It feels as if we’ve all lived another year since RBG died, which was, in fact, just a few weeks ago. Since then, we have learned, conclusively, that the “president avoided paying federal income tax in 10 of the 15 years preceding his election. In 2016, he paid $750 in federal income tax, less than one night’s stay in a suite at the Trump International Hotel in Washington, D.C.” And yet he also received a $72+ million refund.
We watched, not ten days after RBG died, as the GOP, too many of whom are classless power-grabbers, printed “Notorious ACB” shirts as if Handmaiden Amy Coney Barrett could possibly, in any way, deserve that moniker.
We watched as her nomination party turned into the grotesque superspreader spectacle it was in that person after person has since tested positive for COVID-19, including trump, melania, kellyanne, kayleigh, stephen, thom, mike, and ron, paragons of honesty and class every one.
We watched as the US reached the 215,000+ dead mark but trump flew Marine One back to the White House after just three days at Walter Reed Hospital on our dime, and in care of an osteopath who sounds like a complete and scripted fool, to demean every death and every struggle by saying that Covid is just not that bad. Man up, and you’ll be fine. The dismissive cruelty and privilege in that is stunning.
Meanwhile, I returned south to help my parents with more of their move, to celebrate my dad’s 70th, to try and keep some ship steady somewhere. Masked up, staying distant, hugging few, and feeling so far away from normal, I realized it has been more than 30 weeks since life changed so dramatically yet again. For the most part, the rest of the world is moving on, but here? Americans are all at home, those of us following the rules at the shitty mercy of idiot anti-maskers, disinformation, and, above all, the deranged man-child who will kill us all in his single-minded, selfish quest for power.
Our children are lonely, their educations at best a fraction of what they should be. We are all stressed to the nines in the best of circumstances; those facing illness, eviction, joblessness, hunger, and those in need and deserving of all form of insurance and support are in crisis mode. And, winter is coming.
The years since the 2016 election have felt like an eternity. A daily slog of exhaustion and stress and ugliness. It is taking a toll. The gray areas of nuance seem to be slipping into the far reaches of sparring corners. I see it on our neighborhood listserv as people yell back and forth in fairly anonymous screeds about leaf blowers, safety cameras, and the like. I see it in southerners who boast about their communal spirit and who do go above and beyond to help those who look like they do but then rage in blanket, dismissive disgust about all who don’t. I see it in parent communities all.the.time. In those who feel competitive and in those who don’t, in those who grasp for a majority of the pie while stepping on others as they reach greedily forward. I feel it in myself and my anger and lack of reserve.
I know that none of this is new, but shit. Can’t we just take responsibility, appreciate fact, be kind, and go forth? Can we stop lying, cheating, and throwing others under the bus?
Tom and I just rewatched the Chernobyl series. If you haven’t yet seen it, I can not recommend it more. Tough? Yes. Important? Crucial.
“Every lie we tell incurs a debt to the truth. Sooner or later, that debt is paid…What is the cost of lies? It’s not that we will mistake them for the truth. The real danger is that, if we hear enough lies, then we no longer recognize the truth at all. What can we do then? What else is left but to abandon even the hope of truth and content ourselves instead with stories? In these stories, it doesn’t matter who the heroes are. All we want to know is who is to blame.”
27 days. Vote!
