Politics

I Don’t Know How to Do This: aka, How ’bout them Mets

Table for One

Like any good New Yorker, I’m no stranger to angst and internal conflict. But damn, this fall–barely begun–and I already feel like I’ve never been so conflicted outside of my navel gazing sessions. Obviously, I’m talking about this election cycle. I’m sick of this, everywhere you look it’s been all-Trump all-the-time for a year already. Again, New Yorker here, I was sick of Trump and his unique brand of gild and tarnish long before he officially threw his hat in the ring. Mrs Fringe, while always intended to cover relevant political discussions, wasn’t meant to be a political blog. But how can we not discuss this? And therein lies the problem. How will I sit across the dinner table from friends who support/supported Trump without a) puking and b) having my head explode?

Let’s start with an olive tray.

As any regular readers know, I’ve always prided myself on choosing not to live in an echo chamber, having friends with a variety of beliefs, lifestyles, and values. It’s a good thing, keeps me thinking, keeps me making informed decisions, not just spouting rhetoric. Now, though, now I’m questioning this. I’d like to interject one thought here, I have some friends on the left who are painting Trump supporters with the proverbial broad brush, “evangelical right wingers.” For the most part, in terms of people I actually know, that isn’t who I’m seeing supporting him. I’m not religious, but have friends who are devout, and they will not support Trump because they see him as the antithesis of religious values. I see him and the Trump/Pence ticket as the antithesis of any value system that prizes humanity, let alone ethics.

Amuse-bouche of fried tofu with truffle oil

Putting aside bombastic slogans about making America great again, let’s take a look at Trump and Pence, what each of them stands for, things they’ve said and done. Donald Trump continually makes misogynistic statements about women. When these types of statements are made over and over again, he didn’t misspeak, these are his beliefs. He thought he should be lauded for not attacking Hillary Clinton because of her husband’s extramarital shenanigans. During the debate. I guess I’m slow, because I just don’t see how this has anything to do with the qualifications of Hillary Clinton to be President of the United States, or her policy positions. Yesterday, we got to hear about this little gem. Oh yes, let’s expand rape culture by voting into the office of President a man who believes mauling women is his right. Because money, and dangly bits. He believes Planned Parenthood, an organization that he admits helps millions of women, should be defunded. The only logical conclusion I can make here is that he doesn’t want women to be helped. Or healthy. Of course, let’s not forget his quote that women who have abortions should be punished. Pence, of course, isn’t just talking, he has a track record, strongly pro-life, his record includes restricting women’s rights in Indiana, he is strongly pro-life, has also voted against stem cell research, and voted against 4 weeks of paid family leave for federal employees.

Carrot and ginger soup garnished with slivers of pickled pig snout

One social area where Trump isn’t completely awful is gay rights. But don’t breathe that sigh of relief just yet, first take a long hard look at Mike Pence. The man who voted “no” on enforcing anti-gay hate crimes. My personal favorite *gag* is his history of advocating for tax dollars to fund conversion therapy. Yanno, that debunked, bullshit pseudoscience that claims gay people can be “reformed.”

Frisee salad, wilted with grapefruit sections and broccoli rabe–because this dinner can’t be too bitter.

Trump is a proponent of racial profiling. Despite actual evidence, he thinks stop and frisk is fabulous; again, something he wants to expand. What’s that, he’s not racist? I’m being too politically correct? Claimed a judge would be biased because of the judge’s Mexican heritage, has been sued more than once for not renting to black people, failed to reject the support of the Klu Klux Klan. He’s still blahblahblah about that hypothetical wall between us and the Mexican border (worked so well for Berlin), he wants to ban Muslim immigrants, and from his plexiglass, gold-plated bubble, “Syrian refugees are a Trojan horse,” because helping desperate, starving people trying to live and be free to practice their religion and work is not the American way. Owait. Yup, must be me, he isn’t racist at all.

Roasted boar with red beans, oranges and bok choy

Trump thinks not paying federal taxes makes him smart. Hmm. In some respects, as a businessman, I suppose it certainly does make him savvy. But the position of President isn’t equivalent to CEO, it’s about representing the interests of the people of our so-called democracy, not further lining his pockets. Please, someone explain to me how anyone can believe Trump supports veterans and the military when he believes not paying the taxes that fund veterans and the military is something to brag about. When he continually disparages the sacrifices made by veterans and their families? He says “no one respects us,” in reference to other countries. I can certainly see the US losing respect by the day, the longer Trump has supporters.

Buccatini with parmesan and rainbow peppercorns

What’s that, dear? Oh, jobs, yes, Trump will bring back all the jobs. And that, after all, is a real concern for real Americans, not theoretical loss of civil rights, we’re worried about our paychecks. And he’s a businessman. Oh yes, his successful businesses with multiple bankruptcy filings, that is an excellent model for the United States. His long history of reneging on contracts, not paying contractors the agreed upon fees. What? You think I will address (again) his lies about bringing manufacturing jobs back to America when his own companies continue to exploit tax loopholes by manufacturing their products outside of the US? Mike Pence believes those pesky regulatory burdens are economy killers? No worries, we’re having a civilized dinner, imaginary dishes to go with all these imaginary jobs.

Aged gouda with smoked pepitas and macadamias

Both Trump and Pence dislike the Affordable Care Act (ObamaCare), and would love the opportunity to repeal it. It certainly is far from perfect, I can agree, but it’s a whole lot better than what we had before, with millions more people uninsured and people who wanted health insurance unable to get any because of preexisting conditions. Mike Pence has voted No on giving mental health full equity with physical health, voted No on expanding the Children’s Health Insurance Program, voted Yes on denying non-emergency treatment for lack of Medicare Co-Pay. Oh yes, this is exactly who we need. Yesterday I read about this incident. Certainly, it wasn’t Trump or Pence who sent this epileptogenic video to this journalist with epilepsy–but I didn’t hear them immediately denouncing it, either. Epilepsy, a potentially fatal disorder that has its own place at the dinner table in my home. Talk about triggers– I read that article and flashed on every time I’ve watched my daughter turn gray and stop breathing. Life and health are overrated, aren’t they? Unless of course you’re male, white and wealthy enough that you can pay out of pocket for any and all health expenses. If you’re fortunate enough not to have extensive experience with health care costs, let me tell you, someone has to be extraordinarily wealthy to pay out of pocket, working class/middle class won’t cut it.

Apple pie in lard crust with salep dondurma and espresso

Sorry, I don’t have the patience for a twenty-three course meal, and if I tried to hit all of the important positions this post would be 14,000 words long. The offerings in my imaginary meal are bizarre, you didn’t imagine it. They reflect the bizarre twists and justifications I’m seeing in defense of Trump and in defense of Trump supporters. Over the last few days, I’ve heard a lot of talk from friends who lean left (the way I do) as they try to preserve friendships by tempering statements about “deplorables” by saying they don’t believe all Trump supporters are deplorable, they’re regular people who are nice, just afraid or misguided. I understand that. I don’t have that many friends, the majority of those friendships I have are treasured, steeped in mutual history, shared experiences and laughter. But when someone supports Trump, and I think of my dinner table, I lose my appetite. Who sits at my dinner table? My family, my in-laws, my friends. A diverse group that includes people of many ethnic backgrounds, skin colors, socio-economic status, varying faiths and lack thereof, different sexual orientations, differently abled. When you support Trump, you are making a public statement that you don’t believe women are human beings, equal in any way to men, let alone entitled to feel physically safe. When you support Trump, you are saying you don’t believe in gay rights. When you support Trump, you are saying you don’t believe people of color are deserving of the same respect and opportunities, the same safety, as white people. When you support Trump, you are saying you don’t believe my daughter or my husband deserve to have health insurance. You are saying it’s a-okay for my loved ones to leave my dinner table and be stopped and frisked, threatened, harassed, for daring to have lives.

This isn’t like any other election year, the Trump/Pence ticket isn’t like any other Republican offering. You don’t get to say, “well, I like his tax plan,” and ignore the complete lack of humanity, lack of integrity, ignore his intention to repeal the rights of everyone who doesn’t think and act like Trump, repeal freedom of the press under the guise of calling out “mainstream media bias.” If you are supporting Trump/Pence, you are allying yourself with the ticket supported by the KKK. Think about that, the motherfucking Klu Klux Klan. We are the company we keep.

It’s a Secret–Pass It On!

Everyone loves a secret, no need for truth or facts. The secret to weight loss, the secret to finding love, the secret to making money, the secret to success, the secret to being happy. If it’s big and juicy enough, it reaches conspiracy status–and there’s nothing Americans love more than a good conspiracy.

When Art Child was a toddler, she had a doll she loved above all 9,563 others. It sang, “¡Yo tengo un secreto y tu no sabes!” in a teasing voice, no mistaking the inflections whether you speak Spanish or not. I’ve got a secret and you don’t know it. Oh yeah, she loved that doll, almost as much as the other patrons in the local Dominican cafe loved seeing her with it, until the 138th time she pressed the button. The worst part? I bought the damned thing. What was I thinking? Not just the annoyance factor, but the message. ~~Thankfully~~ Sadly, the doll was lost at some point, just another casualty on the pyre of toys designed to torture parents.

Donald Trump is that doll minus the pigtails, and there are way too many Americans gleefully pushing his belly to hear him taunt. As I and many others have said, that’s the problem–not that he is who he is, and spouts the disgraceful, empty nonsense he does, but that he has god only knows how many supporters who are getting a thrill from watching the rest of us cringe. Actually I suspect a good number of his supporters are certain he’ll be having lunch with Elvis before taking the debate stage this evening. Because secrets! Conspiracy! And Donald’s going to tell us the truth, because nothing says honesty and integrity like someone who blatantly, repeatedly lies to paint the picture he wants to see.

I want to be fair, so let me share that it isn’t only on the far right that we’ve got gleeful conspiracy theorists singing about the moon landing being faked, the Holocaust was a lie, and of course, Obama is a secret Muslim who showed a fake birth certificate. Oh no, we’ve got our share on the left side of the political spectrum also, those who are certain Tupac and Jim Morrison will be sitting a few tables down from Trump and Elvis, cling to the belief vaccines cause autism, and share theories with those on the right about 9/11 coverups and the aliens in Area 51. Aaah, such a warm feeling in the pit of my stomach–pride in my fellow citizens, oh wait, no, it’s nausea.

Secrets and conspiracies–bet you can’t eat just one! And let’s go ahead and dip them in some delusion sauce while we’re at it. Those residing on the far right believe the lying, blustering, unqualified candidate who is Trump will save them. Yes, save them; cure their ills, make them rich, give them jobs, put all those pesky brown people in their proper place and show those dumb libs what the Constitution really means. Those residing on the far left are saying wonderful! Let him win, it doesn’t matter, Clinton is an equally poor choice, and besides, if he wins there will be a revolution on the streets and in three days’ time we’ll have taken the nation and all its riches back, distributing them to all those poor, unfortunate, ignorant souls who need us to save them.

Why am I writing now, at 5am on the day of the first Presidential debate, when I know my fingers will be itching to rant again by 10PM tonight? Because this has been such a horrific, unprecedented election cycle I don’t think the debates matter. Clinton will be fabulous, this is exactly where she can and does shine. Ok, maybe not like Obama, but still. She’s informed, she’s experienced, she knows how to keep her cool and speak well. Trump will be Trump, he’ll have no real plans to offer, he’ll bellow and attack while continuing to lie and going on the offense if anyone dares to call him on his lies. And his supporters won’t care. Regardless of what he does or doesn’t say, they’ll be crowing and trumpeting his “truth”, declaring him the clear winner.

Trump has spent his entire adult life selling hollow secrets, he became the Republican candidate by selling conspiracies. He’s good in front of a camera, he appeals not to our ever-changing American Dream, but to our American Fantasy of winning lottery tickets. He’s the American Id. In another time in America’s past, he’d have been under a tent selling snake oil. Let’s stop buying, shall we? Think about it, this is a man who’s telling you he’s going to give jobs back to the American people, he’s a successful businessman who knows how to do this, after all. So successful he’s declared bankruptcy three times, and he has indeed provided thousands of jobs–in other countries. When called on it, he said this stuff isn’t manufactured in the US anymore. Not true, some of it is, and more of it could be, if businesses like Trump’s weren’t putting profit above people.

We are a nation confused by its own adolescence, screaming that we don’t need childish toys and distractions while we paradoxically hold tight to them, trying to prove how very grown up we are by doing so.

This singing doll isn’t just a nuisance that gets on your nerves, it’s already leaking battery acid, in the form of millions of supporters for the rhetoric of fear, hatred, and greed. Leaking now, it’s too late to just dump it in a pile of abandoned toys. That acid is staining our political process, corroding the very freedoms Trump claims he’s going to provide.

How will we do this? I’m not sure. We’re certainly beyond pretending Trump is an isolated wing-nut. And it isn’t just within the boundaries of our country that we need to worry about. Which, of course, his supporters are loving–because there’s some confusion about the difference between respect and fear, authority and authoritarianism. For most of those supporters at the Trump rallies, he has validated, legitimized, and fed their fears and hatred so they haven’t cleaned up this acid leak, but instead spread it. I don’t know how to get rid of it, but I know for sure the first step has to be Trump losing in November. How about we put fear on hold, and begin with self-respect? If not it won’t matter which secret you were hoping to hear or what conspiracies you find intriguing, we will all lose.

The Line Keeps Moving

We Need to Talk About Kevin is one of my top ten novels, always comes to mind when someone asks for a recommendation.

This morning, as every morning, after my yoga I sat in front of the laptop and started cruising the news. I don’t read any one paper/site cover to cover; I hop around, the HuffPo, The Guardian, New York Times, Politico, and any links popped up overnight on my Facebook feed that catch my eye. And so I saw the headline for this essay in The Guardian, and got excited. (As excited as I get at pre sunrise, only on my second cup of coffee.) I am a huge fan of Lionel Shriver, as evidenced by the photo above. Over the past few years I’ve gotten rid of the majority of my paper books–surprisingly liberating–but I keep a couple of shelves worth, a selection or two or three showcasing authors I worship or individual volumes that have had a huge impact on me, as a person and/or as someone who writes.

When I read the essay, my first thought was, “oh, fuck.” It’s about the author’s response to part of a speech given by Lionel Shriver, about identity, cultural appropriation, what is or isn’t ok for an author to explore through their fiction. When I love an author’s work, I want to be one hundred percent devoted to them in every way. I want them to be the giants I’ve built them up to become in my mind, I want to have faith as I learn more about them that this is someone I’d enjoy having conversations with over tea, coffee, or a glass of wine. Silly, isn’t it? Especially silly when I’m someone who still harbors occasional fantasies of being published (well published!), and yet here I am running this blog: Mrs Fringe of the colorful language, big mouth, strong opinions, and anything but neutral political leanings. I have no doubt there are many who would not enjoy having coffee with me, maybe even some of the same who enjoy my words when they’re fiction. I’m the first to admit not everyone finds my sense of humor charming. General publishing wisdom–common sense, really–dictates that anyone hoping to earn a dollar from strangers shouldn’t do anything to actively offend anyone.

The thing is, I’m a person, first and foremost. That’s what Mrs Fringe is about, being a person who wears many hats, plays many roles; complete with disappointments, laughter, mourning, screw-ups, nonsense, inappropriate thoughts, offensive-to-some language, a desire to be heard and understood, a desire to learn and understand more, a desire to connect with others. Kinda like, oh, say…fiction. And the authors of said fiction. Yes, it’s imaginary characters and made up scenarios, but good fiction, enduring fiction, the kind of fiction Lionel Shriver writes, is uncompromising, unapologetic. She creates characters who are SO real, doesn’t hesitate to use her characters and scenarios to explore who we are as human beings, as a society, to use the mirror of fiction to examine the beauty, pain, and the ugly bits of what it means to be a whole person. Sure it’s uncomfortable, but it’s also riveting. This is the fiction that endures, because people are people–now, fifty years from now, two hundred years ago.

So I’m a person. So, apparently, is Ms. Shriver. And I read the essay, thinking about the author of the essay, her offense at Lionel Shriver’s remarks referencing how easily, too easily, people are offended now, the idea of political correctness. Her offense at the idea that a novelist can accurately and appropriately portray someone whose experience of life is vastly different than their own, i.e.: a white novelist writing a person of color, straight novelist writing LGBTQ characters, etc. Her interpretation of the novelist’s speech as arrogance–maybe it was, because I only have the author’s paraphrasing before she walked out twenty minutes into it, I don’t have enough information to give an informed opinion.

I want to be offended by her offense. But I’m not. The truth is, she has a point. Could a white male have written Their Eyes were Watching God, given the character of Janie Crawford the same depth, the same enduring honesty created by Zora Neale Hurston? Nope. Could In the Time of Butterflies, by Julia Alvarez, have been written by someone who isn’t Dominican, written in a way that allows the reader to come as close to feeling what it would be like living in the shadow of Trujillo as you feel reading her story of the Mirabel sisters? Nope. If a white author writes a black protagonist, I’m going to be skeptical, I’m going to be wondering about the character being written in a way that is not only not realistic, but wondering about the icky squicky line of that protagonist being written in such a way that it’s lecturing (subtle or not) the reader on how a person of color should be feeling in this imaginary scenario. Will that novelist be able to allow the reader to feel the enduring humanity while preserving the reality of life experiences through they eyes and thoughts of a protagonist who isn’t straight and white?

Lionel Shriver, as far as I could tell from the essay, had a point, too. If we are afraid to examine any but our own narrow viewpoint, so afraid of using the wrong words we stay silent, we will never understand a damned thing, and our worlds will shrink with the novels in front of us, rather than expanding. Female authors have written beautiful, powerful strong male characters and vice versa. What would seventh graders read if Harper Lee hadn’t written To Kill a Mockingbird? What are we teaching these future generations (*cue thinkofthechildren wail*) if they stop reading it because it might be triggering, or offensive to examine our society’s racism–past and present? You know what was amazing to me, about Shriver’s We Need to Talk About Kevin? Reading about her afterwards, and learning she isn’t a parent. My mind was blown. But maybe it shouldn’t have been. Maybe it’s because she isn’t a parent that she was able to take such a hard look at parenthood without turning the mother into a saint or a caricature of a villain (though not necessarily likable).

Would it be the same thing, a white author writing a protagonist who is Black, or Latino, Asian or Indigenous? No, but it also shouldn’t mean limiting characters to only those who experience life the same way the writer does. If it did I’d have to give up even fantasizing about having anything published. I can see it now, the NY Times Best Seller– Mrs Fringe Buys a Slow Cooker.

Cultural appropriation is a real thing, and it’s something we need to be aware of, and sensitive to. Maybe it’s harder for whites to understand because so much of the tradition of white, Christian culture involves the attempt to force it down the throats of everyone else. What the line is, exactly, I’m not sure. At the beginning of this post I referenced yoga. Is it cultural appropriation for me to practice yoga? I’m pretty sure I don’t have that Jane Fonda exercise tape anymore. Or a beta machine to play it on. Nerd Child tells me the Weeping Buddha statuette I have on my desk is cultural appropriation. I don’t know, it makes me feel better to touch it in the early morning, pretend that I really am letting go of any sadness and starting the day with a clean slate.

Mother of God with Child–Kuz’ma Petrov-Vodkin

I saw the above painting recently, wished I could have it hanging in my apartment. I’m far from a religious anything, let alone Russian Orthodox. It’s art, and what makes great art (visual, written, or other) is the creator’s ability to preserve the specific subject while transcending it, offering the reader/observer/listener a world outside of her own while tapping into the common themes we all share.

People don’t change, the human condition has had us exploring the same questions for hundreds of years. Society, though. Society changes. The words and language we use changes. What is acceptable changes. The line of what is or isn’t ok to do and say moves. Sometimes it moves quickly. It behooves all of us to remember this, and if we write, or read, or engage with the world in any way, it behooves us to remember this, like everything else that’s important, involves many shades of gray.

*Follow up: This morning I saw the transcript of Shriver’s full speech in The Guardian. I thought some of my readers might be interested, and as always, invite all to come back and comment here if you read it.

Fundamental

Titian (Tiziano Vecellio) around 1570, “The Flaying of Marsyas”

I was going to do a Part II post of our trip to The Met Breuer, but I’m going to do a bit of navel gazing instead. I’ll use a couple of the photos I took for something else that’s been on my mind. Recently I’ve heard and seen quite a few people referencing the concept of “fundamentally good.” As in, human beings are fundamentally good, love conquers all, good always triumphs over evil, etc. On both small (personal) and large (nations, international) scales. I’m…not so sure of that. Not saying human beings are fundamentally evil, or “bad,” but fundamentally flawed? Maybe. Look at a close up of the face from this painting, close to 500 years old:

Do you recognize it? That stare has been all over the news recently. Here. And it’s been here. Without war, here. No stare, but a story that’s yet to end here. I could go on, find 50 more examples without effort, but you get the point. I know I could just as easily find photos of hope and affirmation, and that’s why I don’t believe we’re fundamentally evil. But flawed? Yes.

As I type, there are about 1300 people, asylum seekers, including 50 children, being held in detention sites off the coast of Australia, in Nauru and Manus Island. Naturally, many horrific photos have recently come out of there. Crimes against humanity. Feeling smug, Americans? Don’t. And a little history.

A few months back, Donald Trump said he could look Syrian children (refugees) in the face and tell them they can’t come here. Because safety. And possibility, and terrorists. I’m certain I’ve read this story before. Oh gee, Trump has no compassion for others but a hyuuuuge sense of otherness. Yawn. Trump, his beliefs, his greed, not the issue. The issue is how many, and how many in positions of power and authority, support him and his ideas. How many voted for him, and will vote for him in November.

Is this current election cycle truly shocking, when we pull our heads out of the sand and look at history, both recent and ancient? Is the photo of 5 year old Omran Daqneesh (the little boy in the first link) truly shocking? Is it shocking to see the headlines about last week’s disastrous flooding in Louisiana are focused on which politicians (and political wannabes) have gone to visit and when, whether or not the displaced are getting first page coverage or third?

It is our human flaws that allow these things to occur. It is our human flaws that make us interesting. It is our human flaws that prompt us to strive for more, for better. But it’s our denial of these fundamental flaws, our insistence on not only closing our eyes but obscuring our vision and differences that keep us stuck, repeating history.

Anton Raphael Mengs, 1775, “Portrait of Mariana de Silva y Sarmiento, Duquesa de Huescar”

Can We Stop Now?

Shrouded

I didn’t want to do this. I didn’t want to write any more posts about shootings for a while. Not mass shootings, not shootings of police, not shootings by police, not the ever-confusing shootings of and by toddlers. The horror of the shootings that make headlines is how easy it is, for most of us, to understand that it could be any of us. To understand something has gone wrong in our society, in our schools, in our definition of protect and serve. That’s been made abundantly clear. But somehow, as these incidents continue and grow, instead of addressing how to fix things, real discussion is at a standstill, and there’s a divide the width of the Grand Canyon where it seems no one is listening: “Black Lives Matter!” “No, Blue Lives Matter!” Sigh.

I want to post about my continued quest for the perfect moon photograph, the sad state of my tank, summertime in the city, how frustrating it is to be a peasant, finding laughter in the absurdity of the everyday, blather on about writingnotwriting.

But here I am, again.

The victim didn’t die, there’s nothing to debate, it’s a blatant fuck-up. I don’t have the words for this one, thinking about it wraps my intestines tight around my shins and makes agoraphobia sound like an attractive alternative to stepping outside. A man with autism, in Florida, was upset and ran away from his group home. He didn’t run far, and his behavioral therapist found him sitting on the street playing with his toy truck. Someone called the police, reportedly stating something about an armed suspect threatening suicide. Maybe that’s what the caller honestly thought, maybe they were just frightened and freaked out by the man. Either way, when the police arrived, Charles Kinsey, the behavioral therapist from the group home, was sitting/lying on the street with him. In some ways I’ve been Charles Kinsey, and I know what he was doing, working to calm his client, set him at ease, and get him back home safely. It’s a hard, frustrating job that can shatter your heart ten times a shift while it simultaneously fills you with hope and appreciation for the small moments and subtlest of victories. It’s exhausting. But of course, I’m not a black man.

After the responding officers were told by Kinsey what was happening, told the supposed threat was a man with autism holding a toy truck (not “even” a toy gun), and Kinsey was lying on the ground with his hands up, one of those officers shot Kinsey in the leg. To keep everyone extra safe, after shooting three times, they rolled him over and handcuffed him. It’s ok, though, an honest mistake, the officer had intended to shoot the (white) man with autism. *sarcasm* Kinsey was trying to convince his client to lie on the ground, but his client was sitting and rocking, very very common amongst autistic people.

I don’t want to hear how police officers all over the country are extra jumpy because of the recent shootings of fellow officers. I understand that, and every shooting, fatal or not, is tragic for those directly involved and our greater community. I don’t understand a police officer so poorly trained that he would shoot at an unarmed man lying on the ground who had already explained what was happening. I don’t understand why we have police officers so poorly prepared to respond to calls in the community one would think for a second shooting at a vulnerable, mentally challenged, unarmed citizen (with what is now a common disorder) is an appropriate response. Who was he protecting? Who did he think he was serving? Excuses aren’t reasons, and excuses don’t erase repercussions.

Yes, in the chorus of recent shootings striking chords, this one is an off-key aria that terrifies me. It’s terrified many of my friends; one of our biggest fears, spoken or unspoken, playing onstage now under a merciless spotlight. With or without a diagnosis of autism, many neurological disorders come with a processing disorder. CAPD–Central Auditory Processing Disorder. Processing disorders mean physical hearing may not be impaired, but sounds and speech are easily muddied, resulting in delays understanding what is being said, often requiring calm, quiet, PATIENCE, visual cues and clues, and repetition. Thousands (maybe millions?) of children and adults have this disorder, it goes hand in hand with many learning disorders, autism, epilepsy, add/adhd, developmental delays, and sometimes it’s the result of medications slowing cognitive function. There are also several seizure types that leave the person seemingly aware, standing, sitting, maybe even walking and talking, but in fact the brain has “checked out” for a moment, or three, or ten. FYI, autism and epilepsy often go hand in hand. I’m not sure I have any fellow special needs mom friends whose children (regardless of age) don’t have either CAPD or a seizure disorder. Without autism, that client, the intended recipient of three bullets, could have been my child. Could be my child tomorrow. Could be any number of friends’ children; yesterday, today, tomorrow.

Stop pretending police officers are superheroes, or are supposed to be superheroes. We don’t need superheroes, we need human beings with critical thinking skills and compassion, who are trained in crisis management and deescalation skills at least as well as Charles Kinsey. We need law enforcement officers who recognize and acknowledge the difference–before firing their weapons–between an imminent threat to their lives and a pain in the ass who’s making them run, the difference between someone pointing a gun at them and a child or mentally challenged individual holding a toy. Stop pretending every day on every street in uniform in America is equivalent to being dropped into a war zone.

Yes, being a law enforcement officer is an often dangerous, always stressful job. I appreciate those who choose to take the risk and join their local force. I would appreciate adequate vetting and training even more. If we can not and do not feel safe teaching our children to approach law enforcement if they are in need, we can no longer pretend to be a democracy, we are broken. Shooting those who are unarmed, shooting at our most vulnerable citizens, is unacceptable. Period. Stop pretending this is protecting and serving anyone.

With Intent

I need a peaceful ocean pic this morning, the world outside my door feels too chaotic.

I’ve been writing this blog for close to 4 years. Over the past couple, my breaks have been more frequent, and often longer than they were initially. Part of me scolds myself, I should make more of an effort, but for the most part, I’m ok with it. Everything evolves, even a little drop in the cyberocean blog. And some of my slowdown has been specific, intentional. If you follow Mrs Fringe, you know I can be, umm, vehement. Excitable. Loud. Again, I’m ok with this. I yam who I yam and all that shit. But I don’t want to be reactionary. Obviously I don’t mean reactionary in the right-wing sense of the word, but in terms of just vomiting emotions through the keyboard about the issue or horror of the day without reason and perspective. A bit light on facts is okay, I’m not a journalist, I’ll provide links, do your research if you want to know more–but if I’m going to write about anything outside of my immediate four walls, there has to be some objectivity, even given the (more than safe) assumption that I’m always going to slant left.

I know some hear the phrase “with intent” and associate it with police procedurals and criminal charges. In my mind, “with intent” involves the choices we make about how to live our lives, what we’re working towards and who we want to be, as opposed to floating aimlessly or just scrambling to get by. I want my children to live their lives with intent.

So when Alton Sterling was shot in Baton Rouge three days ago, I didn’t immediately plant myself in front of the keyboard to yell about police brutality. I wanted to process what I was hearing first, get a few more facts. For some reason, despite the first, brief video all over the internet that showed him being shot, every link I clicked would freeze or not work at all, which helped with my intent to slow down and find out more information. I’ll be honest, after so many well publicized police shootings, my instinct was to assume he was shot because he was black. Even when I heard he had a gun. How many times have we seen this story play out? “He had a gun, I was in fear for my life…” Then video emerges–or eyewitnesses, videos being conveniently lost or malfunctioned–and it turns out the gun was a wallet, or a toy, or non-existent, or the suspect was shot in the back because he was running (or walking) while black. Then I read about a gang affiliation. Hmm, ok, if he was known to local police as gang affiliated and thought to be carrying a gun, maybe a step back is in order before screaming injustice. But our police are not supposed to act as judge, juries, and executioners–even if this was a bad guy, they aren’t supposed to decide his life is not worthwhile. Then the second, longer video emerged and I watched it. WTF? Does everyone in our country think we’re living inside a movie set? Maybe there was a gun in his pocket, but he was already pinned on the ground, already shot. Yes, his arm moved, but this isn’t an freaking blockbuster, and whatever Alton Sterling was, he wasn’t an action hero. He wasn’t in any condition to pull a gun out of his pocket, take aim, and shoot the police officers who were holding him down. Naturally, they shot him again.

I want to say, at least they had already called for an ambulance. I want to say how glad I am that Baton Rouge doesn’t seem to have hesitated or made an effort to block a federal investigation. But to hold those up as measures of progress is a smokescreen to divert focus from the fact that the police shot and killed a man they already had controlled and subdued.

Before I could process and begin drafting a post about this, Philandro Castile was shot during a routine traffic stop in Minnesota. Surprise! He was a black man. (If I’m going to be honest and disclose my own bias here, it’s that as a stereotypical New Yorker, I’m not sure I knew there were people of color living in Minnesota.) This horror of an incident couldn’t be worse. I don’t know how anyone can justify this shooting. Philandro Castile was in his car with his girlfriend and young daughter, no criminal history, worked at a Montessori school, for Pete’s sake. Montessori, the model of education based on respect, discovery, and inclusion. He was carrying a gun, for which he had a license, and disclosed this information to the police officer, the way he was supposed to. For doing the right thing, following the steps of the law and reaching for his license when asked for it, he was shot–four bullets–and killed. His girlfriend remained calm and live streamed the incident, and was arrested for it.

What could I possibly say about this incident that hasn’t been said and ignored ad infinitum in regards to the many, many police shootings in America? What could I possibly say that would be helpful to the black community, what would make sense to those who want to pretend we don’t have a huge problem in our police forces nationwide?

Protests occurred all over our country last night. Excellent. But with protests, there’s always fear. Will the protestors remain peaceful? Will the police? This next piece of news made me realize that my heart can, in fact, be more broken than it already was. I woke during the night to find Husband watching news reports of snipers in Dallas, Texas, who killed five police officers and injured several more. You know the way I said I want to have facts before speaking out? I don’t need the specifics here, these were snipers, no confusion, no other way to interpret what happened. This is wrong. It’s reactionary, it defies logic, it does nothing but inflame an already combustible situation. The same as I do not believe the answer to our problem with gun violence is more guns, I do not believe the answer to police violence is violence against the police. Anger and protests are justified, frustration is justified, murder is not. The same as I’m certain Philandro Castile was murdered, the same as it’s looking like Anton Sterling was murdered, the police officers last night were murdered.

I am afraid. I’m afraid for what comes next on a societal scale, I’m afraid on a personal scale. I’m afraid for my friends and family members, living their lives with intent, taking care of themselves, their families, their communities. Many of these friends and family members have brown skin and/or latino names. We, as a society, are living in fear. As a nation that loves to bluster about freedom, strength, and power, we should be better than this. The past week has been an American nightmare, it’s time for us to wake up, and live all of our lives, pass laws, make decisions, revamp and retrain our police forces, and move forward with intent and integrity.

Let’s Play!

I assume this is a bad hand, no aces or picture cards, no pairs.

I’m burnt out from the online political arguments. Tried distraction yesterday, went to the zoo (yes I did enjoy watching the gorillas, thankyouverymuch). That was nice, but not quite enough. Back to disgusted by 9pm last night. So this morning I was thinking, we need a game. A nice, game, old-fashioned yet modern. Naturally, LARPing came to mind. So much talk about the good old days, why not go back to them? Yes, everyone currently ranting, please join in. At first I thought everyone should play, but then, as I thought more about the premise, I decided that if I want to keep to the spirit being touted as proper American values–yanno, my rights and conveniences are of more value than those of my neighbors or society–I don’t have to give up my Housewives or torture myself into a corset.

What shall we call our game? Women in the Kitchen? Back of the Bus? We Don’t Need No Stinking Badges? Maybe we should just keep it simple, call it America. Though that might be exclusionary. How about, History–Revisionist Edition?

The 1930s. In thinking about what time period to choose, I wanted to be fair and really support those who are mourning lost values. I considered 50 years ago, but that leaves us at the beginning of the peace and love era, dirty hippies are certainly not pictured on the memes I see going around, and really, why distribute windowpanes to distance ourselves from this glorious trip down memory lane? 100 years ago? Hmm, that feels a bit too distant, electricity wasn’t common in American households until the ’30s, and it wasn’t until the 1920s that Congress passed the Emergency Quota Act and the Immigration Act of 1924. Yanno, immigration restrictions in the good old days, working hard to prevent Asian immigrants, as well as Italian, Jewish, and Slav immigrants from setting foot on our red white and blue shores. Besides, in the early 1930s, more people were emigrating from America than immigrating into it. (Is that the current desire and dream?) Great Depression and all that.

While I and my fellow filthy liberal hippies keep score, those who believe in traditional values like backsliding, giving away rights, hating your neighbors, yourselves, and equal opportunities will get to live the dream. If you are from a family of longtime, multi-generational wealth that didn’t go under with the stock market crash of 1929, I’m sorry, you are ineligible to play. Unfortunately for you, your place in our culture was, is, and always will be secure. Anyway, this is gonna be awesome. Tremendous, even.

Concerned that you won’t have enough people and ethnic groups to hate? Pfft, we won’t leave you without, plenty of ethnic groups and minorities to blame for…everything. Sure, the Land of the Free wasn’t quite as mixed then, but believe it or not, there were brown people. And for those who aren’t sure there were enough people of color to hate, we’ve got you covered, with the “wrong” white people until those numbers come up. Concerned about having to live without your AR 15s and AK 47s? I know, so sad, so SCARY. In exchange for giving up your inalienable right to be a one man army, we’ve got other, more traditional good old days guns and rifles. And beatings! Sure, not as splashy as a semi-automatic, but is there anything quite as satisfying as old-fashioned bones-of-the-powerless-and-disenfranchised cracking under your fists? Who says the right to vote for women need take away your swagger? Gratifying and manly, you don’t need any Latinos or Eye-talians to teach you about machismo.

In the very early 1930s, 25% of potentially wage-earning Americans were unemployed. Please draw a card to determine if you have a job or not. If your card is lower than a 5, you have no job. Luckily for you, there’re also no disgusting, Socialist (ooh, so scary) Welfare, Food Stamps, Social Security, Medicaid, or Unemployment benefits in place. I’m so glad you get to hold true to your values. Don’t worry, your family and neighbors will take care of you, if you draw an ace. They’ll throw you a rotting cabbage and a bit of chicken skin.

If you are employed, it is of course because you’re a harder worker than the guy in the next town over whose factory folded when the owner took a swan dive off the church tower after the Stock Market crashed. You deserve employment, you’re a real American. None of those commie unions to deal with, either. You’re secure in your right to work in unsafe conditions, your children working right alongside you without the unnecessary complications of health insurance, days off, overtime pay, or your right arm. No worries, the Black Lung will keep you feeling warm.

And it’s all ok. Better than ok. You’ve got all the time in the world, without the modern distractions of cable tv, video games, internet access, cell phones, or reliable refrigeration. You’ve got radio, that’s all you sinners who insist on entertainment need! If you’re in the Great Plains, you have an excess of time, what with the lack of farmable farmland in the Dust Bowl. If you’re a woman, that is excellent news, plenty of hours in the day for washing, drying, and ironing clothes, cleaning the house, gardening, cooking (all from scratch, no frozen dinners, take-out, or convenience foods, and taking care of the children–yup, plenty of children! (sorry, no birth control or D&Cs allowed during your month of gaming, that would be cheating. Unwanted pregnancy? Bad timing? No such thing, you’re a woman.) As a woman, you’re even allowed to vote, what more do you want?

Are you a recent immigrant? You might be a bit confused, wondering where we’ve hidden those streets of gold. And the jobs, where are those opportunities? Good thing you came here and learned English overnight, assimilating immediately and working without pause. I know this is true because your modern selves talk about this all. the. time. (“My Grandpa came to America and spoke English!” “I’m proud to say I can’t speak a word of any other language!”) Unless, of course, you were a minority, in which case, you were the first to lose your job, if you had landed one in the first place. You won’t be lonely, you’ve got plenty of company what with all the other non-immigrant minorities (including Native Americans, who invited them, anyway? They should never have made it through Ellis Island.) who lost their jobs. And recreation! I hear lynchings enjoyed great popularity in the early thirties. Good thing we all remember those good old days with such fondness and clarity that we can play this game.

A bit of clarity, if you’re thinking that you’re white, and therefore a welcome immigrant, you might need to look a bit harder. Jews? Suspect, and not welcome. Italian? Suspect, and not welcome–all kinds of propaganda being distributed due to the rise of Mussolini. Irish? Also suspect, no-Irish-need-apply. Enjoy your tenements! I mean really, so many of these Italian and Irish immigrants were Catholic. Papists! Frequent and familiar targets of the KKK in those days. It isn’t like we’d see a Catholic President in a mere 30 years.

No worries about Mexicans coming and stealing your job, either. A pox on those who say over a million Mexican immigrants came between 1900-1930 because of a demand for low-wage, unskilled workers when we didn’t have enough citizens to fill those jobs. No worries indeed, we rounded ’em up, beat ’em, and deported ’em back over the border. Damn it, now I’m confusing myself, am I talking about then or now?

More excellent news, you won’t be confronted by your child coming out to you. That closet is padlocked and sealed in concrete. You yourself are a part of the LGBTQ community? Don’t be silly, surely no one who belongs to a community that has been traditionally pilloried, still openly ridiculed, viciously attacked, and subject to hate crimes by many would be playing this game–allying themselves with political parties that want nothing more than to restrict their rights–that would mean they place their bank accounts and guns above their personal rights, to say nothing of the safety and security of their community. Just think, it’s the 1930s, no AIDS. Don’t despair, though, plenty of gonorrhea and syphilis to go around, regardless of your sex or sexual orientation.

Speaking of health and health care, remember, these are the good old days. If you or a loved one get sick or have an accident, you don’t have to think about where your insurance card is, how much the treatment will cost, or if you’re able to cover the copays. Chances are excellent that what you’ve got can’t be treated. And your friendly local doctor will make a house call. If you can pay him.

So, you live life as if it’s the good old days for one month. No cheating–those of us who believe in reason, justice, equality and science will be watching. If you make it through your month without dying from illness or a tragic accident, good on you, you win a bootstrap! If you make it through without starving yourself or family members, losing your home or throwing yourself off of a cliff before Roosevelt can push through one of his commie New Deal roads and bridges, you get a bonus bootstrap. I hear once you collect enough, you can use them to pull yourself up.

Deeply Saddened

Because the heart of America is broken and bleeding.

I remember clearly the first time the phrase “deeply saddened” came to my mind in response to an atrocity. It was 1999, and in Columbine High School in Littleton, Colorado, two students slaughtered 12 classmates, 1 teacher, injured 24 people, and then killed themselves. At the time it was so shocking, so hideous, I couldn’t stand to watch the news or stay in the apartment; I took (then a baby) Nerd Child and went up the street to the preschool Man Child had attended. I stood there with the director and teachers, all of us crying silently while we watched the little ones playing on the rooftop. (NY, you make play spaces where you can.)

Deeply saddened. When the loss is so huge, so shocking, nonsensical yet calculated, it feels deeper than a personal tragedy; a public loss we all share and mourn, yet feeling we’re powerless in the face of it, and what we feel doesn’t scratch the surface of those whose loss is personal, those who lost children and family members, spouses, friends and teachers.

In the 17 years that have passed since then, it feels like there have been many occasions when I have found myself deeply saddened by a no-longer-extraordinary mass shooting here in America: Virginia Tech, Virginia, Binghamton, New York, Fort Hood, Texas, Sandy Hook, Connecticut, Washington Navy Yard, Washington DC, Charleston, South Carolina, San Bernardino, California, and now Orlando, Florida. This is by no means a complete and comprehensive list of mass shootings here in the US, nor does it include any slaughters that came before Columbine: Edmond, Oklahoma, Killeen, Texas, San Ysidro, California–to name a few “big” ones. Hell, I think the largest mass killing of this type was back in 1857 in Mountain Meadows, Utah.

By the time Sandy Hook occurred, maybe the “shock” of the targets being children so young, I was tilting from deeply saddened to furious. And now, with this most recent mass shooting in a nightclub in Orlando, Florida, 50 dead and 53 injured, I’m still sad, I’m still angry, but I’m sure as shit not shocked. That this occurred in an LGBT nightclub during Pride Month? Not shocked. How can anyone pretend to be? Look at my (incomplete) lists above. Children, teens, young adults, adults, black, white, asian, latino, gay, straight, rural, suburban, urban, elementary schools, high schools, colleges, churches, post offices, immigration centers, motherfucking military bases. If the list of victims, perpetrators and locations is so scattered, the only answer is to find the common theme.

Yeah, I’m going there. I know, many will see this and roll their eyes, “it’s too soon!” “Mrs Fringe is politicizing a tragedy!” It cannot be too soon when we know the next mass shooting is only a matter of time. And this is a political tragedy. A tragedy of policy, when we live in a country that refuses to enact stricter gun control laws, a country that has in place a congressional ban on gun violence research (renewed, by the way, immediately after 9 people were killed inside a Charleston church), when we know most of these slaughters occurred with legally obtained weapons by people who should never have been able to obtain guns if we had any collective common sense. Obviously, at this point we, as a nation, have accepted that next time it could be us personally, our children, our loved ones, and we’ve decided we’re ok with that. Oh sure, we’ll hold vigils and wail, offer prayers and tweets and gnash our teeth–if it’s really a big number killed we’ll even apply an appropriately colored, somber overlay onto our Facebook profile pictures.

Many of us have had personal tragedies, upheaval or illnesses in our lives that have caused us to accept a new normal. Well, mass shootings are our not-so-new normal here in the US. The NRA–hell, friends of mine–will be defensive, certain of their right to mourn alongside the rest of us and those who lost loved ones this weekend. They’ll mean it. Most of those I know who are against sensible gun control will genuinely be saddened by this most recent tragedy–maybe even deeply. They’ll hold up the shooter’s history of hate, insanity and domestic violence as “proof” that we need more guns. Above all they’ll point to the Second Amendment, the right to bear arms as sacred, not to be contained, controlled, or god forbid tampered with above all else. Above all else. Above:

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among those are Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness. ~~Thomas Jefferson, Declaration of Independence, 1776

1776 was a long time ago. As a country, as a world we have grown, changed, and advanced so much it makes no sense at all to apply the guidelines written then as a document to be followed to the letter now. We know it, but it’s inconvenient. So much easier to be reactionary and defensive, luxuriate in the righteousness of our greed and mourning, to cry, Patriotism! while accepting our new normal. It is greed when our elected officials put the contributions of gun lobbyists and their interests over those of their constituents. When we continue to elect and support those officials, we, as a people, are validating that greed.

Even in Fringeland, we’ve been down this road and I’ve written about this subject too many times before. Some will read this or other pieces better written with more facts than mine, and they’ll point to other nations. Hold up as proof of America’s greatness charts of violent death rates by country, point to how far down the list we are, how many more are killed by violence in Columbia, Honduras, Somalia, etc. Is that the type of comparison that makes sense, that we want? These are nations shredded by internal strife, wars civil and otherwise, ruled by poverty and desperation. They’ll point to statistics on crime and shout that criminals have guns, so we all should. No, the answer to gun violence is not more guns. They’ll then say we will not be able to eradicate all guns, so we shouldn’t eliminate any. I can’t even follow the intended logic on that one. We continue to fund disease research and treatments, even as we know we cannot eradicate all disease. They’ll say the CDC cannot conduct studies on gun violence because guns are not a disease. I call bullshit.

I won’t begin quoting statistics, they’re everywhere this morning. I will say that yesterday, while we were watching the antics of blustering politicians on Twitter, and crying as we watched the horrific scene outside of the Pulse nightclub in Orlando, FL, I saw another “small” story come up. This one local, not too many stops away on the train. A young mother of three was shot to death on a playground, protecting her children.

Gun violence is a disease in America, and mass shootings are the weeping of our bleeding hearts.

American Elections 2016: The Witch Hunt Edition

Despite the fact that it’s only June, I’m already exhausted by this presidential cycle and all the nonsense that has accompanied it. Yet here I am yapping about it. Why? Because I’m confused, and sometimes writing things down helps sort it out–and maybe, hopefully, we’ll get a rich conversation going in the comments that will allow for clarity.

I’ll admit, my imagination is limited. I can’t fathom what it is that enables someone to want to be President. I’ve gone extended periods with very limited sleep while still needing to make decisions, large and small, that impacted five people. It isn’t fun. To choose to do this while making huge, impactful-for-generations-to-come for 318 million people? (Many more, really, because US decisions and policies are felt worldwide.) To believe you are the best person to be in this position? Nope, unfathomable to me. But hey, I’m someone who can spend two hours staring at the screen attempting to decide if I’ve chosen the most effective verb.

I keep saying, “How have we gotten here?” “How is it that in 2016, the GOP candidate is an openly hateful, selfish, liar?” How is it that the Democratic candidate is likely the most contentious woman in America?”

In regards to the Democratic party, I’m conflicted. I’m sorry Bernie lost, truly sorry if not surprised. I don’t care for Hillary Clinton. I want to be clear, this isn’t because of the history of bogus witch hunts targeting her, not because of what went on/goes on in her marriage, and definitely not because of her $12,000 blazer. Really people, what gives with that nonsense? First and foremost, I’ve never heard outrage or seen articles about the cost of any male candidate’s suit. Call me an old and out of touch feminist, to me that’s yet another symbol of not-so-subtle sexism. I know, I know, she wore it while talking about inequality. It is gross, represents much of what’s got people angry and frustrated in this country. But let’s be honest. If you were able to swallow her throwing a $3 million dollar wedding for her daughter while this country was in a serious recession, people losing jobs and homes daily, well then, let’s not pretend moral outrage about her jacket. I’ll be straight, you could tell me you found proof that she was in the backseat of Ted Kennedy’s car at Chappaquiddick and I’d still support her right now. Why? Because the alternative is Donald Trump.

Talk about witch hunts. Can you imagine if he was to become our President? Goodbye, First Amendment. That’s right, he’s been pretty clear. For all his lies, there are kernels of truth as to what he supports and believes, and what he believes is that he should be not just President, but Dictator, wanting to stomp on the rights of the press, freedom of religion, free speech, and the right to (peaceably) assemble. I’m pretty sure I’ll be burned at the stake along with the real journalists, because no slight or grievance is too small for him to let go. Well, maybe not burned, that leaves a horrible stench in fabric, and could drive his property values down. Hanged. Go ahead and say goodbye to the Statue of Liberty, because our liberties have been eroding–fuck, we’ve given them away in the name of “freedom”– and Trump is not interested in accepting any poor, tired, huddled masses. White, energetic, wealthy and attractive, maybe. Say goodbye to women’s rights. Women will go back to their place, at their men’s sides, lips stitched closed and legs spread wide. Only if they’re young and attractive, of course.

Many are tired of the status quo, and Hillary represents just that. I get it, I really, truly do, and that’s why I was hoping Bernie would win the nomination. But he didn’t. It’s over. He can continue to speak, I hope he will continue to work in the Senate, but he didn’t win the nomination. That he got as many votes as he did, that he got as far as he did, gives me hope for the future, but it doesn’t fill me with confidence for the present. There are too many variables, and we have too long a history of bedding down with fear, hatred, greed, and wishful thinking.

Sure, we like to talk about valuing reason, justice, intelligence, ingenuity and creativity, equality. But not really. When it comes down to it, too many of us value comfort and mediocrity above all else. Again, I’m not pretending I don’t like comfort, and God knows I’m mediocre, but I’m not trying to lead the country. We are currently enjoying the most reasonable and intelligent President we’ve ever had, Barrack Obama. In current polls, his approval rating is shockingly high at 51%. So why all the moaning about how horrible life is under him? Is it because he’s (shhhh) black? Or because he’s reasonable and intelligent? Or both? Ingenuity and creativity, these can’t possibly be valued. If they were, our education system wouldn’t be continuing to cut arts and flexibility in what and how our children are taught, valuing fill-in-the-bubble tests, grading teachers on how neat and attractive their bulletin boards are, over real teaching, thought and comprehension. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, one of the things that has stayed with me most is the pride with which I heard so many say George W Bush was a C student. Pride. For Cs. From the man who led America for 8 years. Equality? Talk about equality to people of color, trapped in the classroom to prison pipeline.

If Trump wins, I’m blaming everyone. (because for the moment, I’m still relatively free and can): the people who confuse unfiltered verbiage with integrity, the GOP that allowed Tea Partiers to take over their party, and the Democratic Party, who endorsed and backed a woman so hated that in our racist country a black man was chosen over her the last time she ran. I believed and still believe Obama was the better choice, and I’m proud and thrilled that was recognized by enough for him to become President. He can’t run again. I didn’t agree with all of his decisions and concessions, hated a few, in fact, but wow. Have we ever had a leader with such grace? I doubt we’ll see an equivalent leader; be they male, female, white or person of color, in our lifetime. Think for a second about all he’s put up with and worked through–don’t throw his hard work away. And yes, I’ll admit it, this old and out of touch feminist is pretty fucking happy to see that if it isn’t Bernie, the Democratic nominee is a woman. Here. In misogynistic America, a land filled with people still working to stuff women back in the kitchen, value the comfort and future of rapists over rape victims, and whittling away at our right to choose what to do with our bodies.

We do have a long and proud history here in the US. But we cannot take pride–we can never move forward–without acknowledging the shameful history woven in with our rights, and our history of sliding backwards before moving forward. The decisions based on fear, an inflated sense of our place in the world, that old surety that might makes right. It can’t happen here is a lie. That we naturally evolve in a positive way, progress with reason is a lie. Witch hunts, real mass witch hunts have occurred repeatedly, Salem and its twenty people killed was child’s play: Japanese Internment Camps during WWII, McCarthyism, Stop and Frisk, Muslims after 9/11. If we aren’t careful now, we could be looking at the broadest witch hunts this country has ever seen, because Trump hates and is afraid of everyone who doesn’t look like, pee like, move like, and parrot him.

I’m confused as to how anyone outside a handful of his cronies could support Donald Trump. Not wanting more of the same should not be blurred with it-couldn’t-be-worse. So yeah, I’m confused as to how anyone could say Hillary Clinton would be equally bad for our country and our rights.

Here lies reason and knowledge. Let’s not bury them again, ok?

Playground Politics

I seem to have missed my train

Hello all. Yes, yes, it’s been a while. You know when more time than usual passes in between speaking to a friend, you keep thinking you should call, but the more time passes the harder it becomes to make that call? Yeah. First I was in a bit of a funk; there’s nothing to say, no one cares what I have to say, blah, blah, blah. Then, in the past few weeks, there’s been so much going on I couldn’t decide where and how to jump in. Nothing has happened to me/mine personally, it’s been wonderful having Man Child home, he has a good job, Nerd Child is in the last stretch of high school–drove north and saw his final production the other day–that young man is an excellent director! Art Child is well, Husband is well, Incredibly Stupid Dog continues to forget which end is supposed to be on the pee pad when she lets loose…all good in Fringeland. But the world around me? Prince died, which I took more personally than I have any right to. North Carolina has decided genital checks are in order because thinkofthechildren. The Bernie movement has faltered (to say the least), and Donald Trump has won the GOP nomination.

After two weeks of pretending that last tidbit couldn’t be real, I have to accept it. I have to get on the train. Not the train car supporting him, of course. I feel like it’s rush hour and the car open in front of me is suspiciously empty. If you’ve ever been a subway rider, you know what I mean. If you haven’t, let me give you a tip. When a crowded train pulls in, if the car you’re about to get on is miraculously empty with several open seats, there’s a reason–and that reason usually involves a stench so foul even the most weary and unsteady travelers would prefer to be squashed nose to armpit in the next car.

Yesterday I was having a conversation about this nightmare with a friend of mine, and I referenced playground politics. For me, this sums it up. Because it doesn’t feel like a train. I’m an adept rider; pains, nerve damage and all, I can keep my balance, squeeze into the most narrow space between two man-spreaders if it means a seat, and throw myself through the closing doors without getting my purse caught. This is more like a throwback to childhood, a concrete lunchtime playground where girls have cooties and with a choice between splintered seesaws, dodgeball, and a cement water fountain that dribbles rust. So here we are, this cycle of American politics where might makes right and he who spreads the most outlandish, the most vicious rumors wins. Where is the lunch aid? Where are the teachers? Where are the grown-ups?

As I’ve said previously, I like Bernie. I never thought he was a perfect candidate, and I had questions, but I thought he was the best choice. For a moment, I thought he had a real shot. That moment is over. I don’t love Hillary. I have a lot of questions and reservations about her that I don’t want to have. (I’m a feminist ferchistssake, a woman for President? Yes, please.) But I’m not hesitating to support her, especially when I look at the alternative. The alternative isn’t Bernie Sanders, it’s Donald Trump. A man whose positions take us from an unsupervised playground to Lord of the Flies.

While I wasn’t blogging, I did more reading than I’d done in a while. I even decided to read Infinite Jest, it’d been on my to-read list forever, and it seemed like the perfect time. I got about 600 pages in, and spent a good 500 of those pages feeling certain that I’m an idiot, because I didn’t get it. Not that I wasn’t able to follow the storyline, I was. Not that I didn’t notice and appreciate some lovely sharp prose, I did. But I really, really don’t understand the how/why this novel became the lauded, prized bestseller that it did. So I gave up, once again determined to accept that I’m just not that smart, and clearly incapable of understanding the publishing industry. If a friend had written it and given me the manuscript to beta read, I’d have suggested cutting about 500 of the 1200 pages. But the timing of my attempt to read this was perfect for today’s political climate, because today is when we are living the backstory of Infinite Jest. If Donald Trump becomes President of the United States, we will slide right into Subsidized Time, and tomorrow will become the Year of the Depend Adult Undergarment. I may not be smart enough to slog through all 1200 pages, but I’m smart enough to know I don’t want to live inside them.

You’re frustrated? Me too. You’re broke? Me too. You’re tired of the status quo? Me too. But my eyes are open. And what I see is hideous. A circle has gathered around the combover playground bully. The circle is growing, gathering legitimacy and support, and it’s feeding on greed, racism, xenophobia, misogyny, and wishful thinking. I know some people speak of idyllic childhoods and pine for their lost youth. Me? I was glad to leave the playground behind, and I don’t want to return. The lunch aid isn’t coming. We have to turn away from the childish blowhards telling us might makes right, get on the train before it derails completely, and be the grown-ups. We may or may not be in the gifted program, but we’re smart enough to recognize the stench of fresh shit.