The Obligation of Choice

THE OBLIGATION OF CHOICE

At first glance, I thought all the inhabitants had the same bilaterally hued, two-toned colorations.  The black and white patterns split down the center on both their clothing and their flesh.

“Where am I?” was my first query.

Two representatives separated themselves from the crowd and approached me. “Welcome to Volitio,” said one vigorously. “Will you be leaving soon?” asked the other as eagerly.

“Volitio; well, I guess I am truly lost. Can you help me get my bearings? I do not even remember leaving my bed. Which hemisphere is this?”

“North,” replied the greeting, and somewhat shorter, one. “West,” said the taller one.

“May I address you by name? I am Lemuel.”

“You may call me Emil, but my compatriot may not be so ready for such cordiality yet.” The short man extended his hand which I clasped briefly.

“If it will move this along, I am Horace, and you may so address me,” begrudged the taller man. Horace's hands remained at his sides.

“Oh, no,” interjected Emil, “do not feel any haste. Please visit if you have the time.”

“Well,” I said, eying Horace who obviously felt less accomodating, “I would enjoy knowing more about Volitio and its people, since I have been plunked down here somehow. I am sure I will be going back to my own home by the same mysterious method very soon,” I tried to reassure Horace.

“Let's entertain your curiosity and ours then for what time has been granted us. Would you come with us to the assembly hall where we can rest and get out of the sun?” Emil turned to escort me down the street to the nearby building.

“The picnic yard would allow more to participate if we must,” suggested Horace. He turned towards the park in front of the building.

“The hall,” said Emil, showing the first edges of unpleasantness since my arrival.

“The yard,” insisted Horace adamantly. The crowd began to move, dividing into two factions behind Emil and Horace. That was when I first noted the right-white, left-black pattern of Emil (and his supporters) and the right-black, left-white arrangement in Horace's group. And my plaid pajamas with their assortment of blue, yellow, red, and green threads.

I felt the hairs on my neck rise with the expectation of tension. But instead of further wrangling and argument, the groups formed into orderly ranks and files and promptly counted their numbers. Horace's group was larger and those from both factions who wished to continue our meeting moved into the park, quickly intermingling again until their difference was obscured from my notice.

“That was a very impressive display of democracy, Emil,” I commented as I followed him to a small pavilion in the front of the park.

“We will have the next majority,” he assured me. “Those Lefts so often vote themselves into situations they lose interest in pursuing. Happens to us Rights also. Winning takes persistence and timing. Look at all those Lefts leaving now that the Park is chosen.” Looking at Emil then, I recognizes his reference to which side was White in his and Horace's factions.

“Are Volitians naturally pigmented with bilaterally opposite colors?”

“No. It is a choice – we are born with as blank a skin as you have and just as naked. But our children learn to chose a side.” We had reached the low platform where Horace awaited us.

“You will sit in the middle,” Horace said as he lead me to a row of chairs. Emil and Horace sat with their White sides towards me (Emil (a Right) on my left, Horace (a Left) on my right).

“So, stranger, as we see from your childish appearance, you have much to learn,” began Horace. “We will forebear you this opportunity to make up your mind. What do you need to know?"

Although it had been many a year since anyone called me a youngster, I asked politely, “How do you choose to be a Right or a Left?”

“We are taught what is correct by our families, friends, and communities,” explained Emil. “We recognize what we believe in whom we believe.”

“So, do all Right parents have Right children and Lefts have Left?”

“No. Even spouses might not be of the same persuasion. My wife is a Right, while I am a Left,” Horace said. “Two of our grown offspring are Rights and one is a Left. We still have one Undecided at home.”

“And if you changed your mind later in life, how do you change your Side?”

“Why would you change? What is right today is Right tomorrow,” Emil exclaimed.

“And what is left today will still be Left tomorrow,” agreed Horace.

“It seems that sometimes you both agree. Is that true or are you defined by what the ones are not?”

“There are things that are true when viewed from any direction,” Horace declared. “It is our common belief in majority rule that allows our society to decide. We Lefts believe it is equitable, the Rights believe it is efficient, but the outcome is the same.”

“There is nothing wrong with disagreement, only with being disagreeable,” Emil smiled, looking across at Horace.

“Courtesy is too often a mere disguise for dishonesty,” Horace replied, speaking more to Emil than me.

“More is achieved in harmony than in discord,” replied Emil.

“And more of value is built from truth than from disillusion,” Horace countered.

As the men on each side of me started to ignore me, I scanned the audience. They also seemed to have lost interest in my presence and begun discussions amongst themselves. Small groups formed. I watched as topics began, sides stated, and decisions made in a choreography of small votes.  The lopsided kaleidoscopic images of their democracy in action whirled in my mind.  Drowsily, I closed my eyes.

Awaking in my bed, Volitio had faded.  Have I chosen my one side for life?