Trump's American Fairy Tale and (A Little of) What's Missing From It

Once upon a time, in a country not so far away, a president who wanted to be more told a story about the way things were, from his perspective, anyway, the view from privilege, power, wealth -- keeping and getting more of all of it. He wanted to self-congratulate, to look good, so left some important parts out of the story, parts that, well, might have complicated things. More on that in a bit. In this uncomplicated story things were going well, according to plan, and there were good people (called winners, business interests, investors, rich and powerful tough guys) and bad people (called losers, foreigners, lay-abouts, terrorists, and other worse things); the story made the president look like a hero: finally getting rid of that liberal stuff like consumer protection, regulations on corporate power, healthcare, lax immigration, pending gun laws, membership with the rest of the world in dealing with climate change, and on and on. He played the easy notes of platitude, cliche, melodrama, either/or. It made listeners proud, chest-thumping proud, of hard work, nuclear families, sacrifice, tribal membership, having dispatched a villain. He picked some low-hanging fruit that everyone could feel good about before plunging into some pretty selective examples intended to make the story believable. Oh yes, the story he told had some truth, but it didn't much connect the dots of history or context. It never mentioned why we had so many enemies or where all the wealth had come from or that the military budget has been a black hole of glut and corruption. He forgot that his country had used it to support dictatorships, overthrow democratically-elected governments, assassinate political organizers, terrorize whole countries with carpet bombing and scorched earth policies. He also did not say that he planned to rob social, educational, and environmental programs to fund his military upgrades. He was not humble or introspective or self-critical in any way, but rather god-like, turning his chiseled profile to the camera. His story was one of radical individualism and self-made men. (Whatever that is...) He worshiped gold and power more than just about anything and he liked people who told him what he wanted to hear. His story said that giving rich people more money would help everybody. He forgot that giving rich people more money had mainly made them richer while everybody else stayed about the same or got poorer. He didn't like people who pointed this out, didn't like people who asked hard questions. In fact he made fun of them. He liked people who took orders and he wanted lots of soldiers to keep outsiders outside of his kingdom. He liked to scare people, to tell them that if they didn't do what he wanted the country would be taken over by gangsters, rapists, criminals. He said we need a wall. A big wall. To keep us safe. Migration equals terrorism and crime he said. He said hoards are coming through loopholes to take away all we hold as dear. (He didn't mention that his family had emigrated from Germany after being deported or that his audience was descended from immigrants.) But he was here now, and rich, so he didn't want to share with any new people. That's not really part of his story, the sharing thing. He only told part of the whole American story, the who-was-here-first story, and what happened to them; his story began with his people, Europeans, and told of great ideals -- like freedom, hard work, and democracy -- founding fathers (who were themselves revolutionaries throwing off the restraint of empire, the kind we fight against today). He forgot to mention that success of white, landed, idealistic politicians had come from stealing Indian land and running a slave economy and working laborers to death. He left a lot of that stuff out; his light doesn't have room for a shadow. His story said don't think about that, but instead, be afraid of our enemies, build bombs, walls, and guns. It's about security that comes from dominating others. This story is about getting ready for the fight, the one that we must win, the one that will never end. Trust me he says. Divide the world into black and white, good and evil, friends and enemies. He called on the people to join him, to be on his side, to drink a bit of poison, to see him as a benevolent, trustworthy leader, to follow him without question down a dark, violent, fear-filled, greedy path. We're good he says. I'm good he says. Put down that damned book and don't look behind the curtain or follow the money. 

Cables

You were exhausted. You were sure your lights would go out as soon as your head touched the pillow. But it didn't go that way. Someone winched up the wires of anxiety and torqued them so tight you just lay there, banjo-string wound up, catatonic, staring at the ceiling fan, listening to the cat snore. You can't go on like this you think. Your mind is wrapped in knots and your neck is a study in steel cables. You just can't seem to get anything done, or to focus, or to figure out what is supposed to happen next. So you get up and sit in the dark. Hours go by. You try to penetrate the fog with no luck. When it's time, you rise to go to work. A red moon rests just above the thigh of a ridge in the western sky.

Idolatry of the Ephemeral

Outsider has been your standard operating status for most of your life. You were out of step with coolness and social codes. Lately, though, the weirdness has gone up a notch or two. You just don't get it. I mean you don't care about sports; you really don't want to hang on to youth and beauty, though they are wonderful stages of life; you don't like talking about "stuff," and 90% of what most other people find interesting, you see as superficial, shallow, and flat. But you're not that much of a snob about it. You like watching your fellow hominids do their dances to belong, to be swept along in the social tide of painted faces, team logos, and corporate/media sloganeering. You just don't get it. You actually want to think for yourself and to find others who do the same. Oh well... But other stuff does interest you: the stuff that seems to endure in spite of all the manic hawking of buying and selling. As the sea of the ephemeral rises, it gets harder and harder to see through all that murk, harder to remember what's worth hanging onto.

OK God

Here I am, a bit diminished, imperfect, aged. On the bright side, still upright and taking soft foods and other nourishment. Thanks for that. The demons are circling, and I could use some help in finding peace enough to sleep. Nights have been tough, as you know. The things I can't seem to get done follow me into the dark. They fade during the day, and my feet just don't take me to the right places. Can't quite wrap around that one yet. Anyway, I do still have a few faculties, can do some simple tasks for now. What I ask is some guidance about how to do that, some help with what to do, some visions of the future (whatever that is). Mostly though, I just want to know peace and do what I can. I'm trying not to cling to things I know won't last, but it's hard not to grieve their passing, hard to leave the familiar ways behind... Okey doke, that's about it for now. Time to pack up for the prison and get my butt moving, my thoughts out of my own little land of fear and loss.

Drawing a Blank

He peered over the edge and found nothing there but empty space. What he saw there before him was his future, a yawning expanse of nothing but possibility. He stepped back to better take it all in, all that nothing. The openness of it took his breath away and he wanted to fill that nothing with what he knew, to pull from his backpack the past that he had dragged up to this precipice that he saw for the first time, though it had always been there. He had just covered it up with his habits, expectations, and silly stories. He had been walking on air this whole time while believing that the nothing before him was solid ground, fixed and reliable as a slab of cement. Enough of that, already. It was time to create, again and again, the blank pages coming at him endlessly.

The Mountain Waits

I head east. It's still dark, but not for much longer. A wind kicked up around midnight. Chimes told me it was time to move, to rise and meet the day that was so new it was dripping with afterbirth. I was wide awake and fed the cat before going out and down to the river. Now I push into the wind. It feels good, this place of peace before the workday begins. I don't yet know who this person is, the one who steps forward into some unknown way of being. I trust him though. He extends a hand and says, come, it will be alright. Have no fear. I will join him soon enough. I have things to do after after the light comes, but, for now, I am free to just roll toward the big mountain, the one that disgorges the moon, launches the sun, is the source and home of wild things. I won't get there today. Phone calls, emails, inmates, and students all rely on me for now. I will turn around when the sky begins to glow. I ask for the courage to keep going, to finish strong.

Fresh Blood

The Rincon workshops have taken a big hit. Men are being moved, and the unit is in transition to a medical, psychiatric, and geriatric yard. Men I have gotten to know over the years are gone, leaving a hole in the group that I have to fill with more leadership and discussion. New guys take the spots left by those now moved. The fresh energy is strong, though. The group has gone from a latino ex-gangbanger ethos to a black intellectual ex-gangster feel. The new men, like their predecessors, are serious about writing. I have to step it up, bring more of my A-Game to meet the doubts and suspicion I see in their eyes. This is a strange space, this opening to talk life, ideas, and experience. The first assignment is an inventory of their "boxes," the small containers of personal property allowed them, and then some reflection on the significance of those objects, why the men keep what they keep: the postcards, letters, photos, books, memorabilia, and the associations that go with them, the world that they suggest, the paths taken, or not. I have asked them to be fearless and vulnerable. What do those objects say about unfinished business, about longing, about mistakes or achievements? What do they say about the character of their owners? It's a challenge I should take myself. We'll see what they and I bring in. It's a beginning, another beginning. The Muses watch and listen; they wait for the opening, the fresh infusion.