I Called Upon Atlantis And Atlantis Opened Her Sleeping Gates: The Fourth Day Of The DNC
The future is hot and full of storms. We will get wet; we may get drenched. I have asked Atlantis to open her slumbering green-gold gates and make herself known to us; I knew not what I asked, but I have received it just the same. Atlantis has lumbered itself awake and dragged her full and mighty bulk to the steps of Philadelphia, and she is not easily returned to pelagic tranquility, once roused. In her sunken house many things lay dreaming that now wake. She shakes her locks and we are drenched; she flourishes pearls of deep-water from her raiment and my shoes begin to squelch when I walk. One has no dignity when one’s shoes squelch when they walk; one’s dignity squirts out the sides of one’s feet, along with a tablespoonful of dirty water, with every step.
I have brought an umbrella, but I am wearing sandals. Like a reverse mermaid, I have left my lower regions exposed and vulnerable to the elements. I step off a sidewalk into the street, and my feet are met with the worst possible combination of feelings: water that is both expectedly wet and unexpectedly warm. On this day, all temperatures are body temperature, all fluids amniotic fluid. Storm pipes gutter-chug foamy water at my ankles as I pass. The city has become a flushed and humid womb, and I am its dampest child.
None of my companions are handling their sea-change with any greater grace. I see a man in a full wool suit dive headfirst into a moving golf cart, urged on by its panicked driver. “Get in! Get in!” she calls. “We’re going.” He slides neatly in, damp-thighed and relieved, somehow managing to preserve an upright position as they lurch away. I see another driver moaning to her engolf-carted passengers that “I can’t do this. I can’t do this,” as she throws up her hands and slams on the brakes.
There is standing water several inches deep in the Port-A-Potties––more port than potties, now. The water is not clean. I do what must be done. The transition will be the hardest part. I have faith in our ability to adapt to life underwater; it is easier to bear life with wet feet when one is wet entirely. I would not mind damp shoes if I were damp altogether and forever. Better to be dunked than dipped, better immersed than sprinkled. The Baptists were right, and all shall be endampened alike. This is my fault for invoking Atlantis in the first place. I should have learned to endure the heat. But what is done is done, and I will take my place in the kelp kingdom with quiet good humor.
I have a great deal of faith in our ability as a people, if necessary, to turn into mermaids. Perhaps not all will become full-fledged half-human, half-fish––that sort of flash and showiness is not strictly necessary for underwater survival, and we cannot all find preening time to improve a shining tail — but a discreet gill or two, tucked beneath the ribs, or the occasional fin folded neatly between the knuckles and the lesser joints, will do just as well. We will grow rounder and less brittle under pressure. We will twist and bend like kelp, deeply rooted but never resisting where water takes us. Like sea-glass, we will soften into translucence and beauty. We will drink brine, yet grow sweet and plump as oysters. We will sink beyond the depths of light, and know the sun only by the warmth that settles down from above, yet we will see all the clearer. We will vote with shells and trade with driftwood and all our sharp edges will be worn down by the gentle pressure of the sea.
My shoes are still wet. I took them off over an hour ago to dry. I have no one to blame but myself, and nowhere to go but underwater. Storms cannot follow us there.
