Lost in America, Redux

 

Paris, November 2016

Four years and a handful of weeks ago, I wrote a post titled "Lost in America." 

November 9, 2016. I had woken up with the covers still pulled over my head, hanging on to a last gasp of hope that the projected election results of the night before had been nothing more than a really bad dream. Little did I know, that morning, that the nightmare was real, and would far exceed even my own dire expectations. 

Though I had tossed my illusions earlier in the day, realized that Trump's path to victory was not quite as narrow as the pundits had said, I was devastated all the same. And baffled. I wrote about a white woman somewhere in Michigan explaining why she had voted for this man:

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.

For about 1500 days since then, I have watched the vague and adamant babble, spread and reinforced by the vague and adamant babble of those with the imprimatur of public office, those who knew and know better but simply didn't and still don't care. Though I've become somewhat numb, I remain as devastated as I was that morning, the mortal wounds to my country confirmed. I was heartbroken, I wrote. "For me, for my children. For what I thought were American values. For what I thought was my country."

I despaired, but I convinced myself to have faith in our resilience. I even allowed myself some optimism, certain that the white woman in Michigan (who had inspired me to turn off the television) and all the others would eventually come to their senses. I was even generous about it: "I take no pleasure in knowing these angry people will, at some point, figure out they made a terrible mistake." I was less generous about those who were complicit in allowing the catastrophe to play out; I wondered if they had any souls worth searching. 

Fast forward to December 30, 2020. We have somehow managed, by the skin of our teeth, to stanch four years of profuse bleeding, but can we heal? Seventy-five million people are still drinking the Kool-Aid, and our far-from-representative democracy turns even a lead of seven and a half million into a slim margin. Four years later, over three hundred thousand unnecessary deaths later, countless unemployed and hungry later, with lord knows how many vile and treasonous grifters yet to be pardoned and with the future of our planet hanging in the balance, our country is no less racist, angry, and ignorant. By a slim minority, maybe, but we remain at the mercy of minority rule. 

Cautious optimism is all I got, and even that is a bit of a stretch. The grifter in chief will be gone, but the mess that brought him to us remains.