I awoke at 6:30 am from four hours of crappy sleep. Yesterday’s inauguration had made me very anxious so I stayed up watching Bridge of Spies, Jane Wants a Boyfriend and Beyond the Sea till 2:30 or so. I don’t have to explain that anxiety to anyone here, I know, but my oldest boy is a teenager now. The six-foot-two, two-hundred-ten pound frame he’s destined to develop is beginning to take shape. His skin is darker than his brother’s, a rich olive-brown reflecting African, Georgian and Anglo heritage. My beautiful, intelligent and gentle child is on the cusp of becoming a Mortal Threat.
The Talk has been an ongoing, slow-rolling event that began in earnest with Ferguson. This past year, as it became clear that Trump was shaping up to be a mortal threat to the Republic, those talks took on a different tone and substance. By Nov. 8th our conversation was less about police and more about the white supremacist movement feeling its oats and uncertainty about how deep the Pepe current may run. An “alt-right” public emboldened by hat tips from Donald Trump could spell real and present danger to many people, including our family, and especially to this boy.
He and I know deep conversation, often while driving to school. We delve into adult topics and I never hold back on truth or language in deference to his age. I believe my boys deserve clear answers and clear verbiage in all we explore, most especially on the dangers of this world and the threats they may face in life. Sometimes those realities are scary, and that’s ok. We work through solutions and strive toward the Light. Always, if nothing else, we strive toward the Light.
When the alarm went off I stepped into his room to find he was already up and getting ready to go. We made a pit-stop at Starbucks for coffee and breakfast then headed toward the opposite end of the city. He had an 8 am appointment for a four-hour exam and we didn’t want to be rushed. This day was an important one that will decide his placement at a highly competitive high school. He was rested, cheerful and wide awake. I was nursing a headache from lack of sleep. As we cruised up onto the freeway, coffees in hand and bellies full, I tuned to NPR.
President Fucking Trump.
“Did y’all watch the inauguration at school yesterday?” I had barely seen him last night.
“No, how was it?” he asked with a cringe. I looked at him, showered with a mild pre-acne sheen to his forehead.
“It was scary as shit, dude.” Searching my face for humor, he looked away. He knew there was nothing funny about it.
I drove as he read the transcript aloud and we dissected the parts that concerned us: the dark roots of “America First”; the carnage of schools devoid of learning; the factory tombstones and the stolen lives of an urban majority. The wiping of people from the face of the Earth and the total allegiance to a new bedrock politic, grounded in Biblical patriotism and protected by God.
“A new national pride will stir our souls, lift our sights, and heal our divisions.” I read at a stop light. “Which ‘sights’ he’s referring to remains unclear.”
”It’s a weird line,“ he said. “If ‘sights’ are eyes it’s awkward. If they’re guns it’s a scary non sequitur between the stirring of souls and the healing of divisions.” We considered this in silence for a while and I turned it back toward solutions. Police state authoritarianism and neo-fascist inaugural addresses are notes I wanted to temper before arriving at school.
”The good news, beyond his unprecedentedly low approval ratings, is that people in this country have a strong tradition of pushing back. It’s happening today all over the country” I said. He laughed out loud.
“I can’t wait to see how yuuuuge these crowds are today. Much yuuuger than yesterday I’m sure.” He was looking at his phone now and laughing again.
“What’s so funny?” I asked, smiling broadly as he blushed and hesitated.
“Whatever it is, I think you should say it, “ I prodded. “Not like you repeat all the ‘shits’ and ‘fucks’ that come out of my mouth.” He laughed again and turned his phone so I could see the now famous poster and rallying cry of the resistance.
“Cats.”
Nov. 8th Pussy Grabs Back
After his test we headed downtown, grabbing yummy slices from East Side Pie along the way. We were both in awe of the crowds and I wished I’d been able to march with the boys today. The power of tens of thousands assembled peacefully at the Capital, voices raised, was not lost on him, however. I spoke of the protests I’ve engaged and how very different this one felt to me. How the stakes are vital and how people standing up is more powerful than anything Trump can bring.
The police in Austin are tolerant and they hung back, directing traffic and protecting the crowds, but I shared some tactics authorities can use to disrupt things when they want to. We talked about Occupy and NYPD, Vietnam and Civil Rights.
And Tiananmen Square.
“Those were students, standing up against an oppressive and authoritarian government, and the public backed them because they’d had enough.” We were heading home and the boy was starting to fade. “There is a tipping point,” I proposed, “past which a government is forced to either concede or commit to mass atrocity.”
He was nodding but caught himself and sat up straight. Looking across at me with sleepy eyes, his square jaw and broadening shoulders showing hints of the man he would become, he smiled.
“You know what I think?” he asked, leaning back into the seat.
“What do you think?” I honestly wondered aloud in response.
“I think that hundreds of thousands of women in the streets scares the crap out of Trump and we totally have their backs.”
And with that he was out.