Emerald City, USA

Twenty days ago, I posted my despair. Words flowed from my grief like teardrops, like the blood dripping from the picture I had included of a mortally wounded American flag. My only solace was that it was over. The new abnormal was upon us, the unthinkable had happened, but at least I could go back to my life, stop watching the carnage.

The good news is that I haven't had to watch any more Trump campaign pitches, listen to ratcheted up (albeit inarticulately expressed) hate designed solely to inspire the basest instincts within a hateful and vocal base that I have to believe is not representative of my country. No more discussion of emails (in fact, emails and the actual release of classified information to a lover, as it turns out, is a big fat non-issue), no more chants of "lock her up," no more infuriating self-righteous evasion (no evasion necessary when you can just flip everyone the bird and declare that you are free to enjoy and profit from as many conflicts of interest as you want), no more incendiary lies (do tweets count?).  I vowed to reflect, to emerge from the bubble that has had me believing for so long that prejudice and hate -- in deed or by association -- would be a deal killer in this country, no matter how legitimate your woes about your paycheck.

Okay, well I guess the best news is that I don't have to see or listen to our president-elect directly while he holes up in his glitzy tower or at Mara Lago and tries to figure out his new job without reading the employee manual -- or anything. And, with any luck, Kelly Anne has truly gone rogue and might disappear from the air waves, because she is just incredibly annoying.

Yesterday, a crazy person mowed down some people on a major college campus and then went at some others with a butcher knife. All I have heard, this morning, on that minor topic, is that "they" are trying to figure out whether this was an act of terrorism. I'm sorry, am I missing something, or have we all now bought into the idea that a terrifying and terrorizing act is only terrorism if it is carried out in the name of Allah?

Yep, the conversation on all the news shows is about the latest episode of "The Apprentice," as we all stay tuned to find out who gets hired. It's a veritable circus, with supposedly respectable government figures parading in and out of the gilt trimmed lobby for meetings with the boss in hopes he will pick them. Behind the closed door is the incoming buffoon in chief, the mysterious and all powerful wizard. He may not know much, but he is savvy enough to know he doesn't want anyone ripping open that curtain. Dorothy, we are definitely not in Kansas anymore.

And, from behind the safety of his boardroom door and his phone, he tweets with reckless abandon and continues to dictate the media narrative. "Flag burners should have citizenship revoked!" Oh my, what did he mean by that? "Millions of people voted illegally!" Oh dear, did he really say that? I suppose it was amusing, for a while, but now it's kind of scary. Our new abnormal.

A diploma didn't make the scarecrow smart (he actually got the Pythagorean theorem wrong), and a key to the White House does not make this guy presidential. For him, it's just business as usual.

November Surprises

As we have almost every year for as long as I can remember, we sat at the outsized rectangular table, sneaking morsels from our overstuffed plates while we awaited my cousins' opening toast. Painful moments of delayed gluttony, extended this year by a brief debate about exactly how many years we had been doing this. Not the kind of thing you do around my salivating relatives, unless you want to be beaten about the head with a drumstick.

While the threat of political discourse caused some families to skip Thanksgiving this year, that kind of breach was not even on our radar. Yes, we narrowly avoided a food fight when a misguided minority thought it appropriate to have discourse about, well, anything with the aromas of our imminent feast so tantalizingly close, but cool heads prevailed. We shut down the controversy, agreed to disagree, did a clockwise clink of glasses around the table, reaffirmed our gratitude, and dug in. 

There have been different houses over the years, different guests, and always, to our dismay, a handful of absentees. Turkey preparation techniques have evolved, with smoked and fried holding fast for a number of years now. Every year, the side dishes become more obscene -- both in number and calorie count -- but each one is indispensable, at least to somebody. We add, but we rarely subtract. 

Family gatherings and holidays -- those annual events we look forward to with an extraordinarily odd mix of excitement and dread. Because I flew straight to Connecticut this year and descended upon my cousins while they were still in their pajamas, I got the inside scoop on how, after all these years, they have managed to greet us with such grace. Sure, they put me to work with some last minute slicing and dicing, but I got to participate in the pre-game. Ah ha! Well sure, after a large Bloody Mary and this thing called a "pickle back," I practically lifted my mom off the ground with a giant bear hug when she finally arrived. And all this time I thought my cousins actually enjoyed hosting us!

The truth is, though, it's our glue, and we wouldn't trade it for anything. My children have known no other Thanksgiving since they were born, and, though two are in far flung places this year, they still joined via Face Time. We love the constants -- the lame jokes, the wooden pilgrims on the table, the excess, the food comas (interrupted briefly by dessert). Our babies have become grown-ups, and some have had babies of their own. 

When we went around the table to share a picture we had each been instructed to bring (a new and hopefully lasting tradition), my young cousin's husband summed it up best. He had chosen a picture of him and his son, now ten months old, both of them wearing Redskins shirts (his team). What he saw in the picture, he said, was the "him" of not so long ago, who could never have imagined how this little guy would change everything. We were all moved, even the young couples, the ones who don't yet have children and still have no idea, even though they have some idea, if only from watching the rest of us. 

One blink ago, I was the young mom chasing babies, wishing they would take a nap. I miss those days -- sort of -- but watching them grow, and seeing the adults all our babies have become, there's nothing better. This morning, I'm kind of hoping for another Bloody Mary and maybe even another pickle back with my annual bagel breakfast in Connecticut. Buzzed or not, though, I am well aware of how much there is to be thankful for. 

Theatre of the Absurd

Has anybody paused to wonder how Mike Pence managed to snag tickets to Hamilton on such short notice. Or why? One can only assume that Mr. Pence has as much interest in sitting in a theatre jam packed with folks on all points of the color and sexual orientation spectrum as I do in attending a Loyal White Knights rally.

Curiouser and curiouser. Mike "you whipped out that Mexican thing again" Pence, sitting front and center at Hamilton, daydreaming about conversion therapy while he yearns to be sitting at The Nutcracker watching real sugar plum fairies dance. Some boos and a brief lecture -- a small price to pay, I suppose, for new found national name recognition and the chance to be number one on the wait list for a pretty cool job.

Bring on the tweet storm. Insane, unprecedented, infuriating. And brilliant. Once again, he who shall not be named changes the narrative, bumping the real concerning stuff -- white nationalism in the White House, the transitioning of our government into a family dynasty, the defrauding of lots and lots of regular folks with a fake university, a president elect literally hiding in a gilt penthouse bunker while he builds a decidedly un-American cabinet and wishes he could just grab some pussy and fly around in his toy plane and play a few rounds of golf -- and making petty shit the lead story.

So what do you think of your new President? In Paris, as soon as someone realized we were American, the question was raised -- by an Uber driver, a waiter, a chemistry professor from Paris on her way to participate in a symposium at Northwestern.

Our president elect is a lot of things, most of which make him uniquely unqualified for his new job. But one thing he is not is stupid. He is downright cunning, and he loves games; though I really don't know what a "winning temperament" is, I believe him when he says he has it. What better way to incite a bit of alt-righteous indignation than to plunk a diversity-averse white guy into the heart of Broadway. Brilliant.

Ah, so you’re American. That was my taxi driver yesterday morning, when I sheepishly told him which airline I was headed to at Charles de Gaulle. For the first time in my life, I felt embarrassed, certain that this man — an immigrant trying to make a living in Paris — was judging me, and rightfully so. We have somehow handed over enormous power to a man and his minions who are quite frank in their view that only certain lives matter, that discrimination is a good thing, and that big government is bad except when it comes to taking control over women's wombs. 

I get the economic divide, and I’m all for everyone clawing their way out of their insular and non-intersecting bubbles and understanding how the other guys feel. I live in kind of a fringe sub-bubble among folks who think renovating a kitchen is the worst thing a person can go through. That is not to say that privilege and self-awareness are mutually exclusive; a friend once laughed at herself after she claimed her day had gotten all messed up because the landscapers showed up late. I know there are folks outside my own bubble who would happily trade their own woes for my divorce driven economic downturn any day.

We need to beware of taking the bait, letting our president elect provoke us and then distract us with absurd and whiny tweets, lest we miss the point. Frankly, his immaturity and his propensity to say ridiculous things (and make ridiculous promises) is our biggest hope. As President Obama has assured foreign leaders, the new guy is simply pragmatic. Policy is secondary — if that. 

We can mock all we want, but we should be mindful of the nonsense. Fool us once, shame on him. Fool us twice, shame on all of us. There's a lot of scary shit going on in that penthouse -- one wonders how there was even time for an evening of theatre -- and that's what we need to be watching. 

La Vie est Belle

Day one in Paris.

Two and a half months -- the most time my youngest child and I have ever been apart. The fact that I fell asleep and missed by a good twenty minutes the moment she arrived at my hotel to deliver that long awaited hug notwithstanding,  I could not be more thrilled. Well, I could be, but I'm trying very hard to put the prospect of a Trump presidency into proper perspective.

Duly chastised for wasting precious moments of my brief stay in Paris sprawled unconscious and still clad in stinky travel clothes -- boots and all -- in a hotel bed, I rode the brief wave of happy adrenaline into the tiny bathroom to freshen up. Damn, no toothbrush. My daughter gave me two Altoids and a water bottle, and, settling for what she referred to as a whore's bath for my mouth, I grabbed my jacket and off we went.

A cafe au lait. A stroll through the bustling streets of her neighborhood on the left bank. A brief ride on the Metro. When Parisians push and shove unapologetically, it just seems more polite than it does at home. Warm goat cheese salad and wine for lunch. An impromptu ride on the enormous Ferris wheel I have managed to ignore on all my previous visits to the City of Light. A stroll through the Tuileries in a spitting drizzle. A visit to L'Orangerie, just because it was closed for renovation the last time I was here. Paris. My daughter. My other daughter and her fiance on their way to meet us. La vie est belle.

We killed time for a while -- I was supposed to meet up with somebody I have not seen in more than 35 years, and my daughter kept wondering aloud whether that was such a good idea. She practically had to pull my head out of my espresso to convince me to reschedule. We had a quick dinner -- more cheese, more wine -- and we parted ways so I could sleep. Well, that was my intention anyway.

Several thousand miles from home, and the realities I had so hoped to escape, at least for a brief while, collaborated with the time change to keep me awake. Were the CNN anchors really trying to coerce a rational, intelligent guest to equate Kelly Anne Conway with Hillary Clinton? Were they really trying to get her to acknowledge the enormity of the crack Kelly Anne made in her own glass ceiling, simply by virtue of helping an unqualified and disrespectful man lay claim to the presidency? Was I really listening to someone explain the unfairness of liberal protests against the appointment of a White Supremacist to a position of power in the White House? His rationale for saying Steve Bannon is not a White Supremacist: I am not familiar with Breitbart. Ignorance -- feigned or real. Our new version of expertise.

At L'Orangerie, there was an exhibit devoted to American art during the 1930's. The Age of Anxiety. I looked at the paintings, some of which were familiar, and I read the narratives. I watched footage of the joyful celebration on November 8, 1932, of the election of FDR to his first term. I bought my daughter a copy of The Grapes of Wrath, in French. I could barely sort through my thoughts in English, much less in French. Despair. Social injustice. Progress. War. Change. New world orders. New deals. The Age of Anxiety, indeed. 

Day one in Paris. Dark and rainy, but still the City of Light. Far from home, riding a silly Ferris wheel with my daughter. I gaze out at a beautiful city scape that has gone through so much. And I sort through my thoughts, and I settle on resilience.

Lost in America

Last night, before I turned off the television in disgust, I listened to a reporter somewhere in Michigan press a young white woman on why she voted for Trump. She babbled about American values, about getting our country back. Like her candidate, she was vague and adamant in her repetition. For a moment, she even looked confused, as if she realized the words she spoke had no meaning. The moment passed.

Last night, I forced myself to sleep for a bit, hoping I would wake up to find it had been a particularly bad dream. I refused (and will continue to refuse) to watch television coverage of -- well, whatever you call this. I couldn't bear to watch Trump speak back when it seemed impossible that anybody rational would take him seriously. I will not ever watch him speak, ever. In two and a half months, he will be the leader of the free world, and I will cover my eyes and ears, and I will hold my nose. And I will hold my breath until we come out, somehow, on the other side.

American values. Getting our country back. Top of the ticket, down ballot, the digital maps of the United States were covered in a skewed shade of red last night. Bleeding out. Mortally wounded. I watched, heartbroken. For me, for my children. For what I thought were American values. For what I thought was my country.

My panic had reached a fever pitch by yesterday afternoon. Strangers where I ate lunch assured me I had nothing to fear. That his path to victory was too narrow. He needed to turn a lot of states. I remained nervous while I fantasized about the pantsuit I would buy to honor Hillary's inauguration. If he could make one bluish state bleed, why not ten? And here we are today.

I still hold dear what I thought were American values, though I despair knowing they are indeed not shared by the majority of American. And I despair that the country in which I have always taken so much pride has been stolen. Stolen by a strange orange man who values nobody and nothing but himself, a man who made vague and adamant promises to angry people who were happy to have scapegoats. At the very least, I hope our resilience has not been stolen.

I take no pleasure in knowing these angry people will, at some point, figure out they made a terrible mistake. I will take comfort in hoping that all who were complicit in allowing this catastrophe to play out will search their souls, if they have any left, to help stanch the bleeding.

Sugar and Spice and Shattered Glass Ceilings

When I was young, I had a recurring dream about a woman in pink. Not pale pink, but not fuscha either. A pink jacket, and pink pants.

She was always standing on the same corner, catching my eye, strangely familiar but just out of reach. Her gaze was steady, but I had the sense she was not so much watching me as watching over me. Protective. Not unkind but serious, nurturing in a businesslike sort of way. She looked a bit like my mother, though I don't recall ever seeing my mother dressed in pink.

I thought about the woman in pink when I woke in the wee hours this morning. I thought about the woman in pink when I flipped on the television, saw Hillary in her red pantsuit, just where I had left off, several hours earlier. My friend had texted me a little after midnight, to tell me Hillary had won the kick off vote in Dixville Notch, New Hampshire. Eight people had voted. A good sign. Only 146,310,992 to go, give or take.

My friend -- she of the midnight news bulletin -- and I, and maybe one or two others, will be gathering later today to watch election returns, something I have often tended to think is like watching paint dry, without the suspense. We have yet to decide on the menu, but we have agreed on the dress code: pantsuits. Well, the closest thing we have to pantsuits, which would be flannel pajamas; probably, if I were to hazard a guess, pink.

Do I think the woman on the street corner of my girlhood dreams, the woman in pink pants and pink jacket, was Hillary? Of course not. She really did look a little bit like my mother, but she could have been any woman, maybe even me. Anything's possible. She was intimidating and enticing, a tad out of place but somehow sure of herself. Any woman, every woman, beautiful, strong, smart, competent, in a place where I would not expect a woman in a pink pantsuit to be.

My friends and I are hoping with every fiber of our beings -- every fiber of our flannel pantsuits -- that we will raise our glasses tonight to the sound of shattering glass. The dreams of little girls, everywhere.

Swinging States

It was refreshing to wake up in Chicago today.

My television was still set to the local channel, where nothing matters other than the Cubs' miraculous win last night. I had gone to bed scrolling through wide-eyed Facebook posts from Chicagoans who have waited all lengths of lifetimes for this day and dozens of heartfelt congratulatory messages from folks everywhere who just appreciate a good old fashioned miracle.

What can be more American than baseball? My kids, all native Chicagoans, watched and weighed in from far flung places, celebrating with non-natives, while I watched with a friend who has shared  more than a quarter century of life with me in these parts, for better and, this year, for worse. Worst. From the time our oldest children were our only children, we have shared each others' joys and cried on each others' shoulders, celebrated milestones and endured tragedies. Mostly, we have simply journeyed together, first through tedious afternoons in basements with stir crazy toddlers, zillions of appetite suppressing lunches where mountains of greasy French fries dulled our senses to the bickering and the food fights and the constant cries for attention (Mom? Mom? MOMMMMMM?), birthday parties with blue cookie monster frosting everywhere, the move to the suburbs, report cards, sporting events, dances, college visits, the high school graduation party we threw jointly for our first borns as we prepared for the first big launch. Unremarkable slices of life, with a smattering of overwhelming joy and unbearable grief. All if it, though, shared.

Last night, we watched together, just the two of us, with our dogs. We talked occasionally, stuffed our faces, got lost in our thoughts. We tried our best to break up the tussles between our dogs, both of us feeling oddly protective of our own but loving the other -- well maybe tolerating is a better word -- as one of our own. We seized upon teachable moments, silently chastised the each other for our undisciplined and spoiled pups, felt the same sort of solidarity we had felt for all those years, viewing everything through a mother's prism. Enjoying the moment while we tried to push away the crazy.

We high fived, we groaned, we held our breath, and we held hands through the seeming eternity of the last out. I whispered her oldest son's name to myself, hoping he could wield some influence from wherever he has been since he left us so suddenly last January. I called my daughter in New York to share a post game Woohooooo. My friend and I danced around my living room like school girls, and we both knew, without speaking, how bittersweet this moment, and all good moments, have to be.

This morning, I flipped momentarily back to CNN, just to check whether there was any new news. Still the same maps, fluid color wheels of blue and red and purple. Still the same heads talking. They seemed not to have heard that all is temporarily right with the world, that the Cubbies had won the World Series after 108 years. That Ohio is not a particularly swinging state today, and that no amount of polling can quantify the thrill of victory today.