Today feels like a funeral. Rest in peace, Hope. Rest in peace, Promise of Better Days.
I’ve been staring at this screen, trying to figure out what I could possibly state that hasn’t already been stated in so many ways, so many times over. It isn’t simply a sense of being bereft. And no, I’m not going to “just get over it”. That’s impossible. I’m having a hard enough time getting through it.
This new era, for lack of a better term, is not brave, nor is it encouraging. These are scary times. Beyond the fear of the unknown, I’m dealing with anxiety of what I am – admittedly – assuming is going to happen. As a woman, I am scared of having my rights taken away from me just because Drumpf wants the power. Health insurance is a human need in this day and age. To have Obamacare repealed, with nothing supplied in it’s stead, means for me a potential slow death. Getting health insurance from the temp agency I get a majority of my work from will take a chunk of money out of my weekly pay.
If I don’t get health insurance, I get fined. If I do get health insurance, I get charged. Whether it’s “fined” or “charged”, I still have to pay to live. Sounds a lot like getting mugged, right? Yeah, that’s how it feels, too.
I worry that I have to look over my shoulder now, checking to see if some asshole is going to try and put his paws on me because he assumes he can. Is someone going to order me to “go back where you came from”, simply because they hear my accent? Do I have to adopt an American accent, sounding cartoon-y and obnoxious again, like I did when I was a kid? Just to try and blend in? To ensure a new target isn’t self-drawn?
In the beginning of this year, I had silently resolved to not revert to politics in every conversation I have.
This is, apparently, harder than I thought it would be. The politics are everywhere and in everything. They were especially prevalent in my blog yesterday, in which I put the Girl Scouts on blast for their participation in the Inauguration march.
That’s money saved! Now that I’m no longer giving them my money, I have to find other cookies to eat. Hey there, Trader Joe’s! What’s doin’?
After posting the blog on the Facebook page for Shaunta Grimes’ Ninja Writers (a closed group), someone read it and proceeded to tell me to “get over it, you lost!” At which point, I stood up for myself and told Rainbow Brite – in no uncertain terms – that with Drumpf, we all lose. Someone else piped in saying it was a political post, which is partially true. (It was mostly about not getting young girls involved in the politics that involve a highly publicised sexual aggressor.)
I said it. I meant it. I stand by it.
Ms. Grimes apparently couldn’t handle this with diplomacy, and wordlessly booted me off the page. No warning. No mediation.
So much for freedom of speech, eh?
As I type all of this, the Inept-guration is happening now. I can’t watch the nightmare.
The question now is, where do we go from here? A part of me would like to hide in an underground bunker hidden away in a state that neither Drumpf nor his mail-order bride knows about. Another part of me wants to expand my work and succeed, just to spite the racist xenophobe dick-tator. Rise up and take power of my life, my career as a writer, my hobbies in art, and to live my united-colours-of-Benetton existence and treat my neighbours of all colours, creeds and religions or lack-thereof, with respect.
Except Trump supporters. They can fuck off into traffic. He might be their president, but he’s not mine.
And I stand by that statement as well.