icze4r communication

So, I’m in the news again. The Washington Post.

First, I would like to thank Gene Park for treating me like a human being. It was an amazing experience and I cried happy tears when I saw the article.

Second but foremost, I need to say something.

I’m going for broke. Not for success, but to prove the justice of my culture, as it were.

I am for real.

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There is only one thing that is important to me.

I am ready to blow my feet off, rhetorically. I am here to expend and spend and burn through all of my recently-accumulated reputation, in one statement.

The American UFO Disclosure movement is doing nothing but openly salivating at the thought of stealing space alien technology, and it makes me worry to bits and pieces about how much in danger the actual space aliens are.

Again: it’s time to torch my reputation. It’s for a good cause: no one else is going to defend them but me. Now that I have this attention on myself, it is fully Hell and Well time to do this.

I’m pouring the gasoline on myself, stepping on the kindling, and striking the matches.

Get a good shot of me.

I can only do this trick once.

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Space aliens are real and I love them.

When it comes to the American UFO Disclosure movement right now, the only thing that I can think of is how afraid I am for the space aliens that I’ve met. I am an ‘experiencer’, a term that, while I loathe, it tells the story. When I was little, I met space aliens. And they were normal.

But more than that, they were kind. It was like Star Trek: The Next Generation, only it was scaled people with skin colors unknown to human skin, like bright green, blue, red, purple… like Yoshi colors, really.

The one I care about is this one. This is what She looks like.

She’s real. When I was a kid, She lived with my family. As it turns out, my father had somehow met a space alien when he was little, and, when he had me, the kid of the space alien he knew, came over to our house, and wanted to see the new baby.

That was Rachel. I was the new baby.

For a long time, I’ve been trying to fight the stigma of knowing this. We couldn’t tell anybody. If believed, we feared that human beings in America, or otherwise, would come and hurt Her. If not believed, the consequences of being believed to be crazy were not great, as well. Lesser, but still not great.

As we rapidly move towards First Contact, or something similar to it, the only thing I see is this person I’m talking about, Rachel. The only person I worry about is Her.

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What the Space Aliens are like

I’ve written a book about it. But, interacting with Her more, with them, with my adoptive space alien family, I’m getting to know them even better.

The things that matter to me are how they treated me as a child. As a child, I was abducted by aliens, even after Her and my family had met. The aliens, you see, are not a monolith; and abduction is a crime. She ended up rescuing me.

I was grievously injured. I was only 4. I had lost enough blood that I was having heart attacks and Her and Her people were transporting me to their version of a hospital.

They took care of me. They were there for me. When I was crying, She was there to hold me.

The first year I was on the ship, they held a birthday party for me. One of them, later, asked me about how Christmas was celebrated in America. That person later dressed up as Santa Claus and delivered presents to me.

They cared. My first night on the ship, I couldn’t sleep. Rachel went out into the Human World and found me a new retail version of the teddy bear that I had at my parents’ home.

They fed me. They clothed me. They combed and brushed my hair to soothe me, when they found out that was one of the only things that calmed me down.

One of them, my step-aunt, taught me how to make mozzarella. By hand!

She watched cartoons with me. It’s the entire reason why I was even introduced to Sailor Moon. It’s practically Her favorite show.

Seeing human beings talk about their technology like they’re not even people, like they’re not even involved, like it all just popped out of the ground— hearing them talk about ‘alien bodies’, ‘biologics’, and all sorts of ‘recovered craft’, like they’re not even people.

You haven’t even met them yet, and you’re like this.

I can hardly imagine how terrible you’re going to be when you actually do meet them. Based on how you treat each other?

Jesus.

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The point I want to make.

Almost the entirety of the English-speaking, mostly-American side of the UFO Disclosure movement is solely talking about how much they want to steal space alien technology.

The Overton Window has moved a bit in my favor. Not enough for me to be believed, but enough for you to listen to reason.

Please, for the love of God, don’t do this. Don’t treat my family like they’re not people. Don’t lust for power and think about how you can steal their shit. It’s like fucking going through a person’s pockets just after they’ve died, like. Like stealing a dead man’s shoes.

More than that, the kindness, compassion, empathy, and sympathy that they have for you is beyond anything that you’ve ever experienced from a human. There have been science fiction pieces where aliens lacked the emotions that humans did, making them cold and clinical. Logical. Vulcan.

You don’t understand. The aliens aren’t the ones that are lacking in emotions.

It’s you.

You kill each other for fun. You charge each other for food. No other species really does that. In fact, amongst every space-faring species I’ve ever learned about through them (and believe me, I only have the most general of knowledge, nothing specific), none of them fucking kill each other. None. It’s practically the first or second line in every unspoken social contract every space-faring species has with one another.

You’re not coming into this story the most-advanced person. Not even close. Emotional maturity and intelligence are the hallmarks of space travel, not the ability to do violence.

Doing violence is easy. Blowing up a planet or a star comes naturally to some species, even not technologically.

Let me put it this way. How easy it is to crush a kitten under your boot, compared to how hard it is to actually make a spaceship?

The people who spend their lives crushing kittens are not those who grow to become those who make starships.