It’s been more than 50 years since Elisabeth Kübler-Ross described the five stages of grief. I have been wondering how to apply those stages to what is happening in America under Donald Trump, because make no mistake about it, America under this administration is grieving. And I have come to the conclusion that it’s impossible. The normal processes do not apply.
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America is grieving.
We are grieving those we have lost to extreme weather events, fires, and other climate-related disasters. We are grieving those we continue to lose to gun violence. We are grieving those we are losing to preventable diseases because they weren’t vaccinated. We are grieving the loss of those who have been snatched off the streets and sent to foreign prisons and domestic concentration camps. We are grieving the banning of books, the suppression of dissenting voices, the attacks on the arts. We are grieving the loss of rights we thought we had protected forever. We are grieving the wanton destruction of our democracy by those who should be responsible for its preservation. We are grieving the loss of some certainty, some control, some confidence that our lives will provide us with at least the minimum we need for not just happiness, but survival.
We are grieving so many things. Too many to list.
And the list keeps growing. The grief keeps compounding day-by-day, hour-by-hour.
The grief is simply too profound, too overwhelming, and too unrelenting.
How do we grieve, how do we process our grief, how do we heal? Grief takes time. Grief takes effort. We cannot simply move on, and we cannot deal with either our grief or the causes.
And it seems that this overwhelming onslaught of grief is deliberate. It’s intentional.
A political class that rose to power by feeding the grief, and the grievances of millions, have now institutionalized, legislated, and militarized grief as their primary strategy to keep the power other people’s grief has given them.
And the mourning will continue, and the traumas compound. We hear the threats to take over cities, to turn the military loose on US citizens, to defund universities, to slam on the brakes on alternative fuels, to destroy decades of progress on human rights, minority rights, on access to vital resources for people other than white, nominally-Christian men, to flout both law and morality at home and abroad. And the threats are made manifest by men with hidden faces and flaunted weaponry, by politicians who steal from the most vulnerable to give to the most powerful, by politicians and bureaucrats who lead by lies and conspiracies.
Suddenly, those three brass monkeys with their hands on their eyes, ears and mouths seem as though they have the right idea. Shut it all out. Stop the noise, stop the pictures, don’t say anything that might cause argument or worse. But we can’t shut it all out. Even those monkeys can only do one thing at a time. Cover your eyes, and you can still hear the cacophony. Cover your ears, and you can still see the chaos. Cover your mouth, and you are left with no way to say what everything you can see and hear is eating you up with grief.
And so, our grief is manifested in fear and anger. We hide away or we strike out. We cling too tightly to the people and things we love, or we push them away because our grief makes love too painful. We shout rather than talk. How can we empathize with others’ pain when we are paralyzed by our own?
This is the real, comprehensive, most dangerous consequence of Donald Trump and those who surround him, prop him up, hide behind him as they destroy our democracy to build a white nationalist fascist state around a theocratic rhetoric they don’t even really believe or practice.
We need to accept that the process of grief – that long, delicate, exhausting path toward acceptance and healing – is, for now, a luxury we can’t afford. We cannot allow our grief to keep us from acting.
The window of opportunity for turning things around is both too short and too long.
There is speculation that Donald Trump may be about to succumb to failing health or failing politics, or he may be around for a long while yet. But the damage is already done. When he is gone, the grief will remain, and we cannot let it keep us from doing the necessary work. Recovery will be long and difficult, and we cannot wait until the next election or the one after that, the next administration, the next generation of leaders.
The work has to start now. It has to start with all of us, individually and in our families and in our communities. The public work, the protests and the resistance are important, but we also have to make it close and make it personal. We must not let our mourning isolate and weaken us. We need each other, our collective and shared empathy and support, our common will and our common strength. Talk together, grieve together, cry together, shout together.
There is every reason to hope that the country will survive this and have a chance to rise anew from whatever is left of us. Until then, let us try to turn our grief into positive action, into empathy, into helping each other.
Commentary, COVID-19, Liberal, Politics, Progressive
WAITING FOR THE PUNCHLINE – AND WANTING TO PUNCH SOMEONE
In Politics on March 29, 2020 at 11:01 amWe have relied, for the past several years, on the network and cable comedy shows to help keep us sane in these difficult times. Often, it seems as though John Oliver, Trevor Noah, Stephen Colbert, and the other late-night hosts have been a more reliable source of the truth about what’s happening in this country and the world than the main stream media.
And yet.
And yet.
Now that all the shows have been put online without audiences, I have been unable to bring myself to watch them. I see the Daily Show videos, the Colbert monologues, and I can’t bring myself to watch them.
I can no longer allow myself the luxury of relying on comedy to get me through this. It is too great a privilege.
I am a 72-year-old white male, retired, living at home with my wife, who is also retired. I can afford to sit at home and laugh through my anger and fear. I’m not being deprived of a wage that was already less than a living wage. I don’t have to figure out what to do about my children. I have books and television and radio and my cell phone and my computer. I can be isolated and not alone. I don’t have to go to work every day and risk my life. I don’t have to strip off my clothes before entering my house, then deny myself and my family even the simplest intimacies.
I am fortunate and I am privileged.
I even have reason to believe that even if I got sick I could afford testing and treatment.
My wife and I are social-distancing, self-isolating. We go out only to pick up a few things at the grocery store, where she goes in because she is younger than I and all the advisories say that I am more at risk if one of us gets infected. She is also required by family obligations to go out more than I. Of course, we must assume that if one of us were to become infected it is most likely that we both would.
Still, we follow the protocols. We clean everything that comes into the house. We leave groceries on the porch until we can sanitize the packages as best we can. We wipe down the mail. When we go for a walk outside with a friend, we stay 6 feet apart. We wash our hands frequently. We have reviewed all the guidelines. We live in a rural community where the virus has not yet been shown to be present, but assume it is only a matter of time.
We do this not simply because the government or the CDC or WHO or anyone else has required it, but because we want to be as safe as possible and we want others to be safe as well.
We worry about our sisters and brothers, our children and grandchildren, our friends and neighbors, many of whom may be more at risk than we are.
We live in ignorance of the facts. Like everyone else, we cannot really know the extent or location of the virus because testing is not being done as broadly or efficiently as it should. Was that dry cough a reaction to my blood pressure medicine or was I sick? Is there always a fever, or could I have been carrying the virus asymptomatically? Were our grandchildren infected before the schools were closed; before their soccer practice or games were suspended?
Will the measures now, finally, being taken mean that this crisis will be behind us by summer or still with us at Christmas?
How long? How much?
And that is why I cannot look right now at the comedy.
I’m too angry.
I can no longer laugh at Donald Trump. I can no longer see his daily displays of ignorance, pettiness, self-aggrandizement, lack of empathy or compassion, attacks on anyone and everyone who dares to suggest he might be wrong, might do better, might have some genuine responsibility to something other than himself, and not feel frightened for the future of our country, our democracy, our way of life.
I am way past the time to allow myself to believe that black humor, trench humor, can help us. These are dangerous times; not just because of the coronavirus, but because we are witnessing the willingness of the people in power openly and wantonly to destroy the Constitution in order to enrich themselves with both money and political power.
While we sit in our houses or suffer through our lives in the shadow of COVID-19, Our government is conspiring to stack the federal courts with unqualified, ideologically driven judges. They are arranging to give away hundreds of billions of taxpayer money to multi-billion-dollar corporations. They are stealing land and stealing the vote from the First Nations. They are carrying out petty vendettas. And they are dragging their feet on addressing the COVID-19 crisis because of unrelated, unimportant, fringe beliefs and issues. They are spinning lies and conspiracy theories and distortions rather than dealing directly with the very real issues of life and death.
And I want to go into the streets. I want all of us, by the millions to be in the streets. And we can’t be. The coronavirus has not just made us into hermits, it has robbed us of our most important power as citizens.
I expect I will get my sense of humor back. I do see some hopeful signs, good things swirling around in the chaos with everything else. I am, however, afraid that November may be too late for far too many of us. What will be left by then? And will we be able to come back from this?
We must stay engaged. We must stay afraid. We must stay angry. We must stay safe. When the doctors and the health experts tell us it is safe enough, we must go into the streets. And when the Fall does come around, we must take our fear and our anger to the voting booth in numbers that will make it loud and clear that we are not fooling around any longer.
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