Pardon my bewilderment, but, over the last several days, your thoughts — and you making them public — have caused me to be a bit lost in the small-town Facebook sauce. Although, allow me a few moments to pick up what you’re putting down, if I may.
Millions of men and women took to the pavements of every continent on this planet, in a — quite literal! — universal display of solidarity last weekend, and that disturbed you?
Oh, it was the imagery. The signs, and the costumes, all a bit too much.
But see, that’s where I’m quite the monkey’s uncle, so please assist me in my quest to elude my perplexity.
You voted, in good, unbothered conscience for a man who stated, in reference to you — and every woman you know — that, essentially, men are entitled to grab women by the pussy. Totally unbothered, at that. Yet it was a 100 percent, dancing, polyester-clitoris costume, on Pennsylvania Avenue, that triggered you to interrupt your weekly coupon-clipping session?
Now, I am not the sharpest needle in your hand-me-down sewing kit, but bear with me. Because I am really trying to bounce this ball in your court, but this is some freaky shit.
I’m trying to understand how a mother casted a presidential vote for a man who habitually made predatory comments about women — including his own daughter — and then later tucked her own daughter into bed that night. All the while, labeling millions of protestors as the bad influences for her children.
I mean, you can’t cross wires like that in a Cat’s Cradle.
Now, allow me to preface the remaining by stating that the good news, here, is that I am not talking to one, specific, Facebook mom. Yet the bad news, here, is that I am not talking to one, specific, Facebook mom.
Still, impatience aside, here lies the fundamental root of my letter to you, the T*mi L*hren admirer: It’s not that you disagree with my views. It’s, not even, that you don’t understand my views. Rather, your dismissiveness, and the audacious, disconnected, and unapologetic manner in which you elect to deviate.
Understand, I hate that I even have to pen this. I hate that I have to author this, in 2017. But it matters to me. It matters for reasons that, as a parent, shouldn’t even require illustration to you. Howbeit, here we are. So allow me, please, to exhibit why this is important. Why the President of the United States’ behavior is important — and why your enabling of it is dangerous.
I was a selfish, and immature, adolescent when former President Barack Obama was first elected. Although somewhere within the maturation process, I later yearned to emulate him in every way. From the unashamed manner in which he worships his soulmate, to the undeniable compassion he exhibits for those who can do nothing for him, I strived, and still do, to be like Barack Obama in every way imaginable.
At the same time, that doesn’t mean I didn’t get that inspiration from my parents, I did — as do many other young people. However, there is something, nearly spiritual, about seeing your president, the Leader of the Free World, carry about, that just moves you in a different way.
So think of your young son. Imagine what goes through his head when he hears the President of the United States demean women, and disabled people. And then added to that, he sees his father — and mother — mocking along. Laughing it off, totally legitimizing, and normalizing Donald Trump’s behavior. It excuses the inexcusable.
You don’t understand the angst, and the reason for protests because — you think — it has nothing to do with you. You think it doesn’t affect you.
See, there’s this game that Americans live and die by. Where, as long as “it” doesn’t happen to, or affect them, they’re unbothered. As long as the war on Planned Parenthood doesn’t affect them, as long as exclusion doesn’t affect them, or as long as sexism and racism doesn’t affect them, all is well.
But history has showed us, time after time, that this is exactly how widespread oppression activates. First them, then you.
So make no mistake about it, every citizen in this country, right now, is the meme dog sitting in the blazing kitchen. Except, this is not fine. It’s anything but fine.