I need to tell you about a nightmare I have, often.
I’ve told you about the facts of Black men killed by American state actors, hundreds of men-turned-hashtags daily and the numbers to which their lives are boiled down, but I need to tell you about this nightmare. This hurt.
I need you to know that I don’t care how you cast your votes. I don’t, though I obviously did until a few weeks ago. This isn’t about votes, though the post was inspired by yet another White Hillary voter telling me I must be so glad Trump is coming to office.
He spoke those words because he has no idea the weight I’ve carried the last few years. He has no idea that this Terrible Thing Just About to Happen in his eyes is already a moment from happening day after day after day after day in mine.
He has no idea that when I cast my vote for Bernie Sanders in the general election, it was because I already knew that Hillary Clinton was no savior for Black men.
“You didn’t find the right words,” people like this man have told me dismissively. “It can’t really be that bad, or I’d have noticed it.”
No, you really wouldn’t have, I’ve tried to say dozens of different ways. Your life is hard and scary and sad enough as is, even without looking beyond your own day to day.
You didn’t notice, and that’s understandable.
I did, because I had to.
I did, because every day I kiss my husband goodbye as I leave for work, I’m acutely aware of how I might never see him again.
So, please, follow my nightmare … and, please, for the love of God, do anything you can to see it doesn’t come true for anyone else, no matter who ascends to the White House next month.
I am sitting and playing with my two young boys in my living room when my cell phone rings. Read more…
I recently called President Obama a magician. He’s quite a skilled one, too; he consistently has you believing he’s doing one thing while doing quite another. I’ve listed several specific examples today.
President Obama has dramatically, scarily expanded executive power just in time to hand the U.S. presidency to Donald Trump.
Rather than protesting Trump individually, we ought instead protest this expansion, and unify to demand return to a truly representative government with appropriate checks and balances reinstated.
We must not cede to any individual president any power that might terrify us in another person’s hands.
Today’s post is brought to you by dinosaurs, bomb bracelets, and safety pins.
We each took enormous loans while working our way through college and grad school. The loans were heinous, to be sure, but not nearly as heinous as poverty that steals all pretense of power.
Now, between my younger sister, my brother, and the brother-in-law who’s endured so much with us that I sometimes forget he didn’t begin with us, we have four advanced degrees and a fifth on the way.
When you call Sanders supporters “ignorant,” “uninformed,” or “privileged,” that’s what you’re calling us.
You sound like our dad.
Don’t take my word for it, though. Read my sister’s aching post on the matter.
And then, the next time you’re poised to type such a slight as if it’s objective truth, please pause and ask yourself:
Is this who I want to be?
“Rape is not about sex,”
“It’s about power. It’s
about taking power.”
(If you will not
give me it, I
will seize it
Bob: I need (to have sex with you/you to vote like me).
Ann: No, thanks. I know what I want, and it’s not that.
Bob: I told you what you have to do. Now do it. I need it.
Ann: No. No.
Bob: You won’t give it up? Fine, bitch. I’ll take it from you … because I’m bigger. And I can.