Who Are Those Ants? And Who Am I?

When I was having lunch on the top of Mt. Chocorua in New Hampshire this summer, two greedy ants, like two vicious blood-sucking leeches climbing up and down my unfinished sandwich. They are too ignorant to know that buns, turkey, honey-mustard, cheese and jelly are not free commodities; they are not free public school system; they are not social welfares in black neighborhoods; they belong to me, my sandwich, carrots, apple and water. All of them belong to me. So I deport those two illegal intruders from my territory and mercilessly kill them with my unquestionable power and authority.

“Who are those ants? And who am I”

I don’t know the answer to such a complex question. I try to ask God, but it does not want to answer me, because I am an atheist and my cousin and I play Chinese chess the last time we went to church ten years ago.

So I ask the mountain right across from my blurring sight. The mountain seems to be old and firm, and somehow wise. I may have offended his intelligence and age.

I hate ants. They are all over me now, on the top of my red Coca Cola can, on the surface of my transparent lunch zipper bag, between my bare toes, even on my crumbled journal pages. They are unlawful intruders. They are fucking everywhere, in nail salons, in doughnut shops, in hospitals, in engineering companies, in restaurant dishwashing room, taking over UCLA, taking over American colleges, taking over all of our jobs… It is a fucking invasion.

God suddenly speaks to me from the opaque sky. “You selfish son of a bitch. Could you leave just a bit of cheese for the ants to provide them a decent family dinner? To get them through another cold, cold Christmas night.”

George Dong