Transcript

I’m Major Jackson and this is The Slowdown.

With elections nearing, I wonder how many voters are entrenched in their views. Who among the electorate is swayable? Every election these days feels like an episode of Game of Thrones. And the voter who wears their political opinions like chain mail — what do they need to hear in order to pierce the armor of their worldview, informed as it is, by a life of political indoctrination and social engineering?

I like to believe that I am the sort of person who is open to differing ideas. When presented with well-reasoned arguments and irrefutable support, I like to believe I am able to change my thoughts on any number of topics. I believe I carry this attitude beyond political issues and into my private and work life. However, I know my openness is…more aspirational.

This idealized portrait of myself, I admit, has its limitations. Some topics are unshakably emotional; I don’t think anyone could say anything to shake certain fixed beliefs, for example, the need for gender equity and the need for gun control.

The speaker in today’s poem survives by an adherence to their values — but also by a willingness to adopt new codes, to risk new experiences, to take on new attitudes.

Mercy, Mercy Me
by Olatunde Osinaike

To no one’s surprise, I’m not a betting man. What, with my manner thin, my tastes 
       doctored,
my heart safe—I am as good as any last Ash Wednesday, as elusive as any double 
       negative.
Domains of dominoes and mustard seeds undone on my tongue. As if out of a parable,

I was once found in the South, studying the aviation of snowflakes, how even in 
       the darkness
they can melt midflight. I was once told try me. Then to speak it into existence. 
       But I am
clumsy. Whatever it was I do not recall. The funny things flaws become: shambles,

soliloquy, spiritual. It was the same way I learned how to use might could in a sen-
       tence. And to 
this day I haven’t let go of how I could taunt a scythe with nothing more than 
       some dirt
and my brave lips. Oh, I can be such a mess when this world lets me. Gorgeous

with sympathy. Nimble as an imperative. I submit because I care, too. Because I 
       cannot trade
away this audacity. Because so much can happen in a week. A horse loses a race. 
       A race 
loses its culture. A culture loses its place. A place loses its mothers. Mothers lose

their babies. Babies lose their wonder. If you ask me how I shall stay fed until the 
       next first
of the month, I would tell you I already have a full-time job. If you ask what will 
       keep
me sane, I would want you to know I take vacation seriously like every good

love story. Try me. In a game of charades where making a snow angel is as heaven-
       ly as it sounds.
I can’t even romanticize this part. The thankless credential of raising a body 
from the dead. That it might could be yours. How I’ve filled this life

with disbelief in between. Lord, I’m not actually sure it’s fair
of me to assume you know where all the time goes. 

“Mercy, Mercy Me” by Olatunde Osinaike from TENDER HEADED © 2023 Olatunde Osinaike. Used by permission of Akashic Books.