Her tears of anguish are like manna from Heaven to me.
I had spent the morning sitting on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial with my 16-year-old daughter, Katherine, whose silent tears on election night in 2016 had marked the beginning of this national nightmare for me. She had insisted we drive from Charlotte to D.C. this year so that we could “protest in front of the president’s house.” We heard all of the inspiring speakers; we relished the creativity of the posters and slogans. Being among so many like-minded people was comforting. I heard one woman say, “I love being here today. It makes me feel less alone.”
I wanted to be with people who shared my anger. Because I have been so angry about Donald Trump this past year. I have been angry at my country for electing this man, angry at my neighbors who support him, angry at the wealthy who sacrificed our country and its goodness for tax breaks, angry at the coal miners who believed his promises.
So very compassionate of you to be enraged at poor working stiffs who preferred keeping their damned jobs to losing their livelihood and going on the the dole. Providing remoras like you with affordable electricity for your homes in so doing, I might add. If I had to choose between those miners being miserable and YOU being miserable…well. No difficult choice, that, six days a week and twice on Sunday.
My fury has been bottomless.
Because your side lost a friggin’ election. Gee, what a healthy, stable, well-rounded individual you must be. A sterling example for your young daughter, an inspiration to all who know you, and the life of every party you get invited to. If any.
I drink my morning coffee from a cup that says, “I hate to wake up when Donald Trump is President.”
Then make life better for all of us and stop.
After the march, Katherine and I hit the road in the late afternoon, feeling good; we had done our part to express our outrage. We were about 90 minutes south of D.C. when I heard a terrible popping sound. I assumed I had blown a tire and headed toward the nearest exit. The popping was followed by screeching — were we now driving on metal? Luckily, there was a gas station right off the exit.
Before I could do anything but park my gray Prius, a man rushed over. “I heard you coming down that road,” he said. Before I could say much he started surveying the situation. He didn’t so much offer to help us as get right to work.
It turned out that I hadn’t blown a tire; a huge piece of plastic under the front bumper had come loose, causing the screeching as it scraped along the road. After determining that he couldn’t cut the plastic off, he ran over to his car to grab some zip ties so that he could secure the piece back in place.
He did all of this so quickly that I didn’t have time to grab the prominent RESIST sticker on the side of my car, which suddenly felt needlessly alienating.
“Alienating” my red, raw ass. Admit the truth: you were scared he’d see the thing, you gutless, presumptious little shrike.
As this man lay on the ground under my car with his miracle zip ties, I asked if he thought they would hold for four more hours of driving.
You could spit on your ass and slide home for all me.
“Just ask any redneck like me what you can do with zip ties — well, zip ties and duct tape. You can solve almost any car problem. You’ll get home safe,” he said, turning to his teenage son standing nearby. “You can say that again,” his son agreed.
The whole interaction lasted 10 minutes, tops. Katherine and I made it home safely.
I think that establishes which of you is actually the better person quite nicely, doesn’t it? But then it gets even better—for certain values of “better,” I mean.
When my husband and I first moved to Charlotte eight years ago,
Ahh—yet another arrogant liberal Yankee who fled the place they ruined and are now beavering away at ruining someplace else.
I liked to tell people that our neighborhood represented the best impulses of America. In our little two-block craftsman-home development, we had people of every political persuasion from liberal to moderate Republican to tea party, and we all got along.
Oh, I just bet you all did. As long as the “moderate Republican” and tea-partier were very, very careful to hold their tongues and not light your fuse.
We held porch parties in the summer and a progressive dinner at Christmas. We put being a cohesive neighborhood above politics.
But this year, I realize, I retreated from my porch. Trump’s cruelty and mendacity demand outrage and the most vigorous resistance a nation can muster.
“Cruelty”? “Mendacity”? On Trump’s part, rather than your own? Oh, the irony is all over this one like a bad, bad rash. As for “demands,” I hereby demand that you go the fuck back to wherever you came from, you suppurating ass-canker, and stay there. Charlotte has a most regrettable surplus of your type infesting the place already, thanks.