I’ve spent the better part of the past four years torn between my deeply-felt need to resist the worst president in American history and what just might be a better instinct: to spare myself the damage I know intense, sustained anger and fear can inflict on one’s body and soul.
I’ve been moderately successful in following my mantra: Channel your fear and rage into resolve. I started, way back in March, to volunteer with Vote Forward, hand-writing get-out-the-vote letters to folks identified as likely non-voters in key districts across the country.
Whenever I watched, heard or read anything—anything at all—about the little brat-monster pretending to be smart and important enough to run a country, I simply turned off the offended senses, walked to the dining room table, and started writing.
Thank God for that pressure-relief valve. (I ended up writing 560 of the more than 17,000,000 letters Vote Forward volunteers mailed out October 17.)
A SHIFT IN THE FORCE
Now, with the election just a couple weeks away, I’m finding it even easier to just ignore the lying, hateful bullshit spewing from the philanderer-in-chief and his lackeys.
No, I still can’t resist the chance to share an especially clever Trump-mocking Facebook post. But I’m also starting to realize a deep sense of letting go, of relief and peace. The kind marathoners feel when the chute is in sight and, no matter where they place, they know they’ve given it their all and are going to make it.
Between my own effort to both resist and take positive action, and those I’m sure millions of other have made in their own ways, I’m feeling a growing sense of momentum. And, besides this “earned” glow of satisfaction, there’s also an inkling of destiny. I’ve just got to believe that there are millions and millions of people who might have voted for the idiot four years ago who’ve noticed something at least a little troubling about him.
It’s like there’s been a shift in The Force. Americans, this amazing country, is simply too good to go the way of this hateful, self-obsessed little man a second time. I can almost hear the collective sigh of relief—more likely the kind of hooting and hollering one hears after one’s team just won the Super Bowl—echoing from the streets around this great land.
Enough of us have finally taken
a look in the mirror.
TO A HEAD
I really, really want to say that the celebration will begin sometime late on the evening of November 3. But thanks to the systematic undermining of the democratic process by Trumpublicans for the past four years—and the fake president’s and his base’s probable tantrum when they see he’s losing—it’s doubtful the results will be known for weeks.
So be patient, my friends. We’ve waited nearly four years; we can wait another few weeks.
Make no mistake; the moment of truth is at hand. This painful, pus-filled boil on our country’s face has come to a head. Enough of us have finally taken a look in the mirror. We hate how it disfigures us; our friends hate it…and it really, really hurts.
The hand of reason, of vision, of decency, of love is reaching up, drawing thumb and index finger together around the offending abscess. And slowly, surely, they squeeze…
