By Andy Richardson of Richmond, VA
We have all heard the quote from Benjamin Franklin at one time or
another that, “Any society that would give up a little liberty to gain
a little security will deserve neither and lose both.” Few, however,
take the time to sit down and think how, or why, this is true.
I find it helpful to think of Liberty as a motorcycle and security as a
tent.
Every child, as they are growing up knows that on their 18th birthday
they will get their very own motorcycle (liberty). In their teenage
years they start dreaming about that day – imagining the things they
will do when they finally get it. So, when that day finally comes and
the keys are handed over the excitement can scarcely be contained.
The first thing you do with your new liberty (motorcycle) is take it
out and find out how fast it can go… and then, you encounter one of
the many catches that comes with your freedom. You find a speed limit.
As the officer writes the ticket, you hear that this is something that
politicians enacted “for your own good†so that you won’t hurt or kill
yourself.
Horrified that anyone could tell you how you can and can’t use your
own freedom – and now with a ticket to pay for, you take your freedom
out again. You find that you think you can live within these seemingly
arbitrary rules and drive off into the sunset… and after a while, you
run out of gas.
This introduces a second truth to you. Not only can you only exercise
your freedom within the bounds of law, you must put effort into
maintaining it. This effort comes in the form of fuel and care for
your motorcycle.
Suddenly, you are finding out that this freedom thing is a lot of
work. Even so, it seems all worth it when you see something in the
distance that you want to get to and ride off, getting there quickly,
with the wind whipping through your hair as the scenery blurs by.
You enjoy your freedom, getting used to the care it requires and then
it happens. Out of the blue a thunderstorm hits (an emergency) and you
are drenched in rain and pull over under an overpass to wait for it to
pass.
While you are waiting for it to pass someone is there also – selling
something. You look at it and see that he seems dry – which makes you
envious. Seeing you looking at him, the salesman approaches.
“That is a fine motorcycle you have there.†He begins. You nod, and
say it is great most of the time, but when the weather is like this it
is kind of a hassle. He responds with a knowing smile and says, “Well,
you know you could trade it in for something that would keep you nice
and dry no matter what the weather is like.â€
Curious, you ask him what that might be.
He waves you over to his sales booth and shows you something you have
never seen before – a tent. Amazed, you ask him how it works.
In a few short steps he shows you how to transform what looks like a
simple bundle of fabric into something like a house.
“The best part is, you can fold it up and take it with you! All you
are really giving up is the need to provide fuel – and you don’t like
having to do that anyway, do you?â€
You answer that of course having to fuel up the motorcycle is hassle and it would be nice not to have to worry about it anymore.
He nods and says that since you are such a nice kid, he will even
accept the motorcycle in trade for the tent – to help you out. After
all, you have a right to be dry from storms and should not have to
suffer.
You aren’t sure this is such a good idea, but as you peer out into the
driving rain you begin to think that perhaps it will never end and you
won’t get to use your motorcycle anyway. Even though you aren’t
entirely sure about it, you make the trade.
Almost as soon as the trade is made and you fasten the tent to your
back the rain stops.
You tell yourself that this is OK, because you have the tent and it
will keep you dry.
Now, you see a place on the horizon that you want to go, a destination
and hope of a better place.
Suddenly, you realize you are without your motorcycle… you must now walk.
You rationalize that you have been walking for years and it is not
really all that bad, so you begin.
Soon, night falls and you pitch your tent. It is every bit as cozy as
you were told it was and you are soon fast asleep in the dry shelter
you have been carrying on your back.
You wake up the next morning sooner than you had hoped for, and find
that you are sore from carrying the tent all day, but you still see
your destination on the horizon and begin to pack up the tent. As you
pack it up you notice a small tear in the fabric that hadn’t been
there the night before. Looking through your pockets, and around you
on the ground you find something to patch the hole, but find that now
the tent is just a little heavier. Not enough so that you think it
will make a difference, but it nags at you in the back of your mind.
For days you walk, always heading toward your destination and you are
slowly drawing closer – but you notice something else that you had not
noticed before. Ahead of you there seems to be some kind of a town –
it is in horrible shape and looks like it is some kind of a shanty
town and that your path will take you through it.
Concerned, but sure that you still want to head to your destination
beyond, you plod toward the town.
For weeks you walk, your tent becoming heavier and heavier, and your
pace slows. By the time you get to the town you can barely stand, let alone walk. Exhausted, you collapse in the town to rest – and beginning to notice details about the town. Here and there you see
pieces of tent fabric built into the crude huts that make up the town.
Slowly, you begin to realize that these huts aren’t really huts, or
rather, that they didn’t begin as huts. They are tents, tents patched
to the point of being unrecognizable – and most of them are empty. The
people who constructed them having long since moved on. On each of the
tent-huts is a name plate and one of the few people still inhabiting
what passes for a town explains that each person is guaranteed a hut
under the law. Baffled as to why so few huts were inhabited the person
looks at you blankly and asks, “Have you seen these huts? They are
horrible, they are built in this mud pit of a town, they leak, there is no food nearby – why would anyone want to live here? If I still had my motorcycle I would have left years ago.â€
Then you remember it – your motorcycle. It seems like a dream, riding
the roads the wind blowing through your hair. You realize that you
could have been at your destination years ago if you still had it.
Setting down the tent you realize how much easier it is to move
without it – but you worry about being wet when a storm comes next.
Thinking that you can take some time here to repair your tent to the
point where you can carry it again you find a place to pitch it… Years go by and then, in a moment of clarity you realize that you have not been dry in ages and that the whole purpose of having the tent was
to avoid the storms from which you seemingly can no longer escape.
You have all but forgotten about the motorcycle you traded away so
long ago or the freedom it represented. You do, however, remember the destination – and leaving your tent behind you – begin to plod, in the rain, towards that destination on the horizon. As you leave the shantytown for the last time you think to yourself, “If only I had a motorcycle…â€
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