This morning, I feel a bit like I felt that awful night in November, 2016, when it became apparent that the United States had elected a rancid pig as its president. In the ensuing year and a half, the pig has rotted even more and its stench fills every nostril in every nook and cranny in this country. How some people can find the odor appealing is beyond me. I suppose they share DNA with carrion-eating creatures. I suspect those anosmics (new word: people unable to perceive odors), if they took the time to look, could trace their family histories back to flocks of vultures.
I can’t scream loud enough. I can’t make my voice heard by people who have the power, but lack the will and the backbone, to change the direction of this country. I think I understand the fulminant rage that shows itself in the form of irrational attacks on innocent crowds. It’s a madness driven by the inability to change an environment one perceives as monumentally and irreversibly wrong. The difference between their rage and mine is that I would not, could not, under any circumstances, allow my rage to endanger innocents. I could allow myself, alone, to be its only victim. But that’s of no use, either. Letting my anger gnaw away at me to the point of madness or illness would be idiotic. And so I continue to scream until my voice is hoarse and weak.
Yesterday, I mailed letters to my two Senators and my Congressional Representative and copied the Attorney General. I also sent the text of the letters to the three addressees via email. I called on them to take immediate action to put an end to the Attorney General’s practice of tearing families of illegal immigrants apart. I quoted biblical verse, words the preceded and followed the verse referenced by the Attorney General, to point out how utterly hypocritical the man is. And I stated that biblical verse is not the law of the land; the Constitution is the document by which we live. I am sure none of the intended recipients will ever see my words. Even if they did, all of them are so beholden to the monster in the White House that they will do nothing, even if they do not agree with the administration’s action. So, why did I mail letters if I don’t think they will have any impact? That’s a question I ask myself. Shouldn’t I take more visible action, like visiting their local offices and make my points in person? That’s where my rage might explode, though. I might well become irrationally angry at the people who would stoop to work for these creatures the people of the State of Arkansas have elected.
As I think of my anger at my own country, I think I want out. I want to leave this sinking ship that I cannot save by bailing a cup full of water every time it takes on a gallon. But I won’t. I don’t have the wherewithal. And, even if I did, my wife doesn’t feel the rage as intensely as I do. And she has no interest in moving away to a place with a different culture and, perhaps, a different language. So I’ll continue to scream until my voice is hoarse and weak. And I’ll continue to write letters to people who don’t give a damn what I think and have no interest in hearing what matters to me as long as they can cater to their base of heartless vultures.
I don’t think Americans have the heart for revolution the way they once did. I think they—we—will acquiesce to the wishes of a rotting piece of human scum, hoping they can hold their noses long enough for him to go away. When they finally realize his fetor is a permanent smell, it will be too late.
I hope this mood of despair is temporary. I don’t know that I can tolerate feeling this low for long. I need to find something to snap me out of this.