You may remember that a few weeks ago I wrote column about how my daughter, Clementine, started calling me a fascist, and how I finally called her out on the whole thing by demanding that she either prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that I was, indeed, a fascist, or else come up with some other epithet for me. You may also recall how she quite handily proved that I am, in fact, a fascist of the first order. Well, if you don’t remember it, I can assure you: she certainly does.
Which is why ever since that column came out I have been searching for the perfect thing to call her in return. (Before you start sending me your suggestions, let me add this: I am looking for something similar to call her. Something equally inscrutably insulting. And, above all, something printable.)
And so, this morning, when I tripped over the backpack that she had left lying in the middle of my bedroom doorway, my first thought was actually relief. Finally, I thought, now I know what to call Clementine. (Okay, maybe that wasn’t my first thought. But it did come along eventually.) Yes, gazing about at the archipelago of Clementine’s personal effects that littered my house from one end to the other, I finally knew just what to call Clementine: an Imperialist.
That’s right, I said it: Clementine is a dirty rotten Imperialist.
I looked it up just to be sure, and there it was, in black and white—Imperialism: the policy, practice, or advocacy of extending the power and domination of a nation, especially by direct territorial acquisition. That’s Clementine all over again.
In fact, now that I think about it, she’s always been something of an Imperialist. Of course, in her early days it wasn’t so bad: back then she was just interested in acquiring neighboring territories—those sparse, barren lands that she considered “unpeopled.” (In other words, lands occupied by her little brother, Clyde.) And her process of acquisition was more along the lines of benign neglect than a direct overthrow: she would simply let the contents of her own room bubble out of her doorway and creep across the hall into Clyde’s room, until eventually there wasn’t even a way for Clyde to access his own territories. (At that point I would usually step in and grant Clyde a permanent easement so that he didn’t end up as a refugee in my room.)
As she grew older, however, her Imperialism became more overt, and soon she was establishing colonies all over the world (of my house). First there was the Bathroom Invasion, then the Dining Room Table Incursion, and, eventually, the Couch Conquer. However, since none of these invasions affected me directly, I was willing to let them slide; after all, she did promise to quit claiming new territory (right after she claimed the Sudentenland—er, I mean the couch).
But then it happened: she invaded the Fatherland (and the Motherland, too!). I came home one day and found schoolbooks and papers strewn across my bed, strawberry hulls under my pillow, and a half-empty quart-size yogurt container on the floor. And I knew the real invasion had began.
Then, when I went to return her territorial markers to her room, it became clear to me why she was attempting to expand her reach: poor resource management, short-sighted stewardship and the inability to make a bed had obviously been the ruin of her own homeland. And so, faced with the choice of either changing her ways or eking out a subpar existence in a wasteland filled with cracker crumbs and dirty socks, she had taken the third way, and instead decided to go forth and conquer (and subdue) new lands.
It’s kind of like “Avatar,” but without all of the blue cat people. And with a lot more dirty socks.