jigsaws & girandolas
Our conversations are a circle 4 years round. He’s more in the conservative mode of small government, the economy *trumps* all, and, at-least-it’s-not-Hillary camp. I used to feel ashamed and disgusted about the whole affair, but have since become committed to authoring hope, equity, and decency into any political talk. I often fail. Like, a lot. It’s a really high horse to ride.
I remember during Clinton’s impeachment, my 17yo self asking what the hell the big deal was. Even if that bj escapade was conducted, literally, in a public office, it was private behavior. He launched into a lengthy, moist, and moving speech about the moral character of a nation. How the president has to set a different standard, be the best of us. I agreed. I ate it up. Today, that passion is lost or, at best, redirected. There’s no comment on the caricature, choking down apple pie, loving dictators, and dehumanizing refugees who seek the exact same thing his grandparents sought – a better tomorrow, today. That’s what I want most from our interactions, a selfish desire for him to acknowledge that the man in power is and should not be reflective of Americans on the whole. That this serial offender and demonstrable liar, regularly exhibits more than a few nasty cluster b personality disorder traits and continually challenges the notion of American decency both at home and abroad. Selfishly, I’m looking for him to validate my sense of this spectacle. He won’t. He sees things differently and we can’t/don’t engage on the why.
It makes for a frustrated and unresolved dynamic. But I deeply love my father, still. And I remember that while we haven’t been able to make and hold space to discuss these divided state(s) of America, there is power in the word *yet*.
I know the love is there, followed by the desire to be understood as well as understand. Underneath all of it, I know that. And that same feeling extends to every last single person on the other side of the political divide as well as those in the great swath that is the meandering middle. It’s a me/we thing. We can figure this out; we can be better; we’re fucking punk rock Americans who put men on the moon.
All this to say that each 4th of July affords an honest opportunity to reflect on who we are as a nation. Individually and societally. To define what kind of a people we are and want to be. To course correct when and where we can. If not now, in 2020. If not nationally, locally. I imagine it’s somewhat the same for some of you. When you’re talking to people about your beliefs, your conception of America, and y/our place in it as well as the world, try and do a little better. You know what I mean.
After 243 years, we’re showing some age, but we’re still more jigsaws than girandolas and our conversations should honor that.
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Pics to drive home the me/we point.
I love you, Dad.
