Time to invoke the 25th Amendment.
Breaking news! Hours after the (Obama holdover) Acting Attorney General Sally Yates announced that she would not uphold Putin’s President’s Muslim ban, Trump fired her.
It took Nixon about 5 years to do something this egregious.
Trump? 10 days. TEN DAYS.
But I think we have another new Democratic hero. Isn’t it amazing how many Democratic heroes Donald Trump is developing?
It’s International Holocaust Remembrance Day. And so, of course, Putin’s President, with the irony born of someone without a soul or a keen eye for history, chose today of all days to ban Muslims from entering the U.S.
Naturally, that means anybody who “looks” Muslim will become even more of a target than they have been since Trump took us all down the gold escalator into hell. It is now open season on “others” here in our nation of immigrants.
So what can we do about it?
I will admit that the safety pin movement left me feeling decidedly unhelpful. It’s a nice thought, but it never made me feel like I was actually standing up for anyone. Or like I was doing something to help people being targeted.
But a while back I saw this article that offered some practical suggestions that have some meat on the bones. Really! Click on the link. Cause I’m not going to tell you everything it says.
Anyway, I like to think that I would be the kind of person who would stand up in any situation to protect those in need. But frankly, I’m overweight, slow moving, and cowardly. They don’t make superheroes who look or act like me. So the odds are NOT in my favor. Besides, when something happens around me, I never have a clue what’s happening. I generally stand there, looking around, confused. Immobile. Saying “WTF” with my mouth hanging open. Quick witted I may be with words, but actions? Not so much.
But the Vox article showed me a way to help when someone is being verbally assaulted, in situations where I am most likely to see it happen. It’s brilliant. And relatively safe. Win-win.
Here’s an example. Say you’re in Target, passing by the children’s section, when you hear a man harassing a woman in a hijab. He’s big and burly, and you want to help. You also don’t want him to target you. Still, you can’t just walk away, turn a blind eye. You’re a good person! You wouldn’t be able to look yourself in the mirror if you didn’t help. But how?
Why, act like an idiot, of course. Me, I’m a natural! At acting the idiot, that is. Not being one. That’s the role of the racist.
You interrupt the jerk. Wander in between him and his victim as if you’re looking for something, and can’t quite find it. Request his help. Be totally oblivious. Give the poor target the opportunity to get away. Think Roseann Rosanna Dana.
Or, in an equally ditzy way, pretend to be the friend/shopping buddy of the woman being mistreated, and in an oblivious way whisk that woman out of the children’s department and into the table linens.
“Sylvia!” said in the most nasal tone imaginable, “THERE you are. You were supposed to meet me in the shoe department … you come with me right now before they’re out of the size 7s…”
Read the article. Learn steps you can take to help folks who may really need your help. Because it’s a Brave New World out there. And it helps to be prepared.
Today of all days, it’s important to recall these words, from the U.S. Holocaust Museum:
The Holocaust did not begin with killing; it began with words. The Museum calls on all American citizens, our religious and civic leaders, and the leadership of all branches of the government to confront racist thinking and divisive hateful speech.
Sometimes a metaphor actually plops into your lap. Or your hands. Or into someplace you hope you don’t drop your cell phone.
That happened to me today, when I read an article in the Huffington Post about one of the, ahem, priorities, of the folks setting up Friday’s Inauguration of Donald J. Trump. And really, it is a metaphor for what is to come.
You see, whenever there is a big event here in the DC area, there’s a lot of shit going on. Literally. Lots of people = lots of pee and poop! So port-a-potties line the Mall, surround the Monuments; and ring the Capitol itself. And in the DC area, one company has the scoop on poop.
But, according to the Huffington Post,
When I saw that headline, my first thought was, “Of course they are. They’re covering up all kinds of shit.” But this time they’re not covering up the shit, but the name.
Photo Credit: Michael Showalter for the NY Post
Of course folks are covering up Don’s shit. But it’s up to us to pull off the tape and show the world Don’s Johns. That will be our job for the duration of Trump’s presidency — whether that is for 2 weeks or 4 years. To pull off the tape on Don’s Johns. To expose every breach of law, each unethical behavior, all threats to the rule of law.
THAT is how we will survive Trump. Because you can’t paper over the truth for long.
Every year at this time, I write about my New Years’ tradition. It’s a good one in that it is free and guaranteed to bring you good luck or your money back.
Normally I also post it after I am pretty sure folks have consumed enough to not be concerned about the guarantee. This year, I’m doing it early.
OK. Here it is:
It doesn’t matter where you are, you can do it there. Or you can wait and do it when you get home. It’s just important to get the bad luck out and the good luck in.
This year, because, well, because 2016 has sucked BIG TIME, I recommend holding open the back door a good long time to be sure to clear out all the 2016 bad luck. Obviously, we closed the doors too soon last year.
Last Wednesday as I drove to work heartbroken over Trump’s victory, John Lennon’s song Imagine came on the radio.
It didn’t improve my mood any. Because I was already imagining plenty.
Earlier today while waiting for a doctor’s appointment, I read a blog from my hometown that posted the Democratic Town Committee’s commitment to not permit bullying, acts of hate or discrimination in town.
Expecting to see universal support for this stance, I was shocked to see the first commenters take a stand, not exactly against, the DTC, but pooh-poohing the need for such a stand.
Naturally, I commented that those commenters obviously hadn’t been paying attention during the campaign. The result was a fairly brief round and round with the commenter, named Dan. As it turned out, Dan was a troll; his comments were removed from the blog along with several damn good ones of mine, I will add.
But he made me think.
When George W. Bush was elected, I worried. I didn’t think he had the brain capacity to be president, and didn’t think he could handle the job. Obviously, I didn’t predict 9/11 or the Iraq war, but I did see in him a bully and a person too easily goaded. I was right. His policies led us into a stupid, unnecessary war. His economic policies led us into a severe, catastrophic economic crisis that only the end of his presidency and Obama’s election prevented from becoming a full-blown economic Depression.
I also thought that Dick Cheney would be a good, calming, fatherly influence. My bad. And his, actually.
With Trump, I am afraid on a deeper level. I’ve expressed those fears many times, so I’ll just say that nothing he has said since his election, and nothing he has done since his election, and nobody he has appointed/is considering appointing has allayed any of my fears. He is an ignorant, hate-filled bully with small fingers who will have access to the nuclear codes in two months.
But you know what? This is where this morning’s troll comes in.
I would love to be wrong.
I would love for each and every Trump voter to work towards proving me that I was crazy to worry.
The list of things that concern me, of course, goes on and on.
Make it so that in 4 years, I will look back at the fears I (and so many others) had about Donald Trump’s election and laugh at myself for my foolish fears.
I will gladly eat crow. If there are any left given Trump’s plan to gut all sorts of environmental programs and the climate change pact.
Photo Credit: https://c2.staticflickr.com/2/1127/1009248999_385551a5f6.jpg. But you know I got it from Google Images.
The problems of victory are more agreeable than those of defeat, but they are no less difficult.
Winston Churchill, statesman and prime minister
Friday, 11/11/16 is a big day in my family. It’s Adoption Day. Our 25th.
You see, on November 11, 1991, my husband John and I adopted our son, Jacob. He was 3-1/2 months old at the time. Jacob was born in Chile, and John and I literally traveled to the end of the earth to turn a happy couple into a happier three-some. It was on 11/11 when the Chilean court approved us and said, yes, Elyse and John, “You’re Parents!”
For years, I’ve told Jacob that I knew something was up with that number. As a teenager, I was fixated on 11:11. I got a clock radio for my 16th birthday – it was an old-fashioned “digital” clock, with numbers that literally flipped on a carousel. Every night I waited until 11:11 before I could go to sleep, no matter how tired I was. I’ve always told Jacob that, even though I didn’t know what it meant then, well, my heart obviously knew that 11:11 meant something. Something big.
But I didn’t know just how big or just how wonderful.
Because 11/11 = Jacob. Our son, my baby, our boy, our young man. Our hilariously funny, nutty, astute guy. Our pride and joy. Jacob, you continue to delight, amuse and inspire us. We love you, Peanut.
And because we all need to laugh, here’s one of Jacob’s favorite Elevens. And we all need to laugh, don’t we?
And Happy Veterans Day to any/all Veterans.
[This is a re-post. Updated. Because I’m busy. Sheesh.]
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