Tuesday we woke
to high lines
of snow along
the birch limbs
out our bedroom
window.
Two days later
snow has congealed
to slush balls
that fall
to the ground
with thuds.
Frost shadows
rest across grass
and asphalt. Sky
changes mood
from fog
to blue.
They are counting
votes again
in Arizona.
They will
count again
elsewhere.
The country’s
mood changes
from slush
to thud
to fog
to blue.
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I am angry.
I was taught that anger is a secondary emotion. What is primary?
Sadness, helplessness, fear. Grief.
Rage.
I was a believer. I believed in the American Dream, as a goal, as a destination. I fought for it, in my way. Some on the street, in demonstrations, but mostly in the therapy room. In the group room, the conference room, the interview room. The classroom, the lecture room, at the dinner table and in staff meetings. In living rooms with family and friends. In the bedroom.
I believed that others believed, even as we struggled.
Now I doubt. Not the principles, but the citizens. My faith in my country, in its citizens, fades. I remember reading something like: fascism will arrive in America on a cross wrapped in a flag.* And so it seems. Those who claim the highest ground, seek the lowest.
So I grieve, not only countless (uncounted) deaths, but the loss, the murder, of ideals.
And I am tired.
* An internet search tells me that this quote, ascribed to many, has never been clearly attributed.
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I follow these numbers with dread. Why do I follow them? It feels like a duty, an obligation. The only way I know to acknowledge these deaths, of people I have not met, people I have not loved. Funerals I will not attend, and mostly, funerals that will not occur for many months.
Today the official COVID death toll in the United States is 225,ooo. Other estimates bring that number up to 300,000:
Now, in the most updated count to date, researchers at the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention have found that nearly 300,000 more people in the United States died from late January to early October this year compared the average number of people who died in recent years. Just two-thirds of those deaths were counted as Covid-19 fatalities, highlighting how the official U.S. death count — now standing at about 220,000 — is not fully inclusive.
I am one of millions staying-at-home, otherwise masked, aware of my particular vulnerabilities. Aware of the vulnerabilities of many others in my life. We mask to protect each other, and hope others will mask to protect us.
I am of a generation that was naive, patriotic, attached to nostalgia for what never was. Now we mourn the loss of what we thought was real, the American (United States of American) commitment to equality, possibility, responsibility, and community. We thought if we promised to be good, that would be good enough. Somehow we convinced ourselves that if we believed in equal opportunity, equal respect, equal value for all, it would make it true.
Now we confront the actuality of our citizenship. Now we see (or try not to see) the suffering of our neighbors; suffering we benefit from, suffering we participate in, willingly or not. Now we see the bigotry in our families, in the generations before us, in our cousins and siblings, and in ourselves. We learn about The Talk, if we have refused to learn it before.
And now we must talk to ourselves: stay home, because your neighbors will not, do not, sometimes cannot. Mask up, and recognize that some of your neighbors will not. Learn to value the lives of others, as you have learned to value your own.
Struggle to forgive others for saying these beings, and those beings, and you – matter less. Or matter not at all.
Struggle to forgive yourself, while still holding yourself, and your neighbors, accountable.
I am struggling.
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I know that we should all be writing as we live through, experience, this historical time. Historians will write these stories, and we don't know what those stories will say. As Bill Barr points out, history is written by the winners.
We, those millions of us just trying to get through history, are not, are unlikely to be, the winners. Those of us who keep diaries, or journals, or write poems or emails or actual letters to those we care for, will provide, perhaps, an alternative to official histories. These private notes are important. They are the grist, the truth, of our era.
Yet I resist my own, small, obligation. I pick up my mostly blank journal, and set it down again. I make notes in a poetry class, put them aside, and do not pick them up again.
These small notes are my attempt to begin again. It seems that I can use my own art journal pages as writing prompts. When words stick in my brain, in my heart, sometimes images are able to leak out onto a page. And sometimes those images give me a direction for words.
This is day five.
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I did this for a Facebook challenge from Annabel Ascher:
"Please repost this with your own photo and bio, including your reasons for being anti-fascist. If enough people do it should change the narrative! Let's not let these people paint anti-fascism the way they are!"
Since I am a digital art journaler, I decided to do mine in my own way. Elements are from Little Butterfly Wings, Sahin Designs, Tangie Baxter, and Vicki Robinson. The Statue of Liberty images are from the web.
[Text below the cut}
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My grandmother was born in 1890. On her deathbed, she gripped my hand and told me her greatest regret.
This was not, as one might expect from a life-long Christian, daily-Bible-reading woman, the illegal back-alley abortion she had to save her life, and not leave her three young children motherless. I don't doubt that she regretted the loss of that child, but she did not regret living to raise the three children of her body, her foster son, and, as it turned out, me.
No, not that. She told me, "I regret allowing myself to be frightened into voting for Nixon."
I suspect there are many more confessions like this coming in future, some from her own family. Some will confess to their own children or grandchildren, to pastors and priests, to therapists, or only deep in their own shamed hearts.
I grieved for her. I find it harder to grieve for the others.
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the man wants his blue pills
for free, on demand
he wants his fucks on demand, too
he calls it health care
the man wants his woman
for free, on demand
he wants her to carry
the consequences
on demand, for free
and without complaint
he calls it god-fearing
the man wants the woman
to open her legs
only when he demands it
for free, otherwise
he calls it whoring
he calls it prostitution
the man wants the woman
to carry, to serve
to suffer, to pay, to obey
he calls it religious
he calls it freedom
[Click the image to see credits & larger sizes at flickr.]
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