 I waited patiently in line to vote today. The room filled with people as my eyes filled with tears. I feared that at any moment I would burst into sobs. Never in my lifetime has an election been so important, and never before have I felt so helpless and so hopeless. A repetitive thought circled my brain, “I can’t leave my children to some of these people.” That’s what we do when we vote--we choose to whom we will leave our children. The line at the church was long as was the ballot—many offices to fill, many issues to decide. I tried to be conscientious and remember that God was watching from the sanctuary nearby as I reviewed each name and each issue. I sniffled my way through. When I got home and was tucked inside my apartment, I wept. It seems the bad guys are winning everywhere we turn. They silently creep into our email accounts and our bank accounts. They snatch our identity and steal our cars. By and large, they get away with it. And now they are positioned to steal our democracy. It did not help my frame of mind that just last night the local news reported that our City Attorney was joining with other cities in filing lawsuits against Kia and Hyundai in light of the recent and rampant thefts of vehicles manufactured and sold by these corporations. According to the news reports, the theft issue is “due to the manufacturers’ failure to install anti-theft technology in the vehicles.” Is this some sleight of hand? I thought thieves were responsible for “theft issues.” While I am all for government standing up to industry and demanding and ensuring safety standards for everything these companies produce and sell to consumers, this strategy is reminiscent of rape victims being blamed for their abuse because their clothes were deemed too provocative, or of the neighbor accused of being careless for leaving his garage door open while he mowed the grass. Wasn’t the theft or home invasion the man’s own fault? What did he expect when he left his garage door open? These are examples of the kind of thinking that symbolizes so much of what is wrong in our world and why it is that the bad guys are winning. Going after the car companies makes people think that elected officials are “being tough on crime,” when, in fact, this strategy encourages crime by shifting the blame and the responsibility. It is sexy and makes headlines. Going after big corporations feels satisfying to the worried small guy, but it does not solve the actual problem. Many people have been victims of the Kia Boys. I know some of these victims personally. These good people are hurt, angry, and frightened by all of this theft. They feel deeply and personally violated and ill-at-ease in their own homes and neighborhoods. Many of these targeted victims are people who can least afford to lose their source of transportation during this difficult economic time. Some of them have been so traumatized, they have had to move. How did we get to a place where it is up to the innocent, good citizens to anticipate what the bad guys will do next and who they will influence? Ideally, each of us should be able to park our cars in our own driveways with the doors unlocked and the keys in the ignition and expect that the car will still be there in the morning. That’s the kind of world we need to be working toward not one in which the innocent and kind are labeled fools and the bad guys get away with everything. The problems have become so large, so numerous, and so relentless in the digital age, that people are exhausted and don’t know where to begin. They shrug and say, “Oh, well.” We are being buried alive by “influencers” with poor judgment who seek popularity and income from advertising. Our fascination with likes, followers, and money is blinding people to law, order, and basic decency. Too many politicians are among the bad guys. They seem to see voters as prey. They want attention, popularity, and power without any real plan or effort toward solving problems. They distract voters with their hate speech aimed at the opposition instead of addressing the real sources of the problems. Let’s stop lying to ourselves: THIEVES are responsible for THEFT. It doesn’t matter if the thief is a 12 year old stealing a car or a 74 year old stealing top secret documents. In the case of the Kia Boys, these mostly young people educated themselves on how to commit crime by watching Tik Tok and You Tube videos. Aren’t these companies complicit in the crime and in corrupting minors? Why are they still operating unrestrained, full steam ahead? Making billions of dollars? And what do we need to do to shore up our juvenile criminal justice system? Why aren’t those teens experiencing lasting consequences? They spend one night in juvenile detention and are back on the street committing the same crime over and over again. The police are exhausted and frustrated. When we fail to address bad behavior, we encourage it. Most often, offenders start small and engage in an escalating pattern of behavior until they are stopped. This is true of teens and true of adults. These problems do not belong to someone else. They belong to each of us and to all of us. I am too exhausted and too traumatized to face it all alone. We have to see past the hate speech and face this together. The bad guys can’t be given all of the air time. The polls will close tonight. When we wake up tomorrow, will there be anything left to lose?
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 Law enforcement responds to a call. It is from a day care center, a grade school, a high school, a college campus, a church, a synagogue, a mosque, a concert, a festival, a public protest, a movie theater, a nightclub, a bar, a restaurant, a grocery store, a convenience store, a subway station, an Interstate Highway, a gas station, a military base, a Congressional baseball game, a campaign event, a Veterans Home, a municipal building, a manufacturing plant, a park, a bank, a shopping mall, a jewelry store, a city street, a birthday party, a block party, a football watch party, a post office, a FedEx facility, a factory, an office park, a newspaper office, a library, a massage parlor, a yoga studio, a health care facility, a hotel, a trailer park, a home, an apartment complex, a neighborhood door-to-door rampage. There is an intruder. He has guns. And body armor. He has a plan. And a belief system. He is influenced by hate-filled public discourse and an on-line community of like-minded individuals who provide him with an audience for this act, an act for which his audience will dub him a hero. Is he mentally ill? Maybe. Maybe not. It is difficult to assess in this digital age in which inattention, thought disturbances, paranoia, and personality disorders have become main stream, an age in which many have willingly surrendered the higher powers of the human mind, gifts such as impulse control, empathy, and insight. We are trading our humanity for followers and likes. It is becoming cool to be unkind. We ask ourselves what must be done about mass shootings. And the truth is that we need intervention at every level. Law enforcement needs to be better prepared and more vigilant as do we in our comings and goings from all of the normal places we live and frequent. The list above is a list of all the places mass shootings have occurred in this country. There is no place untouched. We must do something to stop the proliferation and use of guns, especially assault weapons. We must be vigilant for signs and reports of planning. And most basic of all, we must stop the hate-filled, divisive public discourse that is overwhelming all of us in person, in print, on television, and on-line. We are exhausted by it, but there are some minds more fragile and more susceptible, people who will be damaged and act out in ways that harm us all. We need to prioritize human rights and human safety over gun rights and gun safety. The people who fill our legislatures need to represent the good people of America. There are enough of us to really show our power at the polls. And while we are at it, maybe we should change the rules of the game. Let’s show our elected officials to whom we have given good salaries, Cadillac health insurance, and big pensions what the gig economy we face looks like. Let’s limit their pay to the work they get done. If they want to represent special interests, let them go to work in corporate America. In the mean time, there are enough of us. If we have to, we can lock arms and form a human chain around every school in America so that our children will know they are safe, that grown-ups are in charge, that parents are not defenseless, that they can believe in us again. My children are grown, but sign me up. I’ve got the rest of my life to give for something that matters so much.  our It has been a stressful week. Our citizen-selves seemed fully engaged. With all eyes on the presidential election results, it was difficult to get any shut-eye. We all rejoice when we our team wins, but every American can relate to the agony of defeat. Each of us has a history of disappointments, losses, and experiences that wound and hurt. For all of us, it begins in childhood, and we navigate those waters throughout our lives. No matter our age or accomplishments, a loss can makes us feel like that scolded child who could never do anything right in the eyes of his father, or like the rejected school girl who never got picked for the teams, or, perhaps, like the humiliated teen who wets his pants as he runs from a snarling dog while his friends stand on the sidewalk and laugh. We each have our defining stories. I can’t say we always get over them, but most of us get through them. Some keep reliving those experiences to feed their anger, hatred, and retaliation. Others become paralyzed with self-doubt, anxiety, and withdrawal. For most of us, the hurts eventually lead to insight, empathy, and resilience. Thankfully, most of us lick our wounds in private. Our losses are not on public display for the entire world to see and exploit for entertainment value. I have heard President Trump poke fun at empathy, and yet, I imagine he could use some today. The agony of defeat can cloud our thinking, but losing the game does not make us losers. Sometimes we have to put on our magnanimous hats to restore normalcy and reach for greatness. Each of us would like to be remembered not for those silly moments when we were real characters, but for the important moments when we revealed our real characters. Most of us survive our falls by getting up before the bus runs over us. Even with our legs broken, we eventually find a way to put our best foot forward and keep walking. As Dr. Claire Weekes once counseled an anxious client who was afraid to cross the street, “Even rubber legs will get you there.” That has been my mantra in the thirty years since I first read those words. I have tried many things in my life. None of them made me rich or famous. By objective assessments, many of them were failures. But all of them made me friends. That is the currency with which I measure my success, and friendship is the ointment that has healed all of my wounds. If you are suffering some agony, Dr. Weekes would say, “It is never too late to give yourself another chance.” * * * * Some other tips for coping with anxiety from Dr. Claire Weeks in Hope and Help for Your Nerves (1990):
 I have failed the American people. It was not for a lack of trying. I sat on the couch with my eyes glued to the TV for 24 straight hours. Still, I could not bring in those election returns. Perhaps the Russians jammed my thought broadcasting network. Or maybe I toyed with the forces when I prayed that nothing would change while I ran to the bathroom. Or maybe after a day without a shower the forces abandoned me. Whatever… I decide to nudge things along. I make a cap out of tin foil and begin communing with the universe. Leave the house. That will do it! The minute I turn my eyes or divert my attention, there will be big news, and I will be the last to know--a sacrifice I am willing to make for the greater good. So, I shower and run a few errands. I leave my tin foil cap at home. Upon return to my apartment, I try to act casual. Despite my hungry obsession with the news, I hang up my sweater, blow my nose, and wash my hands. I preheat the oven in preparation for lunch. Then I nonchalantly walk to the TV remote and fire up my connection to the universe. The channel surfing begins...commercial…commercial…commercial. Good grief! More surfing and I hit on an update. In the hour and fifteen minutes that I have been away from my screen, Sharpiegate, and dead voters emerged. Initial election results in one critical state may not be known until November 12th. I groan. When will I cease to be surprised? We are living is the Age of Incredulous. No wonder Botox is big business—all those furrowed brows and slack jaws. Where’s my tin foil cap? Properly attired once again, I try to channel Marilyn McCoo and Billy Davis out in the Fifth Dimension. “Incredulous to Aquarius. Over.” Nothing. “Incredulous to Aquarius. Over.” Still nothing. “Can you hear me, Aquarius? This is urgent!” I receive a crystal revelation, mental liberation. I grab a Sharpie and take notes: “harmony and understanding…sympathy and trust…no more falsehoods or derisions…then peace will guide the planets and love will steer the stars…” Wow! This is big! “Incredulous to Aquarius: when? When can we expect this heavenly resolution to our earthly madness?” “When the moon is in the seventh house and Jupiter aligns with Mars. In the meantime, get off the couch and let the sunshine in.” “Copy that Aquarius. Copy that.”  I know that we are all weary--weary of this pandemic and of politics. But we are so close to election day. Regardless of your political persuasion, please vote. Men and women have suffered beatings, incarceration, and death for the opportunity we have on Tuesday. Though it may not feel like it during this difficult time, we live inside the golden door. There are still so many places around the world where people have no voice, no power. I am re-posting a piece that ran months ago on this page. Let us celebrate our right to vote by remembering that very first time! Do you remember your first time? The passion of youth? Awakening to new feelings, a new type of energy? I was born in the late 1950s during a very proper time when girls who got pregnant disappeared without a trace. My youth was stained by tears following the assassination of a president. Later, everyone cried again as a man walked on the moon just as the slain, young president had predicted. As I grew into my teen years, propriety descended into chaos as the country became further embroiled in the Vietnam War and the Civil Rights Movement. Some people gathered at peace rallies while others set fire to the streets. Love was free but people weren’t. Protesters shouted, “Down with the establishment!” It was an angry and contentious time. The women’s movement was picking up steam, and young women like me were reading Our Bodies Ourselves. Some of us were planning to marry right after high school graduation, but, for the first time, more of us were taking the SATs and thinking of college. As we tried to understand Watergate and the impeachment of a president, we also lived our high school years trying to understand a new lottery game in which there were no winners. I carried my transistor radio to school so my friends and I could hear the birth dates picked in the draft lottery. First prize was an all-expense-paid trip to Vietnam. The boys I knew were thinking of their futures. Many hoped it would not include Vietnam but maybe a union job at the steel mill where their fathers worked, or college—maybe even Ivy League. They grew their hair long. “Mercy,” grown-ups said. “What’s this world coming to?” I don’t recall adults really talking to us about issues of sex, self-protection, or any of the other important issues of the day. Children were seen and not heard. You went straight from that silent abyss into marriage, college, work, or war. There was a long list of don’ts,” but not much on “how to.” Some words were never uttered out loud, words like pregnant and cancer. Long before text messaging, adults described these conditions using acronyms like PG and CA. We had to learn from what we overheard and try to decipher the code. Despite all that, as teenagers do, we thought we knew everything, and we were passionate about what we did know. Prior to social media, we teens carried an invisible audience around in our heads, always seeking approval from those critical voices. And so that was the setting for my very first time. I faced it excited, passionate and involved even if a bit naïve. I tried to read up on it and get to know the person I chose. I was open about it and discussed it endlessly with my friends who were doing it, too. And so, on a pre-determined day, I looked into the eyes of my chosen one, and I saw myself reflected there--just as it should be. And then, I did it. I voted. For the first time, I elected a president. The entire process was exhilarating. Perhaps you have lost that lovin’ feeling since the very first time you voted. If so, I would recommend some love sonnets to get you back in the mood. Read The American Spirit by David McCullough. You will fall in love with America and democracy all over again. This time, when you decide to go for it, use protection—educate yourself. You’ll know he or she is the one if you can see yourself reflected in their eyes.  Do you remember your first time? The passion of youth? Awakening to new feelings, a new type of energy? I was born in the late 1950s during a very proper time when girls who got pregnant disappeared without a trace. My youth was stained by tears following the assassination of a president. Later, everyone cried again as a man walked on the moon just as the slain, young president had predicted. As I grew into my teen years, propriety descended into chaos as the country became further embroiled in the Vietnam War and the Civil Rights Movement. Some people gathered at peace rallies while others set fire to the streets. Love was free but people weren’t. Protesters shouted, “Down with the establishment!” It was an angry and contentious time. The women’s movement was picking up steam, and young women like me were reading Our Bodies Ourselves. Some of us were planning to marry right after high school graduation, but, for the first time, more of us were taking the SATs and thinking of college. As we tried to understand Watergate and the impeachment of a president, we also lived our high school years trying to understand a new lottery game in which there were no winners. I carried my transistor radio to school so my friends and I could hear the birth dates picked in the draft lottery. First prize was an all-expense-paid trip to Vietnam. The boys I knew were thinking of their futures. Many hoped it would not include Vietnam but maybe a union job at the steel mill where their fathers worked, or college—maybe even Ivy League. They grew their hair long. “Mercy,” grown-ups said. “What’s this world coming to?” I don’t recall adults really talking to us about issues of sex, self-protection, or any of the other important issues of the day. Children were seen and not heard. You went straight from that silent abyss into marriage, college, work, or war. There was a long list of don’ts,” but not much on “how to.” Some words were never uttered out loud, words like pregnant and cancer. Long before text messaging, adults described these conditions using acronyms like PG and CA. We had to learn from what we overheard and try to decipher the code. Despite all that, as teenagers do, we thought we knew everything, and we were passionate about what we did know. Prior to social media, we teens carried an invisible audience around in our heads, always seeking approval from those critical voices. And so that was the setting for my very first time. I faced it excited, passionate and involved even if a bit naïve. I tried to read up on it and get to know the person I chose. I was open about it and discussed it endlessly with my friends who were doing it, too. And so, on a pre-determined day, I looked into the eyes of my chosen one, and I saw myself reflected there which was just as it should be. And then, I did it. I voted. For the first time, I elected a president. The entire process was exhilarating. Perhaps you have lost that lovin’ feeling since the very first time you voted. If so, I would recommend some love sonnets to get you back in the mood. Read The American Spirit by David McCullough. You will fall in love with America and democracy all over again. This time, when you decide to go for it, use protection—educate yourself. You’ll know he or she is the one if you can see yourself reflected in those eyes. |
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November 2023
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