The Scottish Chronicles: Epiphany

A girl with red hair and perfect makeup. Sitting in a swivel chair at the bottom of a set of stairs. Lights glint off the ancient cobblestone. The air is filled with sounds of overliquored youth - shots bought with Daddy’s money, downed in split seconds. The girl in the chair sets her eyes on the group that is laughing down the street toward her. Her eyes send the message before pretty lips part. “Who are you? Who do you know here? How much money do you have?” Luckily when her questions reach me I’m looking away. Down - at my American Eagle vest bought 75% off. Down - at my baggy green cargo pants that last week I wore four wheeling. Down - at my Aldo sandals, an extravagant expenditure at fifty dollars. To the girl in the swivel chair, these sandals signify everything I am. Or - to her - am not. Not rich, not powerful, not connected, not important. Everything I own, everything I wear, everything I am, is cheap. More than cheap, it is worthless. I walk away. Here I am nobody. Here I do not exist.

This is an ancient Scottish city. It’s seen its share of wars, I’m sure. Wars for land, wars of Scottish tribes, wars of famine. This night, an ancient war – one ancient as humanity itself - is being played out right before my eyes. Perfect makeup, a book of names, and judgments cemented in a pretty red head – these are the weapons. An immaculate blonde sweeps by. Bend, peck on cheek, smug smile. These too are weapons. She dashes up the stairs, silk scarf trailing and diamond earring flashing, to play out her role in the war of social status in the flat overhead - a flat older than her money, diamonds and ideals.

We turn to leave. Swivel Chair thinks she has won. I can feel the others around me deflating. For them, this has been a crushing defeat. By the looks of it, it is not the first. And they know it won’t be the last. It is a battle their family has been fighting – sometimes winning, sometimes not – for their entire lives. They have sent their children here because desertion is not an option. Ten minutes ago we were free flowing, hip young world travellers dancing the night away. Music, a darkened pub, a few pints and the pure, raw energy of a group of young twenty-somethings with nothing to lose were all that existed for us. A few pointed questions from a girl in a chair and suddenly we are all uber-aware of those rigidly defined categories our world has divided us into. Seven different countries are represented between us and yet every one of us knows precisely where we have just been so effortlessly placed. Whatever there is to have, we don’t have enough of it. Some will try to obtain it and succeed. Others will try, only to fail. Others will not even attempt it. They know it’s not worth it the struggle, the heartache, the feeling of complete and utter worthlessness that envelopes the soul when that which is so highly prized is not gained.

To the others, the categorization just experienced is not simply the product of one person’s opinion. It is the Truth. Inarguably. The Truth. The one and only, elusive Truth. The Truth that comes flying at you when you least expect it, in the quaintest of towns, only yards from a crumbling ancient castle, between the rugged highlands of Scotland. Here, of all places, their Truth comes in and slaps them in the face. This truth will not set them free. It will take them roughly in the arms and put them firmly in their place. Any struggle is futile. That much was clear in the eyes of the redhead with the notebook. The notebook that holds all the names. The names of those who can go by. Those who can climb the stairs. Those who can enter the battle ground and fight the fight.

But I know that this is not the Truth. Here, in these streets, within these walls, it is well camouflaged as such. But no. Oh no. No, no, no. I know better. I recognize it for what it is. Because I am from without these walls. I am from a place that - against all odds, against even the most basic of humanity’s socializing patterns - has allowed me to develop a firm disbelief in the Golden Rule of Has and Has Not. I know that there is truly no separation. There are not those who are better and those who are worse. There are only those who are. Those who do not have money, do not have diamonds, do not have flashing smiles and silky smooth hair - they too exist. Even those with flies in their hair and eyes that know no happiness – they are of equal value as human beings as anyone else on this green and blue sphere.

The Truth is: if there were to be a separation, it sure as hell would not be based on possession of man made trifles – “things”, for want of a better word - to which our society has ascribed such arbitrary value. The only jewels worth having are found within. Swivel Chair and her Bible – the book of names - are wrong.

Earlier this same night, after a particularly sweaty bout of dancing, I sat on the lowest of a set of aged stone steps and said a few words to a man with a thick Scottish brogue. He was older, friendly, polite, and extremely Scottish. The exact person I came to this country to speak to. One who has the hills, the sea, the sky in his blood - and in his eyes. Before I could ask his name, I was whisked away. My saviour informed me, sternly: “no one speaks to locals”.

Yes - these are unmistakable fighting words. They speak so simply and eloquently to a war I’ve thus far only read about in glossy magazines. Here, though, this war is a real and present danger. If I keep my wits about me, I will be able to hold my tongue and remain the neutral state. I cannot let on that I know the secret: I have unveiled their Truth. I have unwrapped her drapery and seen what lies beneath. It is none other than the ugly, greedy face of Capitalism. But shhh. No one knows.