A Note about Trauma Tuesday

It is already being normalized, the trauma of Election Day, the stories about what happened and what will happen fitting oh-so-neatly into the traditional grid of the New York Times, when all that really belongs there is a giant WTF above the fold.

The Pollyanna-ish posts have started, too, how hope will prevail, how our community will stay strong.

I try to hold onto the thoughts, but then images of Stephen Miller and RFK Jr. and Herschel Walker in the new presidential cabinet prevail. And let’s not forget Aileen Cannon as Attorney General.

Kakistocracy is the word for it, a government run by the worst, least qualified or most unscrupulous citizens available. Wikipedia says it was coined as early as the 17th century.

And boy, is it relevant today.

In fact, it’s not the president-elect so much as the people with whom he will surround himself that terrify us.

Not to mention the echo of that raucous “Drill, Baby, Drill” promise for the administration’s first day. We can forget the Paris climate agreement … and any hope of saving the environment. Or reviving women’s reproductive rights. Or preserving the rights of Americans to be their authentic selves, to love and marry whom they choose.

Those are just a few of the essentials for a bright future that will likely vanish.

And why?

I read an opinion piece today that attributed Kamala’s loss in large part to a shared feeling among American white men that they no longer have a place in society. It states: “Together, such numbers point to a feeling among many white men of being shoved aside: A sense that society is growing more feminine, increasing numbers of people speak a different language, immigrants are pouring in unchecked, and the government is more concerned about other demographic groups.”

Well, I have a few words for those guys.

When Ted and I started our life together back in the 1970s, we didn’t have a place in society, either. We carved our own place. Maybe it’s time for this segment of the population to put on their big-boy pants and make a new place for themselves, too. Without harming others. Without sending us all back 100 years.

It saddens me that, at age 72, Ted and I are, once again, victimized by a certain category of American male. Maybe the same kind of men who bullied us as we walked hand-in-hand down a small-town street when we were in our 20s. The kind of men who handed the White House keys to a rapist and convicted felon on Tuesday, November 5.

I recognize now that their shadow has lurked behind us all our lives, no matter how much we’ve told ourselves our culture has changed for the better in recent years.

So, you can see why we feel hopeless.

But enough.

For now, I’m simply dropping this AI-generated black space here as a marker.

A motivator.

And perhaps a turning point for Ted and me to seek something new.