A letter from a cockroach to an alien

Donald Trump Win

Aside from several flawed, third-party candidates, we Americans were all faced with choosing between two very, very, v-e-r-y flawed presidential candidates. Even more interesting than the wild campaign season has been to now watch the shock and disbelief of a Donald Trump victory envelop the mainstream media and other Democratic elites. The media’s election coverage, as well as the various pre-election poll numbers were so erroneous weighted heavily in Hillary Clinton’s favor, that all of those who were firmly #WithHer were left entirely unprepared to cope with the November 8th election results: #TrumpWins.


In the days following the election I have observed several journalists who were part of the #WithHer crowd try to answer the question, “How did we get it so wrong?” Several journalists whom I have observed have come very close to finding the answer, almost hitting the nail on the head. Yet, most are still missing the underlying issues. For starters, instead of truly seeking to understand the success of Donald Trump by reaching outside of their own insular circles, these journalists appear to be, bizarrely, repeating the exact same mistake that landed them in this current, befuddled state: searching for answers, yet again, from those within their same insular bubble. Hence, these journalists and elites have evidently not yet reached a crucial stage of enlightenment which would demand the pursuit of answers about Trump voters by actually speaking to Trump voters. Don’t they realize that relying on more theories and prejudices concocted from within their own compartmentalized world will again lead them astray?

Why hasn’t anyone considered asking an actual person who voted for Donald Trump why he/she did so? Perhaps doing so would be just as silly as asking a cockroach, “Why are you a bug?”

Conceivably it may just appear far too foolish to pose any question to a lesser species. After all, these superior comrades have assured us of the supremacy of their minds; minds akin to an advanced, extraterrestrial species looming somewhere in outer space whom will soon conquer our entire globe by using only the mind power encased inside their gigantic craniums.

Why should an extraterrestrial ever try talking to a cockroach?

Unfortunately, it is evident that those of this superior species need a bit of help. So, to bridge the gap I have composed the below letter to the extraterrestrials who live amongst the insects; a letter to all aliens who may be grappling with the phenomenon of perplexity following the results of America’s presidential election. It is my hope that by sharing my own very personal experience we (roaches and ET’s alike) can understand and appreciate one another more.

Dear Extraterrestrials,

I hope this letter finds you well. While I am of a lesser species – a species you see as suffering and affliction of both a lower intellect and a so-called cold heart – I am writing you today in hopes aiding you in your difficult, novel journey to understand my kind: one which will enable you to learn about and study my fellow insects and me without pining us to an entomologist’s pinning block, and plucking off our wings.

Please allow me to begin with a sad story. It is a true story:

In December of 2013 I lost a childhood friend. My friend’s name was Trey, and his killer’s name is heroin.

I do not know if Trey was an alien or a cockroach.

When we were kids, Trey’s older brother, Jeff, was killed in a four-wheeler accident. Even as kids we all knew that there was something special about Jeff. He was good looking, personable, and confident. After Jeff died our multi-aged group of neighborhood kids seemed to lose its glue, and we all drifted apart as time went on. The world kept turning and we all moved on, but one thing never changed: Jeff’s “golden boy” image. It has never faded away.

After Jeff died, Trey began getting into trouble; enough so that I distanced myself from him. It must have been difficult for Trey to lose his big brother at such a young age, followed by pieces of his neighborhood peer group. Equally difficult for Trey must have been growing up in the constant glow of his exalted, deceased brother. I imagine Trey carried a tremendous weight living in Jeff’s shadow, but I never actually worked up the nerve to come out and ask him, or even just speak with him about it in general.

As an adult, Trey struggled with addiction. His sweetness, however, remained. And, Oh, that smile! His adorable grin still showed itself, but I could see that sadness lingered just below the surface. The last time I saw Trey he was in recovery and he seemed to be moving forward in his life. It was a silly night of goofing off and laughing at old-school rap songs. It was a night of reminiscing about old “war-wounds” as we showed off bicycle scars on our knees, preceded by “Do you remember when I….” followed by something like, “… tried to jump that hill with my bike and I wiped out!”

Still, I always knew that Trey’s emotional wounds had never healed. Looking back, maybe I should have seen a relapse coming, but I didn’t. Then came December of 2013. Trey overdosed on heroin in his bedroom at his parents’ home. Trey’s parents had already buried one son, and now, they have buried both of their sons. The pain that Trey’s family must be experiencing every day is a kind of hurt so difficult to conceive that I try not to even think about it. Sometimes it is easier to act like nothing ever happened.

I still haven’t deleted Trey’s phone number from my cell phone.

Heroin is a killer. Like those who have lost a loved one to cancer, those who have lost a loved one to Heroin would like to see it completely destroyed, completely obliterated from existence. Heroin is a drug so addictive and so dangerous that it can change a human’s body after just a single use.

Heroin is now affecting more and more families across the country, no matter what neighborhood they live in. What began for one person as a single, poor-decision can morph seemingly overnight into full-blown addiction. In the US, the number of heroin overdoses is skyrocketing; such as the 174 overdoses in just 6 days that occurred in Cincinnati, Ohio in August 2016.

“And at the end of last week, after a six-day stretch of emergency-room visits that exhausted first responders and their medical supplies, the overdose tally soared to a number health officials are calling ‘unprecedented’: 174” (Washington Post, 2016).

Heroin enslaves the mind and the body, and it corrupts the soul at such a level that it is nearly impossible for a user to break free. (You can read more at DrugAbuse.Gov.)

According to the Whitehouse’s Office of National Drug Control Policy:

“… opium poppy cultivation in Mexico remains high, and Mexico continues as the primary supplier of heroin to the United States.  Estimated cultivation of opium poppy reached 10,500 hectares in 2012, with an estimated pure potential production of 26 metric tons.” “While a significant amount of the heroin consumed in the US comes from South America, most of it passes through Mexico on its way to American consumers” (Business Insider, 2016).

With these stats staring me in the face, the importance of securing the United States’ borders became evident. Oh… If only we could prevent even just a single family from burying their son or daughter, like my friend Trey’s family has done, it would certainly be an honorable effort to say the very least.

While the human brain is marvelous at problem solving – ever-finding new and often quite creative ways at circumventing border security – I believe that having a fortified border will be beneficial in ebbing the flow of heroin into the US. This is one of the policy positions which lead me to vote for Donald Trump rather than Hillary Clinton. You understand… this is why I have now become a cockroach.

(FYI, it can be quite difficult getting used to having so many people try to squash you, in addition to mastering gross motor functions due to all of those extra legs!)

Extraterrestrials and cockroaches aren’t always so different. A recent Pew Research poll showed that 56% of Democrats and 62% of Republicans agreed that drug addiction is a serious issue. Historically, the importance of having a secure border has been supported by both Democrats and Republicans alike. Not anymore, though! Now, in spite of the growing mutual concerns of a majority of both Democrats and Republicans, in regards to drug addiction, the underlying issues concerning how to address the black-market, drug supply chain into our communities is an issue that is unable to be discussed.  While the drug cartel is free to use their human genius and ingenuity to circumvent our border patrol, the American public is socially barred from using our human genius and ingenuity to address the issue. No conversation is allowed.

But why?

First, issues involving America’s borders always seem to fall under the label of “Immigration.” Second, any person who dares broach any sub-topic which falls under the “immigration” umbrella without simultaneously expressing full and unwavering support for open, unsecure, vulnerable borders is instantly deemed as being a socially unacceptable pariah; an anti-immigrant hate-monger, a racist, or a bigot. SJW-ET’s (Social Justice Warrior-Extraterrestials) are rapidly unleashed upon the earth, instantaneously commencing a war of insinuation and degradation and wrath, comprehensively attacking any peon foolish enough to broach the subject of illegal drugs crossing our borders.

Dehumanizing, degrading labels and ad hominem attacks have created a perpetually terrified American public.

So, my darling creatures from outer space, I’m left feeling utterly confused.  Would you mind, please, explaining to me – a cockroach simpleton – precisely which part of trying to ebb the flow of illegal drugs into America in the hopes of saving lives (lives like my friend Trey) brands me as an anti-immigrant or as a racist or as a bigot? What exactly marks me as being a loathsome creature? Why do I have to be a cockroach? What could possibly warrant my debasement? Or, perhaps, the most likely conclusion is that – dare I say it out loud – I AM NOT any of those things. As I am in fact not an anti-immigrant or a bigot or a racist, then what could possibly warrant my debasement?

America is under a constant barrage of new “rules” instituted by angry groups of SJW-ET’s (Social Justice Warrior-Extraterrestrials) and it has honestly become difficult for much of the country (aliens and insects alike) to keep up the manic pace. Millions of Americans have found themselves “bigots”, or any number of other cruel and deprecating labels, for their stances on numerous complicated issues.

Americans have become racist-by-default for simply being born a Caucasian. From a cockroach’s perspective, observing the world of my “betters” from the concrete world below, it has become quite clear that you, ET’s, have been living in an insular, elite bubble having compartmentalized the world. Thus, anyone who challenges the perfection of your view (or who speaks out about an issue which you do not understand) is not seen as a worthy adversary, but as an enemy who must be squashed; squashed like a bug.

Like it or not, there has been an all-out war on regular Americans, regular folks who are just trying to make it in life.  In addition, there has been a seemingly state-sanctioned dehumanization of entire groups of Americans, ultimately leading to a total breakdown in communication.

So let’s get real. Isn’t it time we stop bullying those with whom we don’t see eye to eye? Isn’t it time we acknowledge that who we vote for is in no way the sum of our worth? Isn’t it time that we allow ourselves to discuss difficult topics, recognizing the immense complexity within each issue?

Most importantly, isn’t it time that we extraterrestrials and insects become humans again, become brethren again?







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