Bernie's Mistake

Bernie Sanders isn’t alone in wondering if a woman can be elected president of the United States. I’ve wondered the same thing. I’ve said the same thing: I don’t think a woman can be elected president.

I think Hillary Clinton’s loss had an enormous amount to do with her being a woman, with the sexism from the right and the left so thick sometimes it made my eyes water. Her defeat depressed me so much that it called into question what might be a fundamental truth about my fellow Americans – they can’t bring themselves to vote for a woman. Oh, they hide it pretty well. But those of us who grew up in the swamp of sexism can smell all the creatures who live there from 5,000 miles away.

So Elizabeth Warren says that Bernie expressed his view that a woman couldn’t be elected president. And then ensued a media happy dance about Bernie’s apparent sexism which I thought was nuts because I have thought the same thing. Such a statement can represent astute political judgment – like mine and Bernie’s – as much as sexist determinism.

So I was ready to let Bernie off the hook.

But then he said it never happened. He stood right next to Elizabeth Warren last night on the debate stage and he said he never said it. He didn’t say he was misunderstood. He didn’t apologize if anyone was offended. He flat out said it didn’t happen. He basically called Elizabeth Warren a liar or, more accurately, a hyper-sensitive, overly emotional girl who got herself riled up over an imaginary slight. Nothing she said was true. Only what he said was true.

It was a master class in marginalizing a woman. But in this case, the woman was his longstanding friend, a fellow United States Senator, a woman of substance and character. But it didn’t matter. He couldn’t apologize, couldn’t acknowledge, no. He had to be right.

Bernie Sanders reminded us that the sexism he denies having is just as robust as it ever was, it’s just hidden until he’s poked. And he got poked last night and the sexist bullshit came flowing out of him like pus from an abscess. No wonder she wouldn’t shake his hand.

The Joy of Showing Up

Every day there is a choice between going and not going. The going seems extra and uncomfortable and so that is what is often chosen. Not tonight. I chose to go. Two pairs of socks, Street Angels hoodie, my parka, and my sign. You can’t go to a demo without a sign. I have a great one – big, red, durable, and with a big statement. A joyful sign, I’d say.

It was grand to be with hundreds of people protesting Trump’s weird rally in our town and chanting until I was hoarse. Hey Hey! Ho Ho! Donald Trump has got to go! And even grander to walk through Milwaukee’s downtown and see the inflatable Trumpy with the gold hair waiting for us, our beautiful County Courthouse in the background. We also chanted: Whose Street? Our Street! when cops made us squeeze on to the sidewalk. It felt great to talk back.

Across from the arena where Trump was speaking, there was a thick row of Milwaukee police officers. I recognized one of them right away – Chad, the cop who is also a nurse, who trains people to do homeless outreach. “I forgot my jacket,” he said, laughing, “Now I know how our friends feel.” He was referring to our homeless friends, not everyone would know that, but I did. It made me feel like we were comrades. It was that kind of night.

So, if you are offered the choice of going or not going, of bringing your sign or leaving it in the closet, yelling chants or looking down at your boots, you know what to do. You won’t be sorry.


I was taught to fall on my sword immediately.

No stalling. No waiting around for an alternative truth to become available. An immediate, full falling on my sword was imperative if I had been caught in an episode of incompetence, conniving, or dirty dealing. You notice I don’t include lying because I never lie.

I learned about the benefits of quickly and fully falling on one’s sword at my first real job at an anti-poverty agency in Milwaukee. If you screwed up and you didn’t own up to it instantly, the scorn, derision, shunning, and swearing would rain down on you like an explosion in a landfill – months old dirty diapers, cartons of curdled milk, buckets of cigarette butts would collect around your sorry feet. Hideous.

But falling on one’s sword – no matter how bloody and messy – brought immediate forgiveness. I could see that when other people screwed up. You were righteous if you stood up on a chair at the end of the conference room and told everyone what a terrible thing you’d done. You were honest, brave, and humble (all the things you probably weren’t when you screwed up so badly) and people loved you for it.

But not if you blamed other people for your mistakes. Or complained that other folks had done worse things and didn’t have to fall on their swords. Or tried to make yourself a big hero for coming clean. Or cried or sniveled. People who fall on their swords aren’t criers.

I think of my early training and how it has served me so well over the past forty years. There haven’t been many sword fallings but there have been enough in that time for me to remember the deep pain of admission and the profound relief that followed. And I appreciate how those times built my career, made me known as a person of integrity. The value of that, looking back, is immeasurable to me. I pity the poor souls who never learned this lesson. There seems to be a lot of them – here, in Washington, everywhere.





Once, while she was sitting in a chair in my living room, I reached out and touched a Black woman’s hair. At that moment and without thinking about it in any way, my hand was drawn to her hair, its airiness and resilience. I patted her hair a few times before what I was doing struck me and I pulled my hand back. She never turned her head to look at me but I felt her stiffen her shoulders. She would never scold me, though. My young friend looked up to me, respected me as an elder, and touching her hair could be interpreted as my trying to comfort her. She was, after all, going through a difficult situation.

I should have said, “I’m sorry I just touched your hair like that.” But I didn’t, hoping, I guess, that the moment would evaporate and she wouldn’t attach a bad meaning to my presumption that her hair was there for me to touch. But I knew that I’d overstepped. Obviously, because I remember it still five years later. I also know that if I apologized to her right now, she would wave it off even if it had really upset her, because she is accustomed to not making issues out of the missteps of White people. There isn’t enough time in the day, she would say.

I waver between wanting to believe I’m not racist because a Black friend once told me I was post-racial and knowing that the history of racism and slavery is as much part of my DNA as any White southerner. It is harder to deny my own racism when I have reflexes like touching my young Black friend’s hair. Because, you see, it’s reflexes where your DNA really steps up and tells you what’s what.

My ancestors came from England and settled in New York. They were early adopters, if you will, ahead of the immigration curve. Before America was a thing, my folks were here. The year they settled in New York has a 16 in it, if that tells you anything. Slavery was legal in New York until 1827, two hundred years later. That’s a lot of DNA to pile up, a lot of reflex to reproduce and settle in to a whole line of people. Maybe they owned slaves, maybe not. But my ancestors certainly lived in a slave-holding society for a long time.

So assuming I really am post-racial as I like to think I am, I know that, at best, my post-racialism is an intellectual response to my environment. It means that when I have time to think, assess, evaluate, I generally have reactions that are not racist. It means that I support policies that are anti-racist and associate with people who are like-minded, who are also not racist. But I’m not so sure my nerve endings, the unruly ganglia of reflex, have caught up to this post-racially evolved state. They may still be getting some of their signals from men wearing knee pants and carrying muskets.

My situation isn’t unusual, it’s just unspoken. White folks don’t go around talking about how they stupidly touched a Black woman’s hair. They don’t mention the imperceptible second look at the Black teen walking toward them or the tiny second’s worth of hesitation in sharing an elevator with a Black man. Those are secrets we upstanding citizens with enormously deep roots in America keep to ourselves, mostly because we don’t want to call it what it is. It’s racism.

It’s going to be a long struggle to end racism when it’s baked into genes we haven’t even discovered yet. We’ll get there, I believe that, but meanwhile, I’m keeping my hands to myself.

Photo by Nguyen Linh on Unsplash

Smoke Sense

The tide is turning. Who would’ve thought that Walmart and Kroger would be leading the way? In case you missed it, both issued statements today that they would no longer permit open carry of guns in their stores. Walmart went further to say it would stop selling certain kinds of ammunition. Could it be a lot more? Yes. But this is a big deal. This is one big crack in what has been a solid steel door of resistance to any kind of voluntary gun sense actions.

Something has snapped. Maybe it’s the relentless lobbying by Moms Demand Action and other groups. Maybe it’s corporate leaders reading the national polls. Maybe it’s realizing that an unrestrained gun culture resulted in a baby being shot in the face. Maybe it’s all of these things and more, but be clear, the culture is changing on guns. It could take years but it’s starting and the trajectory is predictable. Look at smoking culture in the U.S. Years ago, nearly everyone smoked. It was unusual for someone not to smoke. Moms smoked through their pregnancies and never thought a thing of it. Doctors smoked! Smoking was ubiquitous, sort of like guns are right now. Everywhere.

Forty years ago, I smoked at work, in bars, restaurants, stores, airplanes. I smoked on airplanes – legally – and I loved it. It was luscious, sitting in the dark of a plane at night with the red ash of my cigarette the only light. Luscious, I tell you, and so elegant. But then that pesky issue of my smoke giving other people lung cancer kept being brought up. Oh, no! Secondhand smoke! And gradually, the No Smoking signs appeared. Pretty soon, there was nowhere to smoke except outside in the cold next to the dumpster. Not lucious.

Now smoking is a furtive thing. Long gone are cut glass ashtrays and gold cigarette lighters. Smoking is a parking lot deal now. We have – over the course of forty years – completely marginalized smokers, interestingly, without making smoking or cigarettes illegal but rather by intensely regulating where people can smoke, which right now is practically nowhere that other people might be breathing.

Legal changes are essential to getting on top of our insane gun problem. Closing the loopholes for background checks, instituting red flag laws to take guns away from people who clearly intend to hurt themselves or other people, and absolutely getting rid of assault rifles and any adaptations that allow mowing down many people within seconds. But at the same time, we need to support the culture shift. We need to ostracize people carrying guns the same way we’ve managed to ostracize smokers. That’s what Walmart and Kroger started today — they said it’s not okay to have people carrying guns in their stores. It used to be okay but it isn’t anymore. That’s powerful. My hat’s off to them.

36 Years Later

I haven’t written about it for a long time.

When I wrote about it, it was still oddly fresh, even though it had happened so many years before. That’s what the first telling is always like. After the first time I wrote about my illegal abortion, I walked down the street to Lake Michigan feeling like layers of old wet wool sweaters were being stripped from my shoulders. I marveled at this. Had I been walking around for decades with all those thick, scratchy sweaters buttoned up to my neck? It had been so long, I scarcely noticed how damp and heavy and burdened I had become by what had happened when I was just a young woman.

The first telling of my experience with domestic violence had a similar effect. I had never put what had happened to me into words on a page. When I did, I made it a quick story, almost like a graphic novel without the pictures. Shorthand. Because, you know, it wasn’t all that serious what happened. Although it could have been.

Basically, for several years I had a boyfriend who had periods of psychotic depression. These episodes had occurred long before we met although I didn’t know that until a former girlfriend called me one night to fill me in. She told me that when he had these breaks, he became very threatening to himself and to others. There was a long history, she said, “you don’t know what he’s really like.” With me, his threatening behavior was rare and indirect but terrifying. I managed these episodes in strangely calm ways that even now make me feel I could talk someone down from committing mayhem. Maybe not. But let’s say I have experience.

There were several years of his threatening, dangerous behavior interspersed with the kind of companionship and regard that keep people attached to one another. I thought I could help him get his illness under control and then he could be his easy-going, funny self all the time. I tolerated his breaks as a mental health issue, deciding that because he hadn’t put his hands on me, the situation was still manageable. Until it wasn’t. And that’s a whole story by itself. The gist of which is this.

He didn’t have a gun.

Everytown for Gun Safety posted this yesterday on Facebook: “In states that require background checks for all handgun sales, 47 percent fewer women are shot to death by their intimate partners.”

It stopped me in my tracks.

It would have been so easy for him to shoot me, to keep me from screaming for help, running away, getting into my car and speeding away on the night that he finally did put his hands around my neck. Because, you see, in his frame of mind, he wouldn’t have cared about killing me, he just wanted to keep me from leaving. He wouldn’t have cared about being arrested or going to jail, he couldn’t think about that. There was no space in his head for those things. He just didn’t want me to leave and shooting me would have made sure of that.

But he didn’t shoot me because he didn’t have a gun.

He did, however, shoot himself many years later. I went to his funeral and talked to his sisters. They were angry at him for having ended his life. I wasn’t. I was surprised he’d lived as long as he had, the suffering I’d witnessed having been so acute. And I was grateful, deeply grateful, that I had decided to leave him, to give up on him, before he got a gun. It sounds heartless but it’s true.

Eagle Scout

I just bought a copy of the Mueller Report.

When I was 16, I bought a copy of the Warren Report. And I read it which is even weirder.

And, at the time, because the Warren Commission was headed by the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, I figured what was in the report was the absolute truth and that conspiracy theorists were crackpots. I still mostly think that but it’s harder since it has been revealed to me that truth is like jelly, deceptively solid, fluid with the merest heat.

I ordered the Mueller Report after I saw on the news that a particularly vociferous defender of the president, some Republican member of Congress whose name I don’t recall or refuse to commit to memory, admitted he’d not read the report because, well, why would he have to since the president already told him what was in it and I was reminded of people who run around quoting the Bible because of verses they’ve read on restaurant placemats. It’s hard reading the real stuff. Real hard.

So to make myself feel extra righteous about this purchase, I’m going to quote President John Kennedy’s famous statement about going to the moon.

“We choose to go to the moon in this decade and do the other things, not because they are easy, but because they are hard.”

Now we are entering the realm of the sanctimonious. I understand that. And I would apologize for this, for “making a show of being morally superior to other people” as the helpful Google dictionary puts it, except I think reading the Mueller Report is the morally superior thing to do and that’s why I’m going to do it despite the fact that it will probably take me well into the next decade to finish it, my attention span and preoccupation with social media being what it is.

I was a student once, though, a serious one. So my plan is to approach this task like homework. Now, leafing through this 448 page masterpiece, it seems that the reading might go faster than I thought.

The Trump years have worn me down. I find myself shrugging off things that would have made me careen into a light pole three years ago. Worse, the people around me are shrugging. We’re all shrugging. And many of us, tired of the discipline required for effective moral outrage, are skipping out on the hard work of resistance. It really is such a bitch to deal with national politics. Easier to be a thorn in the side of local elected officials. It’s way more fun and offers the prospect of immediate results.

I think the opposition, and yes, the Republicans are opponents, never mind the nostalgia of Joe Biden in his claim that the GOP would return to sanity once Trump is out of the picture, anyway, the opposition is assuming that we over here in the resistance are so gosh darn tuckered out with all our marching and yelling and sign-making that we’re just going to wander off and watch Seinfeld reruns and remember old times when we thought things made sense.

Nope. Not me. I’m working on getting my citizenship badge at this year’s jamboree. One page at a time.