When kite-flying is a sinister nuisance

FRIDAY, SEPT. 28: A lazy moon, a gentle breeze, and a dog barks somewhere in the distance.  As dusk settles into night, the tree frogs begin their nightly symphony.

 The surf breaks over the rocks and I think perhaps a little Sinatra could come in handy on a night like this.  I would linger but instead I retreat inside.

If you lived in my neighbourhood, which sometimes feels like Beirut, you probably would have committed hara-kiri by now.

Several times a month, my neighbours fly kites. Not the wholesome, let’s get the kids out after dinner to blow off a little-steam before bed time, kind of kite-flying. Oh no. This is a couple of grown men attaching kites to a fence and then disappearing for hours.

Did I mention the hummers? How a crenellated piece of paper glued to a kite can create the auditory equivalent of a constant air raid night after night is beyond me.

I have pleaded, I have cajoled, and I have threatened and sworn on their future graves to no avail.  I am stuck.

The people of Syria don’t listen to this much racket.  I finally called the police one night after listening to nonstop in-coming rounds for approximately thirteen solid hours. 

Culture

The police gently explained that this was part of Bermuda’s culture.  People love to fly kites they told me.  At 10.30 at night I wanted to know?

I know what it is and so do they but neither of us really want to admit that in sophisticated Bermuda, drug dealers send their smoke signals by kite.

Frankly, if I were a drug dealer I would be embarrassed. Kites? I mean if you ever get caught and then have to do time at Westgate, what do you say to the thug in the next cell? The guy with the kite didn’t hold up his end of the deal? Please.

What does your mother think? That’s right, you’re a big shot drug dealer but you probably still live at home with your mother. 

Which is why I think that along with the stiff sentence that you will inevitably incur someday from an unsympathetic judge, you should also be required to make an appearance at every school on this island and tell vulnerable, at-risk children why joining a gang and selling drugs is a lose-lose proposition.  

Tell these children, if you can look them in the eye, what your life is really like.  Tell them why you don’t own a home. It’s a little difficult to present yourself to a bank for a mortgage if you’ve never held a real job and don’t have any credit history.

We pay

You probably don’t have health insurance, either.   Maybe you’ll admit to these kids that maintaining any kind of meaningful adult relationship is almost impossible since you are still sleeping in your childhood room, in a single bed under a Disney comforter. 

What’s ironic is now we get to pay for your mistakes.

Through our taxes, we’ll pay for your room and board at Westgate. Your heartbroken mother will have to take care of your children and suffer the humiliation that her big shot, convicted drug dealer sits in jail with limited possibilities for the family’s future. 

You are not an entrepreneur. You are not a mogul.  Those kinds of big shots actually operate in a world that exists beyond your limited horizon.

Those kinds of big shots are not fearful for their lives and they descend into a spiral of panic, every time they venture into another parish without the protection of their fellow gang members, who like you, still live with their mothers! 

But just before you go, do one more thing and tell these children the truth.  Tell them that if you had just one chance to live your already compromised and damaged life over again, that you would do the right thing and not join a gang and deal drugs.