Yes, him again

My sister pointed out to me that I had goofed in my earlier post "Joe and Don" when I wrote that Trump was longing for a return to the McCarthy era - in the 1980's.  Of course McCarthy was in the 1950's.  I was terribly embarrassed about that gaffe, until I realized why I'd made it.  As I was writing, I wasn't thinking about McCarthy; I was thinking about Nixon.  That was the corrupt government I lived through.  Another time when the men in power were unworthy; a time when citizens lost faith in our leaders.

So if you caught that blooper, now you know where it came from.

And since we're on Trump again, I just have to say how disgusted I am by Trump's statement that during the Jan. 6 assault on the Capitol, the rioters and police were hugging and kissing, all great pals.  Please, please tell me that there is not a single person who has seen the footage of that event who doesn't recognize this statement as a pure and obvious falsehood, who doesn't realize that Trump is a pathological liar, a fraud, a dangerous buffoon.  I mean, how naked can a lie be?

Are we so irreparably adrift that there are people who will accept the despicable ignorance and outright mendacity of this statement?  I am so worried about my country.  I believe that everything that has gone wrong, every mistake and bad choice in U.S. history, is catching up to us: every native killed, every slave whipped, every unfair law, every instance of greed and cruelty shouting down reason, kindness, and justice.

I believe that most of those mistakes are made because we as a nation worship the wrong things: money, power, possessions, sex, fame, gossip, youth, and beauty.  We've turned our backs on even the pretense of being true to the founding and amended principles of this country.  There is no pretense that the will of the people is respected, as evidenced in Georgia, where Gov. Kemp has signed into law a bill curbing voting rights, a bill which is overwhelmingly unpopular by the citizens of that state.  The naked, naked corruption and hunger for power.  I'm sick to my stomach. 

Anger

Sometimes I will be suddenly gripped by an outsized anger, a feeling of aggrievement, of frustrated desires, of powerlessness.  Those feelings become so strong so swiftly that I am almost always taken by surprise.  I have finally learned that my best course when this red darkness is upon me is to shut my mouth and remove myself from the scene, because I know that if I speak, it will be to lash out, to accuse, to blame and criticize.  It is usually in conversation with Sweet Hubby that these flare ups happen, and even though part of me wants to lash out, feels justified - I wouldn't feel this way unless something egregious had actually been done to me, right? - another part of me, the part which remembers going through these episodes so many times in the past, wants to protect SH from the barbs and shivs sticking out of my soul.  

Such an episode occurred two nights ago.  Man oh man, I really wanted the relief of venting and blaming.  But no, I didn't want that at all.  (Oh thank the Great Whatever for the wisdom which occasionally accompanies aging.)  The goddess prevailed over the seven-year-old girl who felt she had to fight for her life.  I went silent and took myself into the bedroom to read.  I figured if there were actually some problem, if  some slight injury had actually been inflicted upon me, it would be better discerned and addressed at a cooler time.

This side of me is pure Dad.  I think he probably had these surges of inchoate anger more often than he was ever able to address verbally.  His jaw would clench and toxins sometimes hissed out of him almost silently.  As a child, I couldn't understand why had had gone dark and glowering, and of course I went through a period of believing his torment to be my fault.  Gradually I came to see that he was battling inner demons, battles for which he had no vocabulary and few tools.  Because he couldn't articulate his inner world, I have never felt as though I knew him very well.  Seeing some of the same rages in my own life has given me more compassion for him.  I'm sure that, like me, he didn't want to scare or alienate the people he loved.  He just couldn't help himself.

Like Dad, I have an enormously generous and loving partner.  When SH came to bed that recent night, he lay close enough that I could have his affection if I wanted it, even though I stiffly rebuffed his slightest touch.  He didn't get huffy, didn't try to make me talk, didn't storm out, but simply asked if I wanted him to sleep in the guest room.  I managed to give him permission to stay; that was about all I trusted myself to say.  So we lay there, both of us hoping for the relief of sleep.  I don't know what he was thinking, but in my mind, silently, over and over, I was saying "Please don't die while I'm being a bitch, please don't die while I'm being a bitch."  

The next morning, I was predictably softened and apologetic and he was predictably kind and loving, as I knew he would be, and we were closer than ever all that day.  How lucky am I?

Joe and Don

Like many folks, I have always wondered what the Again in Make American Great Again refers to.  When was it that Trump and his followers thought the country was great?  In reading Heather Cox Richardson's magnificent and very disturbing book of American history, How the South Won the Civil War, I believe I have found the answer to that riddle.

Trump would like to go back to the early '50's.  And we just about have.  That's the era in which Wisconsin Senator Joseph McCarthy pretty well tore the country apart, abetted by those whose purposes he served.  

The Trump era, which continues still, is chillingly like the McCarthy era: An unworthy man suddenly given an enormous spotlight and microphone.  The bitter partisan hatred.  The stubborn, prideful ignorance of the people in power.  The flagrant abuse of that power.  The unashamed hypocrisy.  The demonizing of groups of people.  The unsubstantiated accusations.  The slavish, cowardly devotion by those who know better to a mean-spirited man, a greedy man given everything and wanting more, a stupid man, a man who delights in poisoning his country.   Can you even tell which one I'm talking about?

I hadn't seen this before, because I was young enough during McCarthy's reign not to remember living through it.  I only knew it after the fact as a brutal time of corruption and destruction.  But now that I've seen its similarities to the time of Trumpism, I can't unsee it.  

This face

My mirror shows me what I look like when I pose.  Now, thanks to Zoom, I know what I look like when I talk, laugh, listen ,think, and eat.  It has been a bit of a shock and plenty dispiriting.  Hard not to judge myself for all of these supposed flaws: the places where my skin is mottled, the thin lips, the pouches under my eyes, the looseness under my chin, the incipient jowls.  (Jowls?  Really??)

During and after every Zoom session - and oh my lord, there are so many - I have to remind myself that this is an older version of the face which won me Sweet Hubby.  (Having boobs helped.)  I'm so glad I don't have to wonder if it would now; the deal is sealed.  This is the face my Mom loved, and would love still.  And this is the face everyone knows me by.  Everyone else is used to it.  Only I am taken by surprise.

A modern conundrum

For political matters, we don't turn to scientists.  So why do so many people turn to politicians in matters of science? 

This being human

The United States is a country with too much religion and not enough spirituality.

Being human means knowing our lives are finite, which raises all sorts of natural, stimulating, and unanswerable questions.  Why am I here?  What does it all mean?  How did it get started?  Is it random or is someone/something in charge?  What am I supposed to do with my time?  Does it make any difference if I'm wicked or good?

Every primitive society has come up with some sort of answer to those questions, almost always involving a god or panel of gods or mountain of gods.  It's reassuring, of course, to believe in a god who is watching over us, wise and pure, who knows all and understands all and has a plan.  The trouble I have with religion is that we are only learning while we're asking the questions.  Learning stops when we think we have an answer.  To have faith in a religious system means swallowing a whole bunch of nonsense.  (The punchline "It's turtles all the way down" comes to mind.)  (Also, who were the children of the animals Noah saved supposed to mate with?  Each other?  Ick.)  I understand the comfort of religious faith.  It takes a certain amount of courage to be willing to be uncomfortable with deep, deep questions for which there are no answers.

In this country, maybe in all countries, spiritual emptiness accounts for an awful lot of behaviors as we try to fill that hollow place with sugar, money, belongings, fame, success, addictions, etc.  We spend our energy and focus on such trivialities.  One example that comes to mind is the enormous fuss made about the fly that landed on Pence's white hair during a debate.  Really?  That's what we want to give our precious life force to?  Video games?  Conspiracy theories?  Endless shopping?  All these distractions from substance.  It sometimes seems to me that a life spent watching flowers grow would be just as full as any life spent doggedly chasing money.

I know I sound a little sour here.  I think this era of COVID and masks and Trump and QAnon and rancor has ground me down, seriously, though not permanently.  I'm the opposite of Charlie Brown.  I love people; it's humanity as a whole I'm having a very hard time with right now.

Happy anniversary, Sweet Hubby!

This has been the best 15 years of my life.  I am loving every bit of this journey.  Thank you for being the best husband in the history of sentient beings.

In which I transform a racist (a fantasy)

I am almost always having conversations/arguments in my head with people I disagree with, such as fundamentalist Christians or hardcore Trumpists, in which I turn them into decent human beings, or at least get them to be ashamed of themselves.  In this case, my fantasy is that I'm at a party.  Also in attendance is a good ol' boy, who is a friend of the host who is a friend of mine.  And this guy is mouthing off all these hateful things about black people.  (I don't say African Americans because he is basically including everyone with dark skin.)  Even though I know it's going to be embarrassing as hell and may cost me some friends, I simply have to speak up or I couldn't live with myself.  So I confront this racist, this bully.

"What is wrong with you?" I say.  "Don't you have any empathy at all?  Don't you have any imagination?  How do you think it would affect your family if you knew you were in this country because your ancestors were kidnapped, brought here by force, and whipped so they would work for free?  Not considered whole human beings?  Still treated like dirt?  How would you feel if you knew there were entire groups of people dedicated to hating and obliterating you?  Can't you imagine at all what that might do to you?  Do you feel so low that you have to find someone to be better than?  Someone to hate and degrade?  What other reward could there be for treating people so badly, holding them in such contempt, than that it makes you feel a little bit better about yourself?

"No one is lesser than you, and somewhere in you, you know that.  Booker T. Washington and W.E.B. Dubois and Jackie Robinson and Ella Fitzgerald and Barak Obama and Leontyne Price and Hank Aaron and Maya Angelou and Harry Belafonte and Paul Robeson and Count Basie and Serena Williams and Martin Luther King, Jr. have proved that.  What is wrong with you?  Why are you so hateful?"

This racist sputters, trying to defend himself, then bursts into remorseful tears, because of course he has always known somewhere deep inside himself that he is an asshole and in the wrong, and the burden of having had to kill off his conscience and his goodness has worn him down, so much so that he is finally ready to admit how wicked he has been, and that he wants to live a kinder, more decent life.

Some fantasy, huh?  As though I would be allowed to get more than five words in.  As though I would have the courage.  As though a person would alter a lifetime of meanness because of one conversation.

I think this fantasy is really about me telling myself that I need to speak up when I hear someone spouting racist bile or political lies or any other kind of dreck, even if it would be embarrassing as hell and even if it cost me something.  Living where I do and among the kind of people I'm surrounded by, I don't hear much of that kind of puke, but when I do, I have to Rosa Parks it and take a stand.  As though it would make a difference.

An adult perspective

I was dancing my ass off to Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band recently, and when Ringo came on singing "With a Little Help From My Friends", I did what I usually do, which is to gently make fun of him for the flatness of his tonal quality.  But this time, it occurred to me: He can carry a tune.  He can play the drums.  He's a Beatle, fer cryin' out loud.  He's got me beat for accomplishment by about four billion.  Where do I get off making fun of him even a little bit?

Then I found myself thinking about A Hard Day's Night, which was the movie and music that shaped and enriched and pretty well completely absorbed my adolescent.  I don't know how many times I sat through that movie, practically peeing myself with delight.  When that first guitar chord is struck and the Beatles appear, running for their lives as they are chased by screaming girls, I used to go into deliriums of pleasure.  But now, in my adulthood, I find that image very disturbing.  What are those girls going to do if they catch one of them?  It looks as though they would tear them apart for a chance to touch Beatle hair or skin.  This was how these four men lived, constantly under assault, constantly being chased and screamed at, always seen as Beatles rather than as people.

And this got me thinking about fame.  I  have always been hugely fascinated by fame, by the idea of it, probably because I used to want it for myself, wanted it bad.  This was mostly in my acting days, when the possibility of fame was the carrot which made it possible to put up with rejections and disappointments and casting couches and awkward auditions and poverty and brutal self-doubt.  And because I wanted it, I would try to imagine what it was like.  But I was always imagining it from the outside, as though I were a camera looking at myself get out of a limo in an elegant dress at an Oscar ceremony while camera flashbulbs sparkled and people screamed my name and everybody wanted my autograph or an interview.

But now, in my adulthood, I'm able to imagine that scene from the inside, imagine myself about to get out of that car, which means managing that elegant dress and plastering a smile on my face whether I feel like smiling or not.  Those flashbulbs are blinding me, and because of those cameras, I have to be sure not to stumble, not to frown, not to say anything inane - or worse, controversial.

And think of the royals of any country, their lives circumscribed by protocols and ancient expectations, their posture and demeanor having to be correct.  Famous people are always putting on performances, and their lives to do not belong wholly to themselves.  Fame now sounds rather ghastly to me, and I'm grateful to have remained obscure.  I'm still hoping that someday I'll write a play good enough to win a Tony, but I don't need the Tony itself.  I'll take the money that comes with success, and the praise, but the fame, you can keep.

The history of Man

I'm reading a thoughtful book by the wonderful American historian Heather Cox Richardson titled How the South Won the Civil War.  This book takes a look at the history of this country starting with its founding.  I'm finding it a challenging read, not because it isn't clearly written, but because back in those days, it was the Republicans who were against slavery (they were the good guys) and Democrats who wanted to perpetuate that institution (the bad guys).  I have to keep transposing in my mind who the parties were then with who (whom?) they have become today, when it is Democrats who want to create, for example, affordable health care for all (the good guys) and  Republicans who made almost 70 attempts to curb, repeal, and/or modify that plan without offering a better one of their own (the bad guys).  It is Democrats who elected the first Black President (the good guys) and Republicans who elected Trump (the bad guys). 

It is also a challenging book because of how clearly, how glaringly it brings into focus that this country was founded on a broken promise.  The Declaration of Independence states "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal..."  What isn't stated but is a true founding principle of the United States is "And we do mean men.  And by that we mean white men.  Specifically white men with property.  Basically men like us.  And no women.  Definitely no women."

I understand that a lot of countries have been founded on less than ethical terms, through violence or confiscation or the notion of the Divine Right of the few, etc.  But in this country, we have this document shouting out our moral superiority and our commitment to equality.  And, sadly, the promise of that document wasn't even being kept by those who wrote it, who saw Negroes as only partially men, Native Americans as dispensable savages, and women as baby makers who help men in their pursuit of happiness.

We are paying now for the rot at the core of our national birth.  We have always been paying for it.  Some, of course, pay a higher price than others, but all of us pay as our hypocrisies and cruelties continue to catch up with us.  I can't speak to earlier ages except from what I learn from books, but I know about this present time that violence has been encouraged from the highest levels of government and so is blossoming.  Too few people have too much, and too many have too little.  And those who have will do what they can to keep and increase what they have.  For some, no amount of wealth is enough, and damn those who have nothing.

Another part of why this is such a sad truth is that it has always been so, from the beginning of time.  Those who have power and stuff do what they can, what they must, to hold onto what they have, using violence, twisting laws, breaking promises, organizing armies.  It seems to be in the very nature of humankind.  Or is it just the nature of mankind?  What kind of world might this be if women had had, or been given, equal power, equal say all along?  Ah, but if women had power given to them, that power could also be taken away, and to take it for ourselves would probably mean becoming more like the men who take and take and take in any way they feel they need to.  I don't know. 

I guess the only resting place, for me at least, is to acknowledge that the world is as it is, people are as they are, and my job is to do whatever good I can, to be kind, be honest, be aware of others.  I suppose that's the only way there can be any sort of balance among people and peoples.  Good people must be good, even if we will never be powerful.  I don't hold out much hope that my attempts at goodness will solve a single one of the world's problems, nor even my neighborhood's problems, but still, it's what I can do, it's what I have to offer,  it's the only way I will be able to live peaceably with myself.

Still, can we all just get along?