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The Little Things

I still keep seething, not just about this election, but also the 2016 election. Last night I was on a webinar with other heartbroken women, who thought this time would be different. One woman mentioned that this all felt like PTSD. The meeting tried to focus on healing and giving space to mourn before getting out there again. And while I understand that need, it was not resonating for me. Just like the many ( many ) posts on my social media feed that keep spotlighting positive quotes and talk of self-care end up making me feel more angry. Instead, I find myself ruminating back to another election, not to 2016, but 1984. I came home from junior high one day to have my mother tell me that my father had registered to vote for the first time (if you know me and you’ve heard me tell this story or read a previous post about it, I’m sorry, but we all have things in our lives that get stuck). I think I hadn’t even realized he wasn’t registered to vote. It turns out he wasn’t excited to go vot
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Men

 I’m starting to enter the next stage of grief – anger . I ended up canceling my reservation for this morning’s Pilates class because the new instructor is a man. He may be a Harris supporter and an ally to woman, but I knew I’d wonder the entire time if perhaps he really wasn’t. If perhaps he was like my now dead father who registered to vote for the first time in 1984, not to support Reagan, but to vote against Geraldine Ferraro who was Mondale’s VP running mate.  My mother made light of the situation, but I knew as a teenager that it was a crappy thing for him to do. It was certainly not the worst thing he ever did, but I remember it the clearest. My father had four daughters, and, at that time, three granddaughters, yet he couldn’t stand to have a woman, even a far more competent woman, be allowed to serve at that level.  I’ve turned off the news and haven’t been reading the papers, so am missing ( not missing ) the chatter. My guess is that my fellow white women will shame me yet
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November 6, 2024

Despair doesn’t even begin to explain my current mood. I keep thinking I’ll wake up and this will be some terrible dream. Then I become more despondent wondering how this can possibly be my life now, how millions of voters could choose a convicted sexual abuser and convicted felon for the highest office in the land. It’s unlikely he’d be able to get a job at McDonald’s. Then my head fills with conspiracy theories. In normal times I wouldn’t believe them, but reality seems far too unbelievable at present.  Instead, my mind begins creating a 1970-ish political thriller. It’s bleak, yet an image of a noble and handsome man, looking much like a young Warren Beatty with great wavy shoulder length hair, who is working to figure out what happened. The plot includes a cabal of wealthy industrialists with a puppet politician at the ready who will be put in place after the more troublesome winner is disposed of. There’s fraud by various accomplices along the way. Of course, to stay true to the 1
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Pro-Death

  I grew up in an evangelical church, and as soon as I could escape it, I did. I remember my mother talking longingly about the mansion she would have in heaven and, even at a young age, I felt uncomfortable hearing her talk about her life when she would be dead. It was as though she’d given up on anything good happening in this world, and only had the next life to look forward to. If you read the recent rulings from the Supreme Court it’s as if they’ve given up on anything good happening in this world too, but also are trying to hasten us all, in one way or another, to the “next world.” If the baby that you shouldn’t be carrying doesn’t kill you then the guns that they made even easier to get, and easier to carry around, will. Or if neither of those situations do you in, then tying the hands of the EPA to reign in pollution and other hazardous-to-our-health chemicals will. One of my own coping mechanisms may have some similarities – dreaming of living in another, better, country.
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Cruel Extremists

  Right at the time Roe v. Wade was overturned, I was finishing Jennifer Egan’s recent novel, The Candy House . In the novel, one of the characters is the creator of a social media company who develops a machine that can record your thoughts, including all that you forgot. People could either keep these boxes holding their memories to themselves or upload them to the collective for all to see and experience. No surprise that lots of people shared all. One of the things mentioned about this creation was that it caused an increase in empathy due to people being able to experience what was going on in other people’s minds. It makes me wish we had such an invention now, but I wonder if it actually would change any of the deeply rooted extremists we have dictating our now minority-ruled country of the DSA (Divided States of America). It seems unlikely someone like Alito would change his mind. He reminds me of a boss I had who had such a chip on his shoulder from being o
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Impatient

  A few weeks ago I was standing at the downtown square with lots of other women, holding signs and shouting. One woman had a sign saying that she couldn’t believe she was still having to fight for the right to control her body. I understand that sentiment. During that day, we rallied and listened to moving speeches, but I left not knowing what to do other than make what donations I could to various organizations helping with the fight. I also left the rally feeling slightly guilty, but fortunate, that I’d never been put in a situation where I either needed an abortion or had to help someone acquire one. When I was an adolescent I remember a neighbor telling my mother that her daughter-in-law was getting an abortion, not seeming to acknowledge that I was present, and maybe this wasn’t something I should be hearing. The woman and her husband had a child already, around my age, and they couldn’t afford another one. Strangely I don’t remember my mother having much to
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Raging

  To steal a line from Roxane Gay’s recent article , I am raging. When news broke shortly before I went to bed on Monday night about the leaked Supreme Court decision. I struggled with which emoji represented my feelings on Facebook. I know that seems utterly silly at this moment, but I wished I could have chosen more than one. Ultimately I chose Pissed Off, but Angry, and, more truthfully, Heartbroken could also represent me. I feel my spirit has been broken by what will most likely be coming in the next month to this country. This wasn’t much of a surprise, although I’d hoped the day wouldn’t come. I’ve been nagging my husband off and on for years to think about leaving America or least move to a Blue state, as the Republicans have become more radicalized in this country. We may live in a Blue city, but that makes little difference with Ohio becoming increasingly out of touch. What incenses me the most from the anti-choice groups is their belief that, as one of
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