Brattleboro Selectboard Un-Candidat #31

     I told Patrick, the assistant town manager, " I live on the Connecticut and have never seen a plastic bag flying into it."
     "Really?"
     "Yes, I have an estate there (an efficiency apartment). So there's no problem of Brattleboro bags in the ocean."
      "Well, beauty's in the eye of the beholder."
     He said something else which I didn't catch so I just thanked him and said walked away. As I walked, I regretted that I had made my conclusions in front of Patrick. It was asking too much of him.
What was he going to say, "I agree with you completely, Pete. We're not dumping plastic bags into the ocean, outnumbering the fishes. It was hysteria, just like the hanging of "witches" and the shooting of two dogs as witches in Salem, on the part of the selectboard. Now why don't I walk out of this building with you, as I am now fired?"
     That's the cognitive part of my reaction. The emotional part had to do with my experience as a protective service worker. I'd investigate a complaint of child neglect, try to work with the parents, and upon finding that they couldn't care less, go to court with the evidence and ask for temporary custody. I would present my evidence to the judge and commonwealth attorney. They would consider it honestly and directly with me and all the other parties, if there were any, and the judge would give me temporary custody. Everything, as far as I knew, was transparent and logical. We were all united in wanting to know the truth, wanting to protect the child, and wanting him to have parents who would act as parents. It was all professional.
     That was the past. Now I had investigated the chairwoman's case for banning plastic bags being that the ocean was full of plastic about to outnumber the fish. I had found out that our town's plastic bags were buried at a landfill. Rationally, ethically, professionally, that should have ended the issue of our plastic bags in the ocean. They weren't.
But this wasn't professionalism, this was politics. The currency wasn't the truth. The currency was power -implied violence- and the printing press for the currency of power was the selectboard.  Seeing that power overruled truth and rationality is what set me back into morose musings for my next two workouts at the gym and got me to thinking about Venezuela, Cuba, and North Korea. Not happy places. Not happy thoughts. Not good government.
Peter Nickerson, Philosophy Major, Class of '68
     Next time, I will try to discuss my conversation with the town's garbage collector. I'd also like to make a suggestion. If I have time, I will discuss one businesses' reaction to hearing that the widening of Putney Road will take off the front of his store.