Never Ruth-less

"Dissents speak to a future age. It's not simply to say, 'My colleagues are wrong and I would do it this way.' But the greatest dissents do become court opinions and gradually over time their views become the dominant view. So that's the dissenter's hope: that they are writing not for today, but for tomorrow." Ruth Bader Ginsburg.  

    A quiet and unassuming Jewish girl from Brooklyn, a Cornell graduate. The similarities between me and the notorious, brilliant, and indomitable RBG end there. It's a bit presumptuous of me to feel as if a piece of me has died, but, hey, without notorious, brilliant, and indomitable, that's all I got. 

    We had just clinked our wine glasses together to toast this already strange Jewish new year when the text came through on my watch. (I had tucked my phone away in my purse, but my watch bucked my efforts at decorum). We had just bidden good riddance to the old year, each of us expressing some sentiment of desperate hope for better things to come. RBG had chosen this moment to leave us. I gasped. 

    On these Days of Awe*, our celebration was, by design, small and quiet, without hugs. But we were together, at least some of us, and we had matzoh balls and brisket and kugel and challah, the comforting and familiar trappings of holiday dinners past. And wine. If nothing else, our gastronomic traditions would remind us that all is not lost. 

    But Ruth is gone. The woman upon whose shoulders so many of us have stood, often without a thought for the tremendous burden she has carried. We have enjoyed the fruits of her years of labor, felt entitled to the hard-fought gifts she bestowed upon us as we coasted. We ascended through her dissent, and we begged her to stay through our descent, and she did, as long as she could, without protest. 

    She is gone, and she has left us to do what we will with her legacy. Talk about an inflection point. At the very beginning of the Days of Awe, she has let us know it is time for us to take up the mantle, to step off her fragile shoulders and fight our own battles without her, to dissent and dissent and dissent. Sure, we owe it to ourselves, but more than anything, we owe it to her. To feel awe for this small but mighty daughter of Brooklyn is natural; to do something about it is, well, divine. I am not a very religious person, but I am convinced her death, at this moment, is the work of some higher power. A celestial kick in the behind. 

    Rest in peace, notorious RGB, daughter of Brooklyn, warrior queen for so many of us, and know that we will fight to make your memory a blessing. We will buck the evil, the power-grabbers, the mockers of democracy, and we will not let them take from us the gifts you worked so hard to bestow. "So often in life, things that you regard as an impediment turn out to be great, good fortune," said Ruth. May her passing spur us on. 

*The Days of Awe: A delicate blend of joy and solemnity, feasting and fasting, prayer and inspiration make up the spiritually charged head of the Jewish year.  www.chabad.org. 

Take a Trumper to Lunch

For some of us, a bridge too far appeared the day he rode down the escalator. It was unfathomable, this loathsome, good-for-nothing crook, seeking the reins of this country. 

I've already given a pass to anyone with a brain who thought it might be okay, even though I'll never get it. Maybe it was greed, maybe it was true conservatism, maybe just years of brainwashing and a touch of subliminal misogyny. 

Over the course of almost 2000 miserable days, I've become increasingly horrified by his vile behavior, but even more horrified by those who enable him. As he has set the Bar(r) lower and lower, the goal posts have moved, been jettisoned really, to the point where nothing he does surprises us. Well me, anyway. 

What surprises me though, each time, is what it takes for the bridge to be too far; it seems to happen only when it lands in folks' backyards. I marvel that, only now, is he in trouble in military polls. I marvel that, only a few months ago, did many of us march alongside our black neighbors and raise our voices. I marvel that only now are many corporations and even drug companies standing up, or at least appearing to, after almost 200,000 people have died. I marvel that the media still allows him to speak without real time fact checks, that they still address him as Mr. President, that they show up and let Kayleigh spew. I stopped watching CNN early on, back in the days when I thought it was absurd to even think somebody not on the payroll would actually buy into this crap. 

Yet here we are, and I lie awake nights, thinking that for whatever reason, despite all those who have finally seen the light, despite the daily barrage of corruption, he may somehow steal another four years. And then what? His impeachment had no consequence, other than to make democrats seem like whiny witch hunters; it empowered him even more. 

A friend told me about a friend who is still undecided. A reasonable and wonderful salt-of-the-earth person, undecided. A friend's mother refuses to believe that what she hears on Fox is untrue. A salt-of-the-earth mother. 

Is it not our duty, as individuals, to talk to these people, one on one? Do some Trump-splaining? It might be our only hope. 

So...in the next few weeks, might I suggest, take a Trumper to lunch? 

Heil, RNC

Imagine Hitler, his left arm around a Jew, his Nazi salute arm stretched comfortably around a newly married gay couple. Eva smiles coyly nearby, in her "hers" uniform. 

RNC, night two. A black ex-con gets a pardon, and five brown people get to bypass the cages and become citizens of a country whose passports are as good as toilet paper. I assume their ballots will be Fedex-ed. 

Yes, I watched, and yes, I woke up this morning with a nightmare hangover, though I cannot remember any dreams. Oddly, I only remember hearing one speech. Radical left. Socialists. Hunter Biden. Billions in taxes. China virus. God. God. God. And, of course, my father. Not to be confused with God. I could be wrong. 

Other than a sentimental reminiscence about the ravages of a pandemic from Larry Kudlow (is he back on coke?), there was no mention of the almost 200 thousand dead. No mention of the latest police atrocity in Kenosha. A lot of emphasis on the carnage from which we need to save the country, though that carnage (correct me if I'm wrong) seems to have occurred under 45's watch. 

I am terrified, frankly. In 2016 the excuse was "trying something new." So now what? As unfathomable as it is, this shit might work, again, even though the last three years, eight months has seemed like a lifetime, anything but "new." A president, backed by a silent party and a screaming cast of buffoons, is openly violating actual statutes and longstanding norms and basic government ethics, and the media is airing it in real time and giving it oxygen. Shame on me for watching, but curiosity got the best of me. 

The House is investigating. Whoop-de-doo. Most of the people I know are horrified, wringing their hands, shaking their heads. Two more nights of this horror flick to come, and then the real shit starts to fly. And who knows what Bill Barr (who reminds me of a poop emoji) is cooking up for October? 

We live in a country where freedom of religion and freedom of speech and "law and order" have asterisks. What would Republicans do? Dems, figure it out. 

It is What it Is

 I'm as much of a Michelle Obama admirer as anybody -- you might even call me a wannabe. Damn I wish I could've written that book, married that guy, had that soapbox. My reaction to her keynote speech last night? What she said. 

What we've all been saying, for four years, at least within the confines of what my daughter refers to as my "bublé." That he's unqualified. That he has soiled the office and our country. That we are better, but that this time around we need to work harder at it. 

I feel like a bit of an outsider, as unexcited as I was about Michelle's speech, as inspiring and true and articulate and from the heart as it was. I certainly hope that it maybe, got to a few folks outside my bublé, folks who hate him but might indeed settle into powerlessness and resignation. It is what it is. 

It was great shade, Michelle repeating his use of a once meaningless phrase that acquired a whole new heap of meaning when attached to over 160,000 deaths. But the point for us, going forward, is that it is what it never should have been, and it is going to be the opposite of what it is now. It had better be. 

Which was exactly my takeaway from night one of the Democratic Convention. I already know what Michelle Obama thinks, and that I -- and most people I associate with -- agree wholeheartedly. What I don't know is how many Republicans will come out and speak, and how loudly they will speak, and to whom. What I don't know is whether Bernie's steadfast followers heard -- or will heed -- his message, powerful and timely as it may be, this time around. What I don't know is whether, despite all our best efforts and intentions, corruption and cheating and in-your-face lawlessness will again win out. Whether we will settle for the promise to do no further harm from a postmaster general who knows he has to face Katie Porter next week. Whether  the Cowards (formerly known as Republicans in the Senate) will be able to convince people that the Intel Report finding Russian collusion with the Trump campaign actually found no collusion with the Trump campaign. Whether Bill Barr will abandon all pretense of ethics and deliver his teased October surprise. And whether the news media will continue to air uninterrupted lies, as if they are news. 

It is what it is, and it sucks. Bigly. The glossy production was all good, but the real work begins now. 

M.V.P. IT HAD TO BE YOU!

She's too pretty.

That's what somebody said to me back in the day, long before we knew how the Democratic primary would unfold. Had I thought the man saying it was sexist, I might have been offended, but I sort of got what he was saying. I've never heard anybody complain about a president being too handsome -- certainly not the current one -- but this is our culture. Handsome, good. Pretty, bad.  What is charismatic in a man is threatening in a woman, not just in the highest office in the land.

Well, things have certainly evolved since then. "Too pretty" has been replaced by "too ambitious." I admit I've had reservations about Kamala Harris, at least as a VP pick, but mostly because I think of her as a prosecutor, and I thought her talents could be better used elsewhere. I've watched in awe as she skewered the somehow un-skewerable powerful men who have come before her in the Senate. I soured on her during the campaign, but I soured on everybody during the campaign, particularly the ones who dared to expose any fissures in the party. Yes, my fear of another four years of hell is that great. 

Campaigns are like dating, sort of. People are much more likable when they're not angling for something. Politicians are always angling, but campaigns bring out angling on steroids. Still, even after Kamala threw her support to Joe, I liked her again but I had my reservations, thought she'd be far more useful as attorney general. With all the qualified woman in the "veepstakes," I thought there were plenty of fine alternatives. 

And then today arrived. And I heard today would be the day. And I took under advisement all the imminent lines of attack against all the others -- whether justified or not -- and I had my Kamala epiphany. Only moments before the news of the pick broke, I realized it had to be Kamala. She was the one and only right pick, the one who could excite people and check all the boxes and, perhaps most importantly, go on to skewer Pence in a debate and out-Teflon Teflon Don. He will throw all kinds of shit at her, and I am confident it will go splat, right back in his face. 

Shortly after the announcement, my friend texted to tell me she had opened a bottle of champagne and was toasting Kamala. Coincidentally, I had done the same. The news was more than a relief. It was cause for celebration. It was exciting. It gave me hope -- a thing in short supply these days. It gave me a glimmer of real light at the end of what has seemed like an endless dark tunnel. 

Yes, she is pretty. I admit it, I want my hair to look just like hers. Yes, she is ambitious. Duh. And she is smart, and she is tough, and she has proven that she can wipe the floor with some of the biggest shit-heads this administration has brought to bear on our country. And hopefully Maya Rudolph will revive her sultry Kamala on SNL. 

Here's to you Madame future Vice President, and to you, Mr. past Vice President, for making such a wise choice. Let's get this done.

Back to Earth

By the time I was fifteen years old, splashdowns had become a "thing." Maybe we'd hear about it, maybe we'd catch the the grainy and twitchy live footage on television. Manned space travel is about as old as I am; neither of us has ever known a world without the other. One of us never ceases to amaze, and I'm pretty sure it's not I.

Fast forward to the summer of 2020, when life on earth has become surreal, particularly in America, that hotbed of ingenuity that has somehow morphed into a cautionary tale of chaos born of complacency, a country at war with itself.  But splashdowns have come out of a decades long hiatus, and they could not have come at a better time. 

I flipped on the television and surfed through the channels, hoping for a little respite from handwringing pundits mulling over the latest unprecedented presidential outrages. Enter "SpaceX Dragon." I was transfixed. Transported, really, back to my childhood, watching with my father as the Dragon's precursors slipped out of the clouds and splashed down with precision, wondering each time how that was possible. I could imagine, back then, that a man (or woman) would walk on the moon, but I don't think I could have imagined what walking on earth would be like, in 2020. 

I watched as the capsule swayed beneath its four giant parachutes, seemingly suspended in place while it plunged with unimaginable speed toward the Gulf of Mexico. I could see the opaque haze of a hurricane staying fortuitously at bay in the distance. I watched as the rescue craft floated precariously close to the landing spot, thinking this was the mother of all trust exercises. I realized that, my own ambivalence about life on earth these days aside, the joy of return must have been unequivocal. I imagine these astronauts, like those before them, have the right stuff, the stuff they will need to cope with our earthly problems.  

Purity Tests and False Equivalencies, Redux

Standing in line for an ice cream cone on Wells Street the other day, I watched two young black men, who had been chatting amicably through a car window, begin to play wrestle. They were laughing, and it made me smile. Not so for a young white woman standing nearby, who turned even whiter and, with a look of abject terror on her face, scurried off with her cone. She glanced over her shoulder the entire time, at least until she was down the block and across the street and, frankly, I had lost interest. 

As a lifelong democrat and generally decent albeit flawed human, I am all about equality. I believe in our current reckonings, most of which were accelerated by the horrifying elevation of a misogynistic, racist, all-around abominable person to the highest office in the land. In the world, technically, before our fall from grace. 

I am not black, and cannot pretend to know what it feels like to walk in a black person's shoes. I cannot say, with certainty, that I would not have been tempted to scurry years ago, when my enlightenment may not have been in as advanced a stage as it is today. Five years from now, I may wonder whether I would have even noticed the men chatting on Wells Street, had they been white. 

I am a woman, and though, as a young attorney, I was called "honey" by a judge and even endured an occasional unwanted ass pat, I have never experienced the sort of vile and traumatic invasion of livelihood or personhood for which others seek -- and deserve -- an accounting. I am Jewish, but have never been a personal target of anti-Semitism. Though some Jews of a generation before mine found it difficult to buy a German car, I am inclined to forgive for the sins of the fathers, assuming lessons have been learned. When JFK protected black students entering the University of Alabama, he asked why a black man should have fewer rights than a white man. It did not occur to him, then, that the theory should apply to people of all genders, but that certainly does not undermine his legacy. 

So here we are, drowning in misguided notions of unattained ideals and unattainable purity. The well-intentioned @MeToo movement was immediately endangered by politically motivated false equivalencies. Exhibit A -- Al Franken. The long overdue @Blacklivesmatter movement was endangered by the carelessly worded "defund the police" slogan, hijacked by the usual suspects to suggest that we liberals are fighting for a lawless new world. Now, some are giving those same bad actors another gift, suggesting we topple monuments to founding fathers and cease to honor past leaders who lived long before civil rights legislation was even a thing. 

The time to honor the slave-owning founders of our imperfect union is past, wrote Lucian K. Truscott IV in an Op-Ed in the New York Times. Mr. Truscott is black, a great-grandson of a great-granddaughter of Thomas Jefferson and Sally Hemings, whom he owned. 

As a child, Mr. Truscott spent much time at Monticello, Jefferson's ancestral home; he and his brother viewed it as their family playground, and was told he would be buried there, as his ancestors -- black and white -- have been. Now, with statues of brutal confederate leaders being removed from public spaces, Mr. Truscott advocates that Monticello is monument enough, that the Jefferson Memorial in D.C. be taken down, replaced with a memorial to Harriet Tubman. He went on to explain: It’s a shrine to a man who famously wrote that “all men are created equal” in the Declaration of Independence that founded this nation — and yet never did much to make those words come true. 

Slave owning. Founders. Imperfect union. All men are created equal. Thomas Jefferson's slave-owning past has long been acknowledged. So have his accomplishments. I am not a historian, but this much I know: Jefferson was ahead of his time, an advocate for religious freedom and a loud and effective voice against tyranny. He was ahead of his time and a product of his time. He could not have imagined that "all men" would one day come to mean "all men and women, no matter their color, no matter their sexual orientation." Blacks were viewed as not fully human long after Jefferson died, and we have not yet come close to achieving full equality for all, no matter how far we think we have progressed. Our imperfect union continues to evolve, and remains far from perfect. 

Mr. Truscott, I get what you're saying, and I would love to see a monument to Harriet Tubman -- and countless other heroes and heroines -- standing prominently in our nation's capital. But we need to keep our eye on the prize, which is, right now, our collective soul. Which means honoring the visionaries of our past who have, in their inherently flawed human way, moved us forward. Which means getting rid of the forces of evil now in power, who seek to push us back. Creating a purity test, either for those who live now or those who lived long ago, does not serve us well.