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. 

This Claim About Election Fraud is Disputed

 This claim about election fraud is disputed. This is how Twitter takes a stand, in a pale robin's egg blue, underneath the bold faced lie, in prominent black font. Oh, sure, there's a little > to the right of it, just in case any Kool-Aid consuming guzzler of Trump tweets is also inclined to read more than 280 characters, lower case. Two barely connected circles on a Venn diagram, I'd guess. 

I've heard that a lie travels around the globe while the truth is putting on its shoes. Especially when the truth is an afterthought, in pale robin's egg blue. I'd suggest an all caps THIS IS BULLSHIT at the top, but that's about as likely as an elected GOP'er doing the right thing, including his or her job.  

The Supreme Court has spoken, without much elaboration to be sure, but at least it has done what, in times gone by, would have been a no-brainer, even though these days it had a lot of us on edge. But still, the next morning, with even the most zealous of the Supremes on board with the truth, there it was, a tiny footnote to a Trump tweet: This claim about election fraud is disputed. > The lie is on a whirlwind tour, and the truth is still barefoot. 

I flipped on CNN, and there was some GOP congressman, one of the seditious amicus signatories, responding to a question about proof. I'm paraphrasing, but he indicated he has no proof that anyone ever landed on the moon either, because he wasn't there. Good one. I'm willing to bet this doubting Thomas believes in virgin births and the resurrection and ascension of a carpenter's son, whose message of peace and love reasonably translates into a message of hate and division, but I suppose we're all entitled to our own leaps of faith. 

So, speaking of the media (and religion), Jesus Christ, stop it! Stop letting these elected "leaders" come on the air and suggest that the only way to convince their moronic constituents that Trump lost is by promoting baseless claims and conspiracy theories and chalking up each smackdown to an ever growing list of deep-staters. If they're too cowardly and corrupt to speak truth to their constituents, why give them any more oxygen? 

And speaking of oxygen, we can't breathe. While the grifters and their minions get designer treatments on the taxpayers' dime, people are dying. While the grifters and their minions get out of jail free, regular people are starving. While the outgoing leader of the free world is feverishly trying to figure out how to avoid accountability for all his crimes, the investigation of Hunter Biden's taxes is a headline? Hunter Biden, the new Benghazi.

Here's an idea. Focus on the newly minted Persons of the Year. The Guardians of the Year. The President Elect and Madame Vice President Elect, Dr. Fauci, the frontline health care workers. The folks who do their jobs, speak truth, and ignore the noise because they're actually too busy. It's not as sexy as reality TV, but reality will be a refreshing change of pace, at least for most of us. 

Thanksgiving in a Bubble

 

There's good news for turkeys this year. Lots of pardons in the works, I hear. And lots of birdless Thanksgiving menus, as we gather in our small bubbles and forego traditions, the ones we like and the ones we don't. 

For as long as I can remember, my family has gathered somewhere in Connecticut for Thanksgiving. Happily, the births and marriages have outpaced the deaths and divorces, and the walls in my cousins' dining room have appeared to inch ever closer to the edges of the growing table. The staples remain, with an annual fluctuation in side dishes and activities. The fried pickles, once a novelty, have become permanent. I can barely remember when we didn't spend hours watching the tortured progress, most of us from inside, of the deep fried turkey. The morning after run with my cousin is a thing of the past, as is the Friday shopping spree in a local boutique. The morning after indigestion is eternal.

I suppose we should be thankful for small favors this year. The weary travelers won't have to be weary. The exhausted hosts won't have to be exhausted -- or at least they will share the burden. We have all managed to survive 2020, so far, far flung as we are across the country and, yes, across the globe. We will still talk loudly over each other this year, but on a Zoom call. When we are together, there is no mute button. 

There will likely be no turkey in my Thanksgiving bubble, though I am certain there will be lots of calories. I am bargaining with cousins for my favorite recipes, recipes that, apparently, are kept secret simply because the keepers don't wish to reveal the heart clogging ingredients that make them so good. My cousins did send me a frozen version of my favorite Thanksgiving treat, and I have been warned that I must share with my bubble. How well they know me, after all these years. 

Pandemic Thanksgiving, I suppose, will remind us of all that should make us thankful. That the usual suspects are well, and that we are able to toast each other from our satellite bubbles. That somehow, despite wildly divergent time zones and nap times (including mine, as my cousin pointed out), we will still be together. That my almost 90 year old mother is figuring out Zoom. That my favorite delicacies await, in the freezer. That at a time when pardons are becoming all the rage, turkeys will be the beneficiaries. 

That we will, hopefully, convene next year in person, if only for a day, and share war stories from a blissfully distant 2020. 

Days of Reckoning

    I tried hard, at first, to turn off the news, but I couldn't do it. It's as if it had become my cross to bear, my penance for settling happily into my insulated corner of the universe, refusing to believe there were so many "others" out there. I flipped channels, checked on Twitter, responded to the incessant beeps from friends texting their despair. As if sharing it would somehow make it go away. 

    In the wee hours, when the news broke of Biden eking ahead in Wisconsin, I finally closed my eyes. Briefly anyway. I hung on to the encouraging words of pundits, comforted myself with my firmly held notion that Biden's campaign crew had been making all sorts of good decisions, and this would be okay. I even hold out hope, now, that Biden can win, but my despair is palpable. Millions of Americans cast a vote for a cruel, corrupt, criminal, and incompetent poor excuse for a human who had devoted the past four years to revealing himself (to anyone who hadn't noticed) as a cruel, corrupt, criminal, and incompetent poor excuse for a human. 

    The finger pointing has begun. The pollsters screwed up. We didn't pick an exciting candidate. Biden said a stupid thing at the last debate. We forgot about the Cubans. Well, sure the pollsters screwed up, but that didn't cause the mess; it only enhanced the crushing disappointment. It's why I'm such a big fan of low expectations. An exciting candidate? Because progressives were too bored to vote for our only alternative to fascism? Shame on them, if that's true. Biden said a stupid thing? Has he incited violence, given the nod to gun-toting American terrorists, caged children, denied climate change, disparaged the entire medical profession, lied about, well, everything? And we knew damn well what the Cubans were thinking. We didn't forget; we just brushed aside. They are, after all, brown people, and we assumed they would know better.

    I woke up yesterday feeling optimistic. It was a beautiful day, I had finally convinced my conscientiously objecting Republican friend that he needed to cast his vote, even if it wouldn't matter in Illinois. I remembered my theory that RBG had chosen to leave us on the eve of the Jewish High Holidays so she could guide us from a heavenly bench. I put on my brand new Kamala-esque Chucks and even had a spring in my step.

    The counting continues and we just don't know. We don't know when we'll know. But what we do know is that an astounding number of people who live in the clearly inaptly named shining city on a hill cast their precious votes for, well, a cruel, corrupt, criminal, and incompetent poor excuse for a human who had devoted the past four years to revealing himself as a cruel, corrupt, criminal, and incompetent poor excuse for a human. 

    We have our work cut out for us. The problem isn't the pollsters or Joe or fracking or even our forgetting about the Cubans, though that's the closest. It's about the messaging. We knew what message the Cubans were being fed, and we left it alone. And we've known what messages all the folks are being fed out there, outside our bubbles, by propaganda spreading news empires that have cornered those far-flung markets. While we were sleeping. Or seeking self-affirmation. Or calling people stupid and racist and greedy. I'm as guilty as anybody. 

    The work starts now, even if Biden pulls through. There's a whole country, out there and right here, that needs fixing. 

The Hail Handmaid Pass

There is a difference between smart and judicious. They are not mutually exclusive, but by no means do they always walk hand in hand. 

Before RBG was even buried, the tainted wheels of the Senate GOP began a particularly unseemly and jubilant roll toward erasing her legacy and staining her well-earned and well-occupied seat. Worse still, a woman -- a woman -- willingly accepted the high honor that she, smart as she is, had to know was bestowed upon her only for ideological expediency. Her nomination was unprincipled, her confirmation hearing a sham, her swearing in a fait accompli. 

I would venture to say I am not as nearly as smart as our brand new justice, certainly not as ambitious. I also admit I have not always been judicious, but, for that, I have been exceedingly apologetic and overly plagued by regret. Who would turn down a nomination to the Supreme Court? someone asked me the other day. I'd like to think I would, if it were so obviously and publicly ill-gotten. Premised on utter hypocrisy that will forever stain her credibility and reputation, at the very least she should be ashamed. 

But, more importantly, smart and accomplished as she may be, she has shown herself to be decidedly non-judicious. Not "having, showing, or done with good judgment or sense," to put a finer point on it. Maskless at a Rose Garden tea party, proudly accompanying the vile man who nominated her -- a man whose life itself is anathema to her own extreme views -- on a Mussolini-esque balcony to celebrate her (and his) illegitimate rise to power. 

There are plenty of really smart people out there, but judiciousness, that's what really matters, isn't it, when you're about to spend the rest of your life on the once revered highest court in the land? 

I have yet to see anyone willingly turn down a nomination to the Supreme Court, but I have seen, in the past few years, many "lesser" beings risk their careers -- and their safety -- for a greater good. Many of these woefully unsung heroes have faded from public view and have suffered for their righteousness. For their "judiciousness." But history will, and should, treat them kindly, and they, unlike our newly minted justice, have a right to hold their heads high, and to never feel shame. She clearly does not feel any shame, but she should. 

I hold out a faint hope that the weight of her new seat, RBG's seat, will guide her as she holds the fate of so many in her hands. If precedent is any indication, I'm not optimistic. Just read Justice Beer-Brain's Trump-licking opinion on counting ballots in Wisconsin. 

Hope springs eternal, but, direspectfully, I dissent. 

Life Behind the Mask

Over the past seven months, I've stopped torturing myself with the pros and cons of fillers and Botox and other costly promises of feigned youth. Masks do have their perks. I'm afraid, sometimes, of once again living unveiled; sure, I'd like to keep the wrinkles under wraps, but I've also become quite accustomed to relying only upon my eyes to convey what I'm really thinking. The windows to my soul have become ambiguous, and I like it that way. 

I live in one of those "Democrat-run" cities (redundant, I know), where people either mask up or give you an extra wide berth when they pass. I ran back up to my apartment this morning, a fistful of sweatshirt pulled over my mouth and nose, mortified that I had forgotten my mask. It rests under my chin when I dine out, doubling as a crumb catcher until someone approaches and it rises up to do its day job. We queue up for the elevator, cognizant of the two per ride limit yet still asking if someone minds if we join. Oddly, we've become increasingly polite while we treat others as if they have the plague. 

Twice this month I had intended to finally go east and see my mother, pandemic be damned. Twice, my trip has been cancelled, first due to forces beyond my control, and more recently because it just didn't seem right -- for me, for my mother, for all of us, really, who have tried so hard to follow the rules and don't want to make things worse for everyone else. One  inadvertent slip-up; a chance encounter; a missed hand wash; a lurking droplet. I'm angry that so many have been reckless, and I don't want to relinquish my right to self-righteousness. 

Through two or three degrees of separation, I know of people who have been sick, and I know of people who have died. It's difficult to believe it's real, though, when it hasn't hit home, but still, I can't erase the images of body bags stacked up in the streets of New York. Governor Cuomo and renowned scientists have slipped off the radar, and we are bombarded with images of a president who preaches to an adoring audience that can't quite grasp the concept of a common good. 

Come to think of it, as the circus continues in full swing and the virus spikes, the president and his enablers have removed their masks while their endless misdeeds have slipped beneath the radar. The rampant corruption, like the rule-abiders and community-minded among us, has become veiled, masked. What of the overt lies? What of the grifting? What of the damning tax returns we know about, and the lord-knows-how-damning tax returns we have yet to see? What of the voter suppression and the racism and the stories that Jeffrey Epstein neglected to take to his grave? What about, what about, what about? Out of sight. Like my wrinkles. 

There is so much wrong right now, and as much as I mask up and keep my distance and wash my hands, there is no end in sight. But the seemingly forgotten treachery, like my wrinkles, will out again. 

Tzadek, Tzadek, Karma

I am not generally in the habit of wishing ill upon people, but I'm not gonna lie. I find it hard to feel anything resembling compassion for the newly infected POTUS and FLOTUS. They are vile. 

This is not to say the news made me happy. My first thought went to Joe Biden who, as it turns out, not only had to listen to 90 minutes of spewing bile but may also have been on the literal receiving end of the venomous spew. I was appalled when I watched the entire grifter clan remove their masks as they sat down, despite the guidelines set forth by the hospital hosting them. Little did I know they were doing far more damage than merely setting a poor example. 

I'm feeling a tad bit of pity for the rally-goers, the ignorant ones at least, the lemmings who have bought into the cries of hoax and the propaganda spread by Fox News. For the greedy ones and the haters, not so much. 

My new mask arrived yesterday, the one that says -- in Hebrew and English -- Tzadek, Tzedek, Tirdof. Justice, justice, shall you pursue. I ordered it after hearing that RBG had these words hanging on the wall in her chambers. Injustice. It's what keeps me awake at night, especially as November grows closer and the desperate corruption has reached a fever pitch. Masks are, in and of themselves, a statement. My new one adds an exclamation point.

Tzadik. It's another Hebrew term, another form of the word, really, that's been bandied about since RBG died on the eve of the Days of Awe. A title in Judaism given to people considered righteous. A person saved by God until the last minute, because we on earth needed her. NPR legal affairs correspondent and close friend of RBG Nina Totenberg tweeted just after midnight on that day: “And so it was that RBG died as the sun was setting last night marking the beginning of Rosh Hashanah.” But why take her when we needed her to hang on for just a few more weeks? 

RBG was indeed a Tzadik, a righteous woman, a dedicated pursuer of justice for the rest of us. Tzadik may be righteous, but karma is a bitch, and I'm starting to believe in both. 

My hope is that the president does not die this way. I would much rather see him, and his lackeys, prosecuted and imprisoned. I want to see those whose lives he has destroyed merely because they persisted, or spoke truth, made whole. I don't want anyone to die really. But I do want them to suffer the way far more than 200,000 Americans have suffered, not only the ones who succumbed but the ones who struggled and continue to struggle with the still unpredictable affects of this strange virus. And I want them to be exposed, to all those who have gulped down the Kool-Aid to the detriment of the rest of us.

Karma, because I'm feeling bitchy, and tzadek, because I'm honoring the righteousness that most of us can only dream about. My thoughts and prayers are real, but complicated.