We are all reeling after the January 20th inauguration. It happens to be my birthday! I celebrated with my kids and spoke with the other ones. I rejoiced that I have 3 adult children, two in their 40’s and one in her late 30’s, doing extremely well in their lives with loved and loving significant others, homes and jobs they adore and lives that reflect some measure of maturity and accomplishment. I can think of no other greater birthday present. My oldest with my son-in-law took me out to eat at a local neighborhood favorite place, we talked and shared with 2 of their friends who are also friends of mine, and they gave me a bag of wonderful goodies that will brighten my life and my home. Hugs and kisses all round.
Still, the pall of the last year culminating with the election of what I describe as a mentally ill clown with serious ability to create great damage, has hung over me and everyone else like a cloud. Today’s woman’s rallies, (with supportive men as well, of course) stretched across the globe. Here in Chicago we had over a quarter million people downtown–they clogged the entire downtown area and forced them to cancel the rally. It was just too many people. The point was made. We aren’t going to take this lying down! We’ve put that pussy snatcher on notice!
Yet…yet…I am still depressed about it all. The immediate signing to rescind Obama care is a warning bell that is clanging much louder than I would like. It is the introduction to a season when the needs and requirements of the hard-pressed, hard working middle class and poor will be ignored and spit on. When the “entitlements” which are the social contract put into place by FDR so many years ago will be wiped out. When many will die because they cannot receive the health care they need, even though we live in a country where our doctors and health care professionals, our hospitals and our diagnostic and treatment tools are the best in the world. The outrage and the despair walk side by side–I careen from one to the other, but ultimately I find myself in despair. At my age, 68, I am not about to rush out and get angry in the streets. I avoid crowds as an introspective writer. I’ve found the Chicago political scene crazed, frustrating and cruel. So what to do? Take pen to paper, it seems and begin doing my blog once again, because, as my mother once told me as a child, “the pen is mightier than the sword.”
And so it is.