Bracing For After

Maybe I always knew, deep down, that jeans and bras and wrinkle cream are unnecessary. And lip gloss. And hugs. And leaving the house.

For a loner and a comfort hound, the perks are alluring, and I'm not sure I'm all that prepared to give them up. It's been more than a year. Upwards of 525,600 minutes. A half-million deaths. I've been one of the lucky ones. I work from home anyway. I have a dog so I have to go out at least three times a day. I lost my father long before simply being elderly was dangerous. My mother, who just turned 90, survived the worst days in New York and has received her second vaccine. She has learned to Zoom. Pretty much everybody in my orbit is fine. Even though we can't hug.

Some years are more ordinary than others, and my Covid year was as ordinary as they get -- no school-aged children, no missed graduations, no lost college years, no weddings to plan and then re-plan, no new grandchildren not to hold. No Zoom calls with dying parents. No lost employment. A solid and loving bubble to help keep me sane. Ish. I turned 61. As nondescript an age as there can be. I had eked in a 60th birthday blow-out months before it all started. I had gone to New York to celebrate my mom's 89th, celebrated at one of the last "real" weddings, even squeezed in a vacation with a week to spare.  

My friend's mom, in her nineties, told her that when she got her second vaccine, she felt as if it was the first day of the rest of her life. Yes. For her, and for my own mom, the rest seems particularly precious.  Theoretically, they don't have the luxury of enough time to make this year, this 525,600 plus minutes, become nothing more than a blip. Theoretically. My mom wants to put on her elegant clothes and have her hair done and put on make-up and go out. She has worked hard, all these years, to be healthy and active and always beautiful, and she has earned the right to enjoy what she enjoys. She has earned the right to be in a room with her daughter so they can breathe the same air. To be three-dimensional. To be within reach. 

I cannot wait for that, even though I'll have to wear a bra and put on make-up and wrinkle cream and leave the house. And zip up jeans. Be careful what you wish for, I suppose. We all have much to look forward to, but for the people who have suffered the most during this extraordinary time, I hope the recovery is equally extraordinary.

But for us more ordinary folks, for whom this has been more of an inconvenience than a tragedy, it is time lost, time that cannot be recovered. I would gladly trade my sweats to take those precious minutes back, time to do whatever it is I liked to do, before.

Truth Laced with Kool-Aid

Yesterday, I was drawn into a comment war on a friend's Facebook post. My friend had voiced what so many of us were feeling the morning after, the shock, the horror, the despair. He, like most of us, was not saying anything new or particularly insightful. Like most of us, he was seeking whatever it is we seek when we come together in a community of shared grief. A virtual shiva call. 

I won't go into the details, but there was at least one snide challenge, the "whataboutism" kind of challenge to which we have all become accustomed. As if condemnation of a mob of largely white thugs unleashed upon our Capitol by our president -- our president -- meant we believed looting and violence over the summer were perfectly all right. I tried to explain the concept of false equivalency, that the particular protests to which the guy had referred were peaceful, and that I will always support that sort of thing, whether or not I believe in the cause. He told me he disagreed, and I was happy to let it go. 

Someone I know of but don't really know picked up the thread. Again, I won't go into the details, but the gist of her contributions was this: four prominent Democratic women have incited violence, and, at long last, the righteous, the downtrodden, the always victimized real Americans had justifiably snapped. And she had evidence; a montage of four pictures, each one of a woman (only one of them white and named Nancy) caught in some version of a scowl, superimposed upon a backdrop of what appeared to be hellfire, captioned by a quote. Images of Nazi propaganda sprung to mind, the evil and hideously long-nosed Jew counting money. Your money.

She was outraged by my suggestion that the images were inflammatory propaganda, and insisted I do some research, because "they really said those things." I had little doubt that they said those things, within some unknown context, with some different facial expression, without towering infernos raging behind them. It took about a minute to confirm my hunch, and I sent her the link to the fact check. She had no need to read it, she told me. She knows the truth. 

The truth laced with Kool-Aid. It's infuriating, but, again, I let it go. Why bother? Why bother on Facebook, anyway, on someone else's post, someone who was simply seeking to grieve in a shared community. But if we let it go, how do we bridge the divide? After all, all of our truths are laced with something. 

What we call Trumpism has existed for ages, and will survive the impending fall of this deeply flawed man who grifted his way into our national consciousness. Could it be that we owe him a bit of gratitude, for showing us what we had for so long failed to see? 

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.