Rwandan kings lived in woven baskets large enough for a family and all their possessions. Outside, two smaller baskets housed his beer brewer and milkmaid, making the king the only person anyone knew with continuous access to these coveted beverages.
Mayan rulers lived atop ornate stone pyramids in rooms smaller than many modern closets. No one in their vast empire was closer to heaven, no one else could drink sacred cacao. But when it failed to rain, a king was expected to pierce his genitals with a stingray barb, offering his most precious blood to the gods.
When Jeff Bezos returned from 4 minutes in zero gravity he said this “best day ever” fulfilled his childhood dream. He thanked Amazon’s customers and workforce, still fighting to unionize, for funding the 5-billion-dollar trip.
Middle-class Americans fill refrigerators with milk, beer, and beverages ancient kings never imagined but we still thirst because addiction isn’t drinks or pills or dollar bills. Craving only seeks itself.
Prescribed opioids after injury, a construction worker hides addiction from his family well enough for months until the day he forgets if he took his morning dose swallows more fearing its absence wakes to a stranger holding Narcan to his nostrils.
There is no paradise awaiting billionaires on Mars. They will only find a landscape barren and inhospitable as the one inside themselves. We know our kings are miserable by the way they howl at reality, chasing chaos to remain front-page one more day. Addicted to sensations of a chest swelling with praise, even the pulsing heat of hatred.
As crops withered and the divine mandate of Mayan kings grew more tenuous, children were carried deeper and deeper into caves for sacrifice. Our rulers need us to believe we need them, but the truth is we all speak for god. We all bow to uncertainty and death.
Only compassion can free us from kings. With compassion for ourselves, we stop waiting in line to become rich, powerful, and miserable like them. With compassion for our kings, we stop building their pyramids and rockets, useless for reaching the heaven of our infinite worth.
Frederick Livingston (he/him) is a spoken word ecologist born at the southern tip of the Salish Sea. He is the author of the award-winning Trees are Bridges to the Sky and the poetry collection The Moon and Other Fruits. He writes to plant seeds for a more fruitful Earth.
