A Note: I have found the last few days very difficult. I wasn’t surprised by the “Access Hollywood” recording and I doubted it would matter. It left me feeling hollow, and I withdrew into the confines of my cold, the hurricane and two good books. This post is an accurate description of one place I was along the way. I’m not sure what I think now.
It isn’t every day that we have the opportunity to see without any distortion, to get an absolutely clear-eyed view of reality. At least, it wasn’t every day — until lately. Lately, we’ve been treated to an unvarnished view of our inner selves on a regular basis.
And it isn’t pretty.
And it isn’t what I think we thought we were.
And for that, I am grudgingly appreciative of Donald Trump.
He, who has held up a mirror and shown us just how ugly we can be, inside and out. He, who spouts stuff that others declare as “finally the truth.” He, who utters slurs that “men say all the time.” He, who has lanced the ugly boil of our self-satisfied private bigotries, large and small, and allowed the puss and blood to ooze out across our collective skin.
It’s a horrible — really, a terrifying, unconscionably horrible — mess, but it may also be the only way we cure the disease. The first step is admitting there is a problem. We thought we were post-racial, post-feminist. Apparently not.
And that’s where I am trying to hold onto hope. I am trying to hold onto the hope that, having contemplated the abyss, we pull back from the precipice and consider another way. That having looked deep into our own dark souls and seen the festering sores within, we still see a glimmer, a little wobbly light flickering way in the back that could — can — will — must strengthen and grow brighter.
I am trying to hold onto the hope that our better selves will reassert themselves, relieved as we now must be of the false conceit that we were ever yet sufficiently evolved.
I am trying to hold onto the hope that something good comes of all of this.
I am trying to hold onto hope.
I am trying.