It’s been a mighty long time since I’ve set pen to paper, fingers to keys, to set my thoughts down for others. Since the last time I posted, the jarring horror of the nation’s slide into fascism has been mostly unchecked, and my thoughts spoken aloud or kept private have had no impact.
The silence of the Republican congress is its own separate shame. There are better voices than mine reporting on these times. My own silence since last April isn’t born of defeat, but more from battle fatigue.
I just won’t write his name anymore. I avoid speaking it. Like saying “Voldemort” or “BeetleJuice”, it only animates the monster further, inviting him in. The stench of him floats like a fog in our minds.
His image, and those of his henchmen, cadre, and anonymous followers are caricatures without satirists having to lend a stroke of separate artistry. They are effortlessly ridiculous and terrifying at once.
To my credit, I have taken my resistance to the street and done my share of shouting and marching there. It’s a stronger antidote to these poisonous times than social media. They’re just the lazy modern equivalent of the “free speech zones” that appeared with the second Bush administration.
Let’s continue to meet and air our grievances in the city centers, at major intersections, and on highway bridges so that his dwindling ranks can see how hated these policies are. I’ll be there with you. At home, I will make my own peace, and will monitor the times, but I won’t speak his name.



