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On Election Night 2016, once I realized it was all over
except the crying, I figuratively slumped to the floor, and I couldn’t manage
to rise until the birth of my first grandchild seven months later. That
momentous event in my own little life lifted me up, even though I now fear for
my baby-boy’s future in a world where Tyrannosaurus T (i.e., the nefarious dotard-in-chief
of the USA) and his buddies soil the nest daily and then proudly crow about
their latest poo-poo as if it deserves enshrinement in a trophy case for
worship. Like so many others, I suffer from Post-Traumatic Election Disorder.
After the election, I worked my way through the usual stages
of grief, and I added new stages not previously invented, such as the stage of
avoiding any discussion analyzing how this catastrophe happened, the stage of listening
to fifty different artists perform their version of Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah, the stage of the recurring
dream that the Obamas still inhabited the White House (and that they invited me
to a dinner featuring organic vegetables from Michelle’s healthy-eating garden),
the stage of imagining moving to Canada, the stage of fantasizing a different
election outcome over and over and over as if in Groundhog’s Day, the stage of
refusing to look at media images of (or listen to) Tyrannosaurus T, the development
of a survival plan stage, the media diet stage, the find new kinds of organic
dark chocolate and consume large quantities stage, the fear of traveling
anywhere in the U.S. outside California stage, the despair about the failure of
those in power to recognize and address climate change stage, the visit the
ocean stage, and the reading sci-fi escape novels stage. (To name a few.) The
stages continue. I will never completely shake this grief. I continue to seek
new ways to cope, to shake this pervasive sadness, to resist, to deflect the
onslaught. I write postcards, call, and email congressional reps every day. I
have contacted McCain, Murkowski, Collins, and other senators so often about
healthcare that they probably confuse me with their health insurance provider.
Lately, with Tyrannosaurus T shouting “YOU MAMA” at the deranged
Korean kid next door who got nuclear weapons for Christmas, I’m having Bay of
Pigs imminent nuclear annihilation flashbacks. I feel tempted to practice the
1960s duck-and-cover safety position under my desk. But at my age, with these
knees, I can’t risk it. I would get stuck under there. (I should probably stash
some chocolate under my desk just in case.) If things weren’t so dire, it might
make a good joke. What’s the first thing to go in a nuclear holocaust? Your
knees. Last month, scientists warned not to use conditioner in our hair after a
nuclear bomb detonates because it will cause radioactive particles to bond with
our hair follicles. This begs the question, what hair? But apparently a lot of
people in Kentucky have stopped using conditioner as a precautionary measure,
even though Tom Price has debunked the warning as fake science. Although Price
would not recognize a scientific fact if it sat on his face.
My children humored me when I insisted that they renew their
passports in case we need to flee the country. A Jewish phobia, they said. Then
Charlottesville happened. We have secured current passports. A few weeks ago,
my daughter, who lives in SoCal at the other end of the state from me, said, “Mom,
if the world collapses, I’ll try to make it home to you.” I replied that she should
do that, and that I would find something for us to eat, adding that I know how
to process acorns to make them edible. (Edible, yes. Tasty, no. I think tasty
requires assistance from authentic indigenous people.)
This is the week between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. For Jews
like myself, this is a time of reflection, revelation, resolve, renewal, and
rededication to the work at hand. We contemplate how to turn things around to
improve our lives and do a better job. During this time of teshuvah (turning), I am making a concerted effort to get past the
election and to really move forward. I will always grieve for how much potential
we lost in that election. How much progress we lost. So much loss. But I do not
want it to prevent me from forging a hopeful and meaningful life; a continuing
joyous life. Especially so if we have limited time left on this glorious planet
with the miracle of our loved ones. I will join the hopeful, those who believe in
the future and will work to make it become. Fundamentally evolution does not
happen in the realm of politics, anyway, but in the life of the spirit.
During two months this past summer, four grandbabies arrived
for me and three of my peers. These dazzlingly miraculous babies deserve to
have beautiful lives in a beautiful world. Visualization to manifest such a
future is not enough. Resistance during this perilous time in our nation’s
history is not enough. There is no alternative planet. Mars remains incapable
of supporting human life. You can’t make chocolate there. But despair is not an
option. So I have talked my figurative knees to getting me up off the floor.
It’s much easier to coax the figurative knees to work than to coax the real
knees to work. (Because they are fake knees. Wow, the art of humor is coming
back to me.) I must get to work to build a future for my children and their generation,
for my grandson and these other new arrivals and their generation, and for
those yet to come whom I will never know but whose lives depend on my ability
to recover from my election trauma and get back on the job. I have to say that I
agree with Groucho Marx: “I’m not crazy
about reality, but it’s still the only place to get a decent meal.”
