November is usually my favorite month. There are three family birthdays within it, one of them mine, and it holds a holiday that’s devoted to eating good food with people I love. What could be better?
I used to count Election Day as one of the events that made November special. Not anymore--this year, as was the case in 2016 and 2020, anticipating that day has me hyperventilating and close to tears.
November 5, 2024 is the worst. We’ve seen what Americans were capable of on January 6, 2021, and this year, with fires set in ballot drop boxes in two different states, contains no hope that violent insurrection won’t happen again. Lies have been spewed in campaign speeches and insults have been hurled with abandon. Promises to dismantle the Departments of Education and Health have been brandished and one of the richest men in the world has been buying votes on a scale never seen before.
In 2016, nobody knew what Trump was capable of and there were some who were certain he would rise to the dignity of the Presidency. In 2020, we believed decency would prevail. In 2024 we know better. He’s back, with the strength of a cult behind him.
Until this week, I was hopeful and optimistic. I wrote postcards, I made donations, I listened to debates, interviews, and speeches. Now I’m in a morass of PTSD. I know I don’t have the strength for what will come if we have four more years of Trump.
I remember him launching an attack on Syria while having dinner at Mar-a-Lago with Xi Jinping. I remember him refusing to give my state aid during a horrendous summer of forest fires because our governor had opposed him in the past. I remember him denying intelligence from the CIA in favor of what he was told by Putin.
Now the Supreme Court has given US presidents immunity from acts they commit while in office. There is nothing to stop this man from doing whatever he wishes.
In these final days before November 5, I no longer see the glass as being half full. What I see is a 50-50 chance that we will go through four years of hell, with nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.
And the best I can think of is the possibility of becoming a revolutionary at the age of 76. Appropriate, yes? The Spirit of 76 is better than living in fear and depression--make that cocktail Molotov, please.
