Since I got this blog up and running again, I haven’t known how to write about our current state of affairs. I’ve been silent on them. I’ve kept it light-hearted. Funny postcards from over here in my life of privilege.
But my silence feigns acceptance. I may not know how to write about it, but I do not accept it.
The climate change denials.
The treasonous meetings with dictators.
The trashing of the FBI, the disabled, the Gold Star families, the decorated war hero.
The hush money to porn stars.
The transgender troops.
The ‘sons-of-bitches,’ ‘very fine people on both sides,’ ‘low IQ,’ ‘not very smart’ racist rants and dog whistles.
The ‘grab them by the pussy’ mentality.
The Supreme Court.
But mostly I wonder how to write about the children. The mothers, the fathers.
Theirs are horrifying images of grief and despair. Suffering brought on by the hands of my country. Like the suffering of so many families decades and centuries before them. The circumstances may be different, but the grief is the same. And there are still over 500 children separated from their parents. Alone among strangers.
You don’t need children to know the inhumanity of separating kids from their parents, but if you have kids, you can’t escape the inhumanity.
Though my privilege be loud, my keystrokes insufficient, I cannot permit my voice to be silent.