Home Alone 2

I don’t know what to make of Home Alone 2,
when I make it past the scene of a child molester
smiling at a child, who seems oblivious to the danger,
which is odd given he seems to be supern’ly sensitive
to the danger posed by the Wet Bandits, though, perhaps,
it is not all that surprising that Kevin, who comes from money,
is sensitive to the potential dangers posed by those who
do not, but blissfully ignorant to the dangers those who, like him,
exploit systems and manipulate others into giving them things
for free and then expecting others to solve the problems he leaves
in his wake, or not. He could not care less, except when he realizes
that he, sometimes, misses his dear mom, for he, like us, has a mom,
and she, like some mothers (I guess?) has a capacity to spend which
matches, if not exceeds, her capacity to love. And she, like all mothers
of young, White rich boys, believes that her precious child can do no
wrong in the world, though she scolds him incessantly in private, but
remains surprised that anyone could, for any reason, see any faults
that could not, at a moment, be overlooked by the inherent goodness
of this future pillar of society. I do not know what it is like to watch
those films as a person who could walk into the Plaza and try to get
away with anything, as the only time I walked into the Plaza, I walked
out with a single unfitted sheet, which was being sold as part of liquidation
for even fancy hotels cannot afford to be constantly stolen from by their
patrons, who undoubtedly took sheets like the one I bought as if they
were sanitary napkins, which, now that I think about it, my sheet might
have been. Gross. But what I know is that Kevin hurts people again
and again. Hurts them until they are worked into a state of mind that prevents
rational thoughts from piercing their minds and then, in those moments,
uses lethal force as though it were a comedic segue from one plot point
to another, each time largely indifferent to whether he had dealt a fatal
blow or what the impact of that might be. For he, unlike me, seems unfazed
by actions that might kill another person, “bad” or not, but he, unlike me,
need not consider such things because there is no consequence,
nothing that will derail him from his happy ending, whilst the slightest breeze
could switch me from the track toward success and into one of the many
abysses (absysi?) that await people of my social standing, which is why
I hate so much that each film involves him finding some poor, homely person
whose golden heart makes him finally see through their poverty as if they
were a real person, though we know he has not reached an understanding
that he has unfairly maligned a whole category of people (masses of humanity)
because they, unlike he, were not born into comfortable families, and instead,
determines, over time, that they can earn his trust – earn his award of
their humanity if they can prove themselves worthy of his kindness, notwithstanding
their poverty and disheveled appearances. Though his redemptive act of giving
humans their humanity warms our audience heart so that we look past his crimes
and share the abuse of others: the physical violence, the manipulation, the sadistic
joy in causing the suffering of people who are more like me than he.

Mike Luketich writes poems. You just read one of them. @mikeluketich.

Categories: Poetry

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Shawn Berman runs The Daily Drunk. You can follow him on Twitter @Sbb_writer.

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