I remember vaguely John Locke’s natural rights and the infamous “life, liberty and property” found in the Second Treatise. I was so naive then and was wholly confused by the evolution to “life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness” in the Declaration of Independence. Growing up in communist China I had very little understanding of private property; and growing up in a Buddhist tradition I lacked appreciation for its necessity. To me the concept was foreign and intangible. The fact that a nation would lay its happiness to such a thing was unimaginable. But I have met some good-hearted people behind the “Declaration” babble and came to experience the pride and purpose of ownership and property. I came to appreciate these words as they represented the spirit of cooperation among a very diverse people. I saw a connection to the tangible things in this country that is keeping us profoundly civil and unyieldingly free. I now believe the concept of property is fundamental to a harmonious community without having to face some rather deep contradictions. At last, the will of the people is free and is at one in keeping its own interests.
But I know there is more to the mystery. I’ve learned over the years that nothing is what it seems. What property will be tomorrow, I await its introduction.
Growing up, property was not allowed. Everything was state-owned. We lived in a dingy apartment that was later appropriated to strangers. Our furniture, few electronics, and my secret chest full of cartoon trading cards, a toy tank, countless trucks and cars, rocks, plastic-swords all ended up in some government storage. I always imagined some cadre would redistribute my treasure chest to other families in China. My once prized cartoon trading cards would be precious again to another twelve year-old boy. I later learned from my uncle that our accumulation of things did not achieve such glory at the service of others. Rather, they simply rotted away by rainwater collected inside the storage container. No one had bothered to notify us. When my uncle had asked for these things he was told politely that he was lucky not to get a bill for all the troubles of tossing my treasures in the trash. To which my mother said: “Ay ya, all those things collected from all those years, and our photos . . . it’s too bad, but it was never ours to begin with.”
That was my understanding of property long ago: that nothing is really mine, not even the monochromatic memories we had paid someone else to capture.
My first ‘property’ was a paycheck from working at the Cincinnati Zoo. It was a whopping one hundred and thirty-six dollars and change after taxes. I remember learning in a philosophy class then the concept of labor giving rise to entitlements transcending to an inherent right of happiness. Ah-ha! I thought, so I clean baby elephant’s funky fresh mess to earn money for buying things that will make me happy. That must be why capitalism worked so much better than communism. I actually reap what I sowed and I can buy things to show it off as some sort of badge of honor. That must be why so many people wanted to have a big house and sports cars. That must be why my parents decided to abandon China and moved here. How obviously ingenious!
I worked hard at part-time jobs through college and through the end of my academic nonsense. I worked to pay for an apartment that my parents did not approve. I worked to pay for a car and nice dinners with my girlfriend. I worked hard to have credit to borrow more money to have a nicer car and nicer dinners. Did I want a nicer girlfriend? My shame did not allow me to remember because that would imply ownership of another person’s happiness. I worked, but credits worked me over by withholding my happiness. There was no need to pursuit life, no one was being executed or ‘disappeared’ in America. There were no visible benefits of liberty under the weight of my material intoxication. Certainly happiness was a mystery to me, but that’s why I was a philosophy major.
All through college and even well into graduate school I felt empty. I was working on some paper about the counterfactual babbles. I lived in a downtown apartment remodeled for a hipster in the middle of a ghetto. My life was at odds with my ideals. Worse, I had no ideals. I had ideas and I had the smarts, but no ideals.
The next eight years fast-forwarded hopelessly. I had dropped out of school, abandoned all of my accumulated stuff and enlisted in the Army. I carried a few fresh pairs of underwear and a change of cloth. I no longer own these items as they have long been eaten away by ware-and-tear. I asked my father to look after my cat, but she ran away a few months after I arrived at basic training. Just like when we came to America, I had journeyed to shed away a layer of existence, and with it, a layer of ‘property’ that had never belonged to me.
It was in the Army that I met some of the most amazing and goodhearted people who taught me to be thankful for the things that I come to acquire: my life, my freedom, and the illusive American Dream. They taught me the true value of things we collect is in the utility they serve, as a means to an end but not the end itself. These are not fancy people, just average men trying to make an honorable living to better those around them, family and foe. They believed in the words ‘property’ and ‘happiness’ in ways that really made sense. They could care less what bestowed wealth you happen to have or could potentially have. What mattered to them were the mere opportunities of joy and freedom they can afford their families and people like them in the States and in Iraq.
They are loving husbands and fathers who had once walked across a invisible border now serving in the U.S. combat arms to earn their rights to be citizens, to pay taxes, to own homes, to have control over their lives and achieve happiness for their children. They are people like the Argentinean immigrant turned army sniper, injured and lost an eye to an IED, now working as a photographer using the only good eye he has to capture what was lost to him in a confused war. To this date, I call these men my friends knowing that they felt an obligation, not just an entitlement, to defend a sense of happiness for their two foreign nations. It may have been an obligation that we did not fully understand at the time, but it made us proud to say that we have paid our taxes and voted for our presidents.
Today, I make mortgage payments on a small two-bedroom home with a yard that needs work. I pay property tax, sales tax, state and federal taxes. I became a citizen in 2007 well after I parted ways with the Army. I have been proud of myself ever since. Today, I recognize that what I own are not my house, or my car, or my many tech gadgets. I envy the newest smart phones and the latest Intel processing chips, but they are simply objects of curiosity. What I truly own at this moment is my knowledge, my freedom to inquiry into my government and decide my fate by my vote. I own my rights to interact with others to maximize social progress by our interactions. Today, property is something that I have earned with my labor so that I may continue a tradition of pursuing life, liberty, and happiness for a community. Today, property is a right that ensures my voice is heard and that I earn my rights as a contributing member of society. Property is my obligation to find a balancing point between my required upkeep and my duty to the sustainability of a civilization.
But what property will be tomorrow, I await its introduction.
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