Senseless

While common people like you and me
We'll be builders for eternity
Each is given a bag of tools
A shapeless mass and the book of rules
—The Heptones, Book of Rules

The census questions reduce us to things we know it's wrong to be reduced to. Age and race. A number and a box. The nameless residents, Thendara Lane, Unit Guest House. I'm Person 1 of Persons up to 12. (And what of those beyond?) The Census Data Capture Center captures nothing of the human state, nothing we really are. A soulless exercise that I cry out against.

Far more telling—and worth our while—would be:

What is your favorite Verdi opera?
What Caribbean color are you longing to paint your kitchen?
Do you remember your highschool Spanish?
What is the name of your dog?
Do you write poetry?
Have you ever seen North by Northwest?
Have you ever visited Dar es Salaam?
What do you honestly think about Susan Doyle?
Do you often eat peas, and do you tend to overcook them?
Can you spell Quetzalcotl?
Do you prefer your margaritas on the rocks with salt?
What has become of all those dreams you had?
Why have you let yourself go, so, anyway, and what's there to be done at this late date?

Tell us a little more about yourself—we'd really like to know.


Image: Civil servant at trailer park, census 1925