Nevertheless, I Plan to Persist

I've been having trouble getting through on Washington phone lines for the daily calls I've vowed to make, and people keep telling me that email is not effective, so I went to Office Max yesterday to buy a stack of postcards on which to contact my government officials the old fashioned way - by mail.

The guy behind the counter looked at me like I was crazy. "We don't sell blank postcards anymore. We custom print them to order. What would you like your postcards to say?"

"No," I answered. "I want a stack of empty postcards so I can write to the White House and Congress every day."

"Ah, I get it," the guy wiggled his eyebrows and pointed me to the closest things to postcards on the shelf - index cards in neon colors - while he described the nude protest rally in Chicago he'd read about over the weekend. He looked like a large and gentle biker, a narrow braid down the middle of his beard. We shook our heads and bonded over index cards.

Then I went to get stamps. "Just out of curiosity, do you sell blank, stamped postcards?" I asked the lady at the post office when it was my turn. "Yes we do, but we sell them singly, and keep them behind the counter," she answered. Okay. Seems strange, but who knows what might happen if postcards were actually out in the open and in bulk? 

"I need lots of them," I said. "I want to write to the White House every day."

The woman looked at me blankly. "I'm sorry, what did you say?" she asked. "To be honest, I was thinking about something else - about where I left my shoes in the back room, actually. I can't remember where I took them off...."

"That's okay," I laughed. "I'll just take a roll of postcard stamps." I handed over my credit card and looked back apologetically to the long line listening in.

I took my booty home and set it out where it would be handy as I read the morning news online.

Today I opened the package of index cards and sent a note to Jason Chaffetz, head of the House Oversight Committee. I wrote that, as good as he was at investigating Clinton over small indiscretions, he should find investigating Trump's whoppers easy - the refusal to release his taxes, his myriad conflicts of interest, his insecure phone, and Trump's strange and disturbing relationship with Russia should all be a piece of cake; and I wrote to Mitch McConnell to say that history would judge him poorly if he stalled on an investigation into the president's Russian connections and if he didn't stand up for the legislative branch and the Constitution. Phew. I sent out a few emails, too, just for good measure, and then put the postcards in the mailbox. Just now the carrier picked them up and started them on their journey.

I don't know if my cards will get to their intended targets in sufficient time to do any good or whether anyone will even read them. I don't know if my words carry any weight at all. I don't know if I can make a difference to anyone but myself by speaking my outrage out loud at Office Max, the post office, or the halls of Congress - the role of active citizen is new to me, the effort to climb out of my comfort zone is daunting. Nevertheless, with so much at stake, I cannot justify doing less. So I plan to pick up that pen and lick that stamp every morning until we have a grown-up in the White House. In spite of my discomfort, I plan to persist.

Today is about saying thank you

Many of us wake up this morning loathe to watch, much less celebrate the transition of power from a man who speaks to our better nature to one who seems to delight in drawing out our worst. That is not just metaphor. I am dismayed at the anger, distrust, and bewilderment I feel within my own self at the stunning contrast before us, and I struggle to find ways to mitigate my fear.

One way to do so is to acknowledge those better qualities demonstrated and exemplified in the White House these past eight years, and to say thank you in every way I can. I’m not talking about the politics or about the accomplishments and failures during Obama’s tenure, I’m talking about the burden this man bore on our behalf and the grace with which he did it. I’m talking about the example he set for love, grace, humor, and tolerance, about the hate and insults he absorbed without breaking, about the worry he carried through the night on our behalf.

On a friend’s FaceBook post today I read a dialog that scared me – one person criticized the behavior of our new president, another warned that all such talk would soon be met with an assassin’s bullet sanctioned by today’s swearing in. I’m not naïve enough to believe that this inherent anger, distrust and violence has risen whole from one man’s ignominious campaign. We are all to blame. But I am frightened by the implications for ourselves and for our country. Is this who we are to become? Yesterday, Ann Pachett wrote, "Love was not something I would have previously thought to look for in a president, but now I’m wondering how I’ll do without it."

Love. Love for country, love for justice, love for family, love for arts and education, love for peace, dialog, and reason. These are the qualities exemplified by our outgoing president, his wife and daughters, the qualities that make our country great and bring out the best in each and every one of us, no matter who we are or how we feel about the politics that got us here.

This morning I will watch this beautiful family leave the White House with the same grace with which they’ve occupied it and then I will turn the TV off. I will take a walk and – as a new president is sworn in – I will make a plan for how I can become a better, more active citizen and a more gracious human being and I will write a letter to tell Barack Hussein Obama of my gratitude for his being who he is. 

A Warrior For Love and Hope

I’ve been thinking about my mom this election season, but not for the best of reasons. Her earliest days with Alzheimer’s were spent in front of the television, obsessively watching a different election cycle. Morning until night, she sat in front of that TV, disbelieving that anybody could ever vote for somebody she deemed ridiculously unqualified and a little dangerous. Why couldn’t they see what she saw?

“Mom, for goodness sakes, let it go,” we’d urge her. “Turn it off. You’re not going to change anybody’s mind by watching every detail.”

But I cannot count the times her response has come to mind during this year's terrible campaign: “Somebody has to be a witness,” she said, without moving her eyes from the screen.

Every time I’ve caught myself sinking into a funk in front of the TV, I think of my mother when she was suffering from dementia and bad politics. I feel the obsessive paralysis that comes with disbelief.

But today, I’m holding the better image of my mother in her prime: a warrior for kindness, peace and justice, a believer in human potential, especially her children’s. If she were here, Mom would remind us all to believe in the inherent goodness of all our fellow citizens – even the ones we disagree with, the ones whose politics feel so dark and dangerous. My mother, bless her soul, would be the first in line to cast a ballot, and she would vote for love and hope.

There are many reasons I’m voting for Hillary Clinton, most importantly the impressive qualifications that have gotten short shrift in all the vile rhetoric from the left wing and the right. I’m also voting to stop a man I think is radically dangerous for our country, our world and our globe, worse than any my mother ever saw.  Until today, the fact that Hillary is a woman has been lower on my list, but I will admit to a little shiver this morning, as I get ready to go out and vote. That’s why I’ve put on my mother’s diamond earrings, so I can take her to the polls.

This is for you, Mom, and for all the women who taught us to believe we could be anything, even president of the United States.