In the Outlander book (#4) I am reading or the episode of the Outlander series I just watched, not sure which, but finding both perfect antidotes to pandemic hopelessness, Claire directs everyone to find maggots to chew away the diseased parts of Jamie’s terribly injured and infected leg. The imagery of this really hits home with me.
I need a load of maggots to chew away four years of rage about Donald Trump. I’d start with our stockbroker who sent me a racist Obama meme on Facebook Messenger late one night and then suggested my portfolio would improve with Donald Trump. And then I’d send a couple of maggots to chew on the insufferable Bernie Bros who cluttered up my social media feed with their insane, single-minded devotion. And at least a good healthy handful of angry worms would be devoted to the “Hillary was a terrible candidate, she wasn’t likable, and (my very favorite) she didn’t come to Wisconsin!” post-election cabal. The people who, after the election, jokingly claimed that they wrote in “Donald Duck” for President, well, they were immediately dead to me and nothing they have done since or could ever do will result in their resurrection.
The day Donald Trump was inaugurated, we were in California visiting our daughter and her husband. During the actual time of the inauguration we went to a movie – Moonlight – at an old theater in a cute San Diego neighborhood. We wanted to be nowhere where we would have to witness the installation of Donald Trump as president in real time. After the movie, which was gripping and strange and, yes, depressing, I was relieved and glad to push open the doors to outside.
It was raining. Not a hard rain which would have made the weather emblematic and memorable. It was a soft rain, more of a dew than precipitation. Ahead of us, my daughter and her husband held hands and twirled their unfurled umbrellas like a segment from Singin’ in the Rain. They looked carefree, strolling ahead of us, and the look of them gave me hope for the future. We would all get through this, I thought. How bad could he be?
It is terrible to think of horrible, inflamed, oozing leg wounds when reflecting on one’s country or to land on a bucket of maggots as the perfect metaphor for what needs to happen. But it’s where I am on this day, January 13, 2021, the day Donald J. Trump was impeached for the second time.