Nevada counts votes slower than I grade papers, and that’s saying something significant . . .
It is 8:20 pm MST.
The vote hasn’t been called.
It is Friday.
This is maddening, but I’m trying to remember:
they’re counting every vote and they’re probably
being interrupted every five fucking seconds
by some Trump weirdo
who is trying to find space
for a lawsuit or loophole.
Tonight, ten p.m. is my bedtime.
Last night I turned in at eight, and was proud of myself.
Felt well slept this morning, and taught some good classes.
One class, in the waiting room, I played Springsteen’s “Born in the USA”
which is like an ancient song for some of my teens. Some of them
seemed to dig it/know it, and when we started class I said, “Fun fact!
Reagan tried to use that song as a campaign theme because it was popular
in the year he was running for re-election” (as was Thriller, but I don’t think “Thriller” would make a great presidential campaign song). And no one on the Reagan team had
bothered to actually listen to the lyrics: despite the upbeat rock/pop melody, the lyrics
are highly critical of America: especially where it concerned the Vietnam war, our treatment of vets, and our treatment of the poor.
They liked this story because it was about adults, who try to pull rank, who pretend they’re tough and powerful and relevant
being revealed as fools. Which we
so often are.
We’re fucking fools. The way we’ve failed our young people
is as legion as it is inexcusable.
Adults failed us, too.
I get it.
But as I’ve said numerous times on this “blog”:
just because we were hurt doesn’t mean
everyone else has to be hurt, too.
What kind of fucking psycho are you, America?
I’m hoping the election turns out all right.
I’m heading to bed soon, because I need to preserve
my health and sanity. No one — not doctors, not bosses, not
presidents or talking heads are allowed to steal my health
and sanity from me anymore. This likely
makes me a dangerous woman: I fear
damn near
nothing.
Not because I’m totally batshit now, but because I know now
that most of my life
I’ve been afraid
for no real good reason.
I CAN be put out
(by cancer or paid labor or bureaucratic forces),
but I CANNOT be extinguished.
I will smolder
as long as the earth turns
on its wobbly axis.
So will you, reader, if you come by it honestly.
If you’re a decent human being.
(Yes, even if you voted for Trump twice, you can
be redeemed/forgiven, but you need a rabbi or priest or
psychotherapist because I ain’t your mama.) Do the work on yourself —
it’s worth it.
I told my seniors today that I was not going to be “poker faced” about the Election.
I told my seniors today that when I am dead and gone, I want people to know that I clearly, decidedly, openly said NO to Donald Trump for America.
Put
it
on
my
tombstone.
Quote me.
Come at me, bro.
Fight me, fucker.
(BTW, my cousin Hailey told me the funniest fucking story this week: Hailey
and her siblings are my 1st cousin’s children, so my Uncle Al’s grandkids. Hailey told me that once one of her little brothers wanted to get another popsicle — I think — because he dropped his and got dog hair on it, and when Hailey suggested asking “Grandpa Al” for another popsicle, the kid replied — all of four, mind you — “I don’t want to ask him. He’s just going to say ‘fuckin damnit.’”
I say “fucking damnit.” Just not to kids, but
I bet if I lived with kids, I’d say “fuckin’ damnit”
all the time.
[Hmm. Tried to find the perfect Ben-Affleck-smoking meme here, but was unsuccessful.]
I will never be on the side of Donald Trump.
I will no longer lie or disguise this just as I no longer
lie or disguise the fact that I’m a lesbian
married, quite happily, to another woman, anti-racist,
anti-misogyny, ageism, homphobia, transphobia,
anti-any-goddamn-thing that makes another human being
suffer unnecessarily.
Truth now.
Truth now.
Just don’t be a dick.
When I lived in Milwaukee, on a night out with co-workers,
a staff member took the time to tell me she HATED that I wore
patchouli (still love the smell — sorry/not sorry). I was taken aback
because it had been a minute since a fellow adult
was quite so rude to me.
“Well,” I laughed. “Thank you for your candidness about my perfume.”
“Just keepin’ it real,” she said, proud of herself.
And as I said in an earlier post — a comment like that is not “keepin’ it real.” You’re just being a dick with no filter on your mental observations. Honestly, if I (or most of the people I knew) “kept it real” like that? Fuck, man. The world would be a disaster because I know some really smart people who have smart (often correct) thoughts going through their minds 24/7.
On the daily, I have TONS of really fuckin’ funny snarky thoughts, but guess what? 99.9% of the time they do not
need to be
articulated.
Now, if my wife or a friend pulls me aside privately and says, “Gruber, the patchouli is out-of-fuckin-control” — THAT is “keepin’ it real.” That is “telling a good truth.” I mean, if I’m barfing everyone out, I don’t want to do THAT.
BTW, I don’t wear patchouli anymore — not because I don’t like it, but because my wife has introduced me to more sophisticated, albeit similar, scents. (Also, I think there’s a correlation between dislike of patchouli/nag champa and a misunderstanding of the difference between Communism/Socialism — haven’t done the research, won’t do the research, but if you’re so inclined then by all means, steal this research topic.)
Enough about patchouli, we still don’t “have” a president.
I told my seniors today about my first year at FALA, and the kid who hurt me so bad with a “letter” — told me my class sucked because I was a feminist, and that the books I chose were so boring, bathroom graffiti was more interesting.
It was actually a great letter. Well written and cut me to the fucking core when I was feeling super vulnerable.
Made me feel really fucking bad.
Using this example (but not naming names), I told my students today this anecdote. “Great writing,” I said about the cutting note. If this student was inarticulate, I wouldn’t have registered the complaint at all.
“Did it help me as a person? An educator?” I asked.
The answer is “no.”
It made me never want to ask for feedback again (though I have since, and will continue for as long as I’m in education). It wasn’t constructive. If it asked for any changes (which it didn’t explicitly) it asked me to stop being a feminist and to stop teaching authors of color.
I won’t negotiate on those things: I AM a feminist. I will always try to incorporate LIVING authors who are brown, black, female, queer . . .
Anyway, this kid was hurting. She loved my predecessor. It was the first year with me as the “new English teacher.”
When we’re in pain, especially emotional/existential pain, we say a lot of shit that’s regrettable. At least, I have.
But regrettable memories are accompanied by more, or equal amounts, of better, more wonderful memories.
Why, just this week I got the most beautiful (handwritten!) card from my former student, Karis. The gorgeous penmanship, but mostly the content (really exclusively the content) made me smile widely and brought me to tears.
That’s the shit life is worth living for.
Letters from Karis.
Coffee with Emma or Andy.
A funny note from Abby.
A kiss on the cheek from my wife because she’s proud of me
for speaking up for myself. A phone call
with Aunt Joanne where we cry and laugh simultaneously
about everything and a Zoom with my sister
where we make impossibly inside jokes
that no one else would enjoy
and also
a clean bill of health
(for now, but it’s always, for all of us,
in re: our bodily health.)
I got a CLEAN PET scan this week.
We might get rid of Donald Trump.
Sarah and I found an ADORABLE AND WONDERFUL house to rent in Tucson.
I have no shortage of people who love and care about me.
What more am I supposed to need? (Maybe a little more money, but fuck that,
too? At least, for now.)
I need more music.
I need more deep, meaningful discussions
with young people and fellow adults. I need
more cannabis of an evening, more good poetry, more
strong coffee in the morning, more series like The Sopranos and
more movies like Ladybird.
More life.
More life.
More life.
I’m going to fucking bed because this country
is driving me nuts
with these slow ass election results.
As I said at the start: I’m a slow grader, but
if I graded as slow as Nevada and Arizona count ballots
I probably would have lost my job
years ago.
Speed it up.
This is fucking glacial.
