Like many of my fellow American parents, I imagine, I’m mortified that my six, eight and ten year olds’ memories will not be permitted to wipe themselves clean of any pre-November 8th, Donald Trumpian traces. Normally unparanoid, I woke up at 3 a.m. on November 9th to check the news on my phone, and became so disoriented by the news that I instinctively checked that the front and back doors to my house were locked. I felt sure that I should be on the lookout for an invading army. I had the distinct thought, “Is this still my house?”
I was not alone, of course. One friend’s son asked the morning after if he was still allowed to play outside. I know people who have been taunted by Trump supporters. My fellow grad school student received this message on her Instagram feed, “Ur kids gong [sic] be sent back to Mexico now bitch.” Another teacher friend’s Muslim student received this charming message. “”Looks like it’s time to go back to Pakistan, sand n—–s!” My son, knowing what Trump thinks of disabled people, and having a 4-year-old cousin with Down Syndrome, asked, “Is he going to take Patrick away, Mommy?” These are all logical, reasonable responses to the news that a hatemonger had transformed overnight into the most powerful man in the world. (Are there any Trump voters who are surprised by those reactions?)
In the hours after dropping the kids at the bus stop, I went through my own version of the grief stages: forgot to eat breakfast, wept in the shower, distractedly drove in the wrong direction, glared at the cheerful man passing by me on the street, assuming he was one of “them.”
But then, in between the grieving, and a solemn promise not to allow the voice of T- Rump (vastly more destructive cousin to the T-Rex) to invade my life for the next four years, Hope emerged, and a certain clarity. I felt energized, focused, like I’d just thrown out a big pile of garbage that I’d been avoiding for years.
I’ve always thought of myself as living by Gandhi’s challenge. “You must be the change you wish to see in the world.” How poorly I’ve been living up to that challenge! If he is THIS, I must be THAT, and how much time and energy I’ve spent on the fence between THIS and THAT!
We all have our own inner Trump, don’t we? The urge, in a crowded room, to yell at a disruptive person, “Throw him outta here!” The instinct, indulged all too often, to critique people based on their size or appearance because it makes you feel like the thinner and prettier woman, exclude them because it makes you feel like the bigger girl, dismiss them out of hand based on the way they speak because it makes you feel smarter. The Trumpian voice that says, “I’ve got mine, so sleep tight.”
I’m not on the fence anymore. I want — no, I’m going — to be the change, and it does start with me, with recognizing the ways I critique, exclude and dismiss. But first things first; let’s get together.
I’m working on an MFA in writing, and just recently completed my critical thesis on John Hersey’s Hiroshima, his nonfiction account of six survivors’ stories. (It’s a beautiful tribute to humanity in any era.) This is the Hiroshima passage that feels relevant to our current situation. After the bomb was dropped and the dust had settled a bit, the survivors tried to get their bearings, and headed in the same direction.
All day, people poured into Asano Park. This private estate was far enough away from the explosion so that its bamboos, pines, laurel and maples were still alive, and the green place invited refugees — partly because they believed that if the Americans came back, they would bomb only buildings; partly because the foliage seemed a center of coolness and life, and the estate’s exquisitely precise rock gardens, with their quiet pools and arching bridges, were very Japanese, normal, secure; and also partly (according to some who were there) because of an irresistible, atavistic urge to hide under leaves.
The green place invites refugees. Yes, doesn’t it? I just saw a sweet, hopeful photo taken in the quiet woods in Chappaqua, New York, of a mom with her baby on her back embracing Hillary Clinton, who she’d run into in a clearing. A forest feels like a good place for us to gather now, and we are so fortunate here to have them handy, though they need not be literal forests.
We each have our own Asano Parks. Mine are Fuel Coffee Shop in Great Barrington, Monument Mountain, the Green River in North Egremont, the women’s circle started by Maia Conty. What are yours? Let’s all head out for a hug and a cry. Meet me at a candlelight gathering tomorrow at 5 at the Mason Library, and bring your kids. We need to show them what the opposite of a bully looks like.
