Rage.
I was all set to write about rage and then something washed over me. Grace? Probably not. Probably fatigue. I’m spent, what with all the raging. I remember that there’s a new moon, maybe it transited to a benevolent position when I sat down to write. I want to believe in cosmic forces and benevolent tides.
I want to believe in justice served. But it too often arrives cold. Not quite as advertised. Like ordering from a menu with glossy photographs. The picture is worth a thousand lies and what’s on the plate will never match your palate’s expectations.
I was taught as kid on family trips to stick to the basics at questionable roadside eateries; the kind of places with names that indicated things were not quite as they should be. Chuck’s Chalet. Ron and Wendy’s Burger Shack. Never Better Pies. More like Never Better Lies came out of that kitchen. Stick to the basics. Grilled cheese is hard to mess up. Order eggs in a form you will recognize, like fried. I once saw an omelette that was a molded spongy yellow form clearly engineered but not necessarily genetically and not necessarily from eggs. There are a lot of things that are called food but are not sustenance for the human body, I try and stay away from them.
I want to believe that the American people who chafed at a female chef will be excited about the new items on the menu and realize they don’t have to keep eating the government cheese turd product. Of course there’s always grumbling, like when McDonalds introduced salads.
I must be hungry to sustain this food metaphor for this long.
I am in fact starving. Starving for discourse instead of discord. Starving for reason instead of resentment. Petulant entitlement is the high fructose corn syrup of political engagement.
Deep breath.
There’s a new moon.
There are new conversations happening. There is new awareness that we’ve ingested modifications of the truth for generations. There’s a growing recognition that the health of the planet and the health of humanity are interconnected. Revelations of systemic abuses and biases are simultaneously enraging and hope inducing. There is new language for the fight against white supremacy and it challenges everyone to be actively anti-racist.
I am hopeful for the conversations that have begun. I anticipate great developments from a promising start. But I also dread that fabled Thanksgiving dinner where everyone is noshing on appetite whetting treats, only to end up with a giant undercooked bird. More than inedible, it’s potentially poisonous. It could lay everyone out flat. Recovery might not be guaranteed for all. And worse, we’ll still be hungry.
I don’t want to be hangry for the next 76 days. I want to believe the collective consciousness knows we need to eat better. But I know I’m going to bump heads with folks who don’t like doing whats right for them.
So I concocted the democracy diet.
There’s 244 pounds to lose by November 3rd. I’m going to carefully watch what I eat; what I ingest from the news cycle and what I digest from the socials. I can’t change everyone’s political eating habits but I can encourage them to question the ways they sabotage their own health. It’ll be like reminding the lactose intolerant friend that she’s about to order a sundae on day one of a four year vacation. Does she really want to spend four years on the toilet?
Everyone wants a menu with a selection of their favorite things but the menu is limited. It is a Prix Fixe and there are two options. No substitutions. If there are details about the Blue plate special a family member finds unappetizing I’ll encourage them to consider the alternative is basically a plate of carcinogens; a cancer that will decimate democracy.
But the most important thing is to invite everyone to the table. If you want to eat you have to vote. Are you registered? Is everyone you know? I challenge you to ask even if you think you know the answer. You might have a friend who is a political anorexic and they really need your help and empathy.
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