could shop at our stores, come to our clubs, and enjoy our city. Their city, too. Of course. The Quashie had that right. They were perfectly able. I don’t know why they would have joined us though, the poor souls. They had no need. And, our parts of the city weren’t designed for them. They couldn’t make sense of the signs or tags in stores. And they couldn’t afford many of our products–though they had their own products, just as good- probably. It was never unjust. Just practical. Sensible.

The Quashie were the ones who couldn’t afford Education Path. Or they were disqualified from it. Or their parents were. Well actually, the child of a Quashie was able to participate in Education Path. But, the family had to make the payments like everyone else. It was fair that way I suppose. Unfortunately, a Quashie family could typically only pay for a child to have a few weeks or even days of lessons- enough time to learn a few letters or words at the most? There’d be no sense in that. It was so hopeless for them. All of them. And it breaks my heart.

The Quashie were our heroes, though. Our tragic heroes. They were the city’s servers. They produced a bounty for us. For themselves too, of course. They aided the Whole in the long run, probably. Yes, definitely. And they relied on us to provide for them. We had to provide for them. We couldn’t be unjust! See, we all needed each other. And we worked in harmony. And it was beautiful. It was smooth and designed. They had their woes, of course. They grew hungry on occasion. And their children died sometimes. But sometimes they didn’t. Yes, they were longing most days. But they were never lonely: there were so many of them. The Quashie loved who they were in their own way, I think. Hell, probably more than we did. Intelligence only brings you to a fuller consciousness of your own desires and hopes. And if they’re never realized? Well then intelligence only shows you the intricacies and expanses of your unhappiness. When you cultivate intelligence, you learn your capacity for meaninglessness. I’m sure that’s true. So I guess that’s the price we had to pay. It was how we served them. Protected them. And so there was balance in the city. And with balance came a most perfect function.

And they had their sex. And their drugs. And a few of them had their gods.

Some were always destined to be Quashie. You could even say chosen. To be chosen? What a pleasant thought! I envy them a little.   

You may be wondering what to call the rest of us. You know, those who weren’t the Quashie. Such a silly notion! Why would we have a label? We were just people. We weren’t like the Quashie. We knew better.  

It all made sense. Sameness never has. Without relativity, how can we be fulfilled by anything? If we had all utilized Education Path, it would have been meaningless. If every parent took hours each week for reading with the young ones, who would take the Odd Shifts? If every citizen completed Education Path, who would take the Line 4 jobs? If every home kept books, what would books be worth? Without the Quashie, how would we know our place or our purpose? How could we know where we are? Without the Quashie, there is no value. That’s why we treasured them so dearly.

It was hard for them of course. But, it was needed. And it was good for them, too. It was easier living that way. Though, we were the ones with the porches and the fountains. Oh, the enchanting fountains with tiles like the moon. And as we lay in our gardens, the trickle of pure water loved us to sleep. And we knew beauty and light in its truest. And in those moments, It was everything. And the Quashie wanted It. And we knew then It was precious. If you could only have seen them! But the fountains were just fountains, too. The Quashie weren’t missing anything. They didn’t need It. They had their baskets. And they were beauty and light- I’m sure they were. They had something like It.

Charleston was the world then. And I could know every facet of her perfection. And the fullness of everything precious she had to seduce me with. And it was sweet. I hurt for the Quashie, of course. We did not forget their suffering. We tried to help them. We were not unjust.   

But this Charleston has never been. There are no Quashie. What a relief, of course.

But one can dream.