Rich Man, Poor Us

There is a depression over the land, and it grows with each passing day under this new Trump administration. Instead of inspiring, he is taking us down his own dark path of American madness. 

Speaking to retired federal employees, I know what is happening in Washington, DC. They know what’s happening in the hinterland with the federal programs they used to administer. Their programs were built to protect the old, the young, the sick, the poor — and every one of them is in jeopardy. The people who administer these programs at the grassroots — such as Medicare and food stamps — are now in limbo as well. Their staffs are being put on notice that they may not have jobs in coming days. 

This burgeoning nationwide mental health crisis also heavily touches the career civil service workforce, people who have given their entire existence to careers that benefit the public. Many of these federal employees are now depressed, not knowing which way to turn with Trump’s recent buyout offer. These are people with families. These are people with mortgages and children to care for, and aging parents to watch over. These are people with bills. These are people. 

Donald Trump does not care about people, only his entitled cabal of wannabe oligarchs. 

Now, Google is renaming the Gulf of Mexico the “Gulf of America.” Indeed, America has a growing gulf of insecurity bordering on insanity. The Gulf of America is now aptly named because we are in uncharted waters. 

Better yet, uncaring waters, Dear America.

Emergency: Somebody Please Dial 9-1-1

Oh, please — Stop equivocating with this Trump nonsense. Remember, this is the Central Park Five non-apologist; the Obama birther liar; the monster who called Sen. John McCain “a loser” for becoming a Vietnam War POW (while he shirked the draft); the “Stand Back And Stand By” racist hate-monger; the Insurrection Leader; the former president who clearly — and illegally — took the USA’s top secrets (for no good earthly reason, to be sure). 

From the moment he descended on his Trump Tower golden escalator to decry Mexicans, the sorry media has given this guy a platinum pass. Let him hide his taxes. Let him keep making money and enriching deals as prez. Let him shake Putin’s hands while shoving aside NATO ally Montenegro’s leader in a photo op. Let him have extramarital affairs with hush money at hand. Watch him get impeached — TWICE.

Suffer as we watch him let hundreds of thousands of Americans die needlessly from COVID-19 because, he says, he didn’t think Americans could handle the awful truth. Let him declare, without any real pushback, that he does not believe in science when climate change is closing upon us. Let him toss paper towels in Puerto Rico as hundreds of Americans perish and billions get spent to enrich his cronies. See his daughter and son-in-law get rich in the White House (although they can’t get security clearances). Watch the Trump Hotel host lavish soirées, paid by the Saudis who dismembered an American journalist.

The list goes on, and on, and on, and…Just call 9-1-1, for the sake of democracy.

A drink of freedom

When I was 18 and in the Vietnam War, I couldn’t drink legally. I remember an editorial cartoon depicting GIs in a foxhole, bombs bursting in air, and one saying to the other, “If I couldn’t drink, then why am I here to die?”

The cartoon brought a brief, knowing smile to my young face, knowing well that, worse, I couldn’t vote myself out of the war, either. You had to be 21 to vote and to drink, yet most of my bros were my age or not much older. We knew the law, but we also knew how to get fired up while “in country."  We all needed numbing to get through that unreal, and no one asked for our IDs back then, not that it mattered. 

Years passed, and I moved on from Thunderbird -- the vintage of black choice in ‘Nam -- to Boone’s Farm, then onward to something with a cork. In between, there were some name brands as I grew toward sanity after a tour of the duty with Uncle Sam. 

Strange how Election Day brings out the patriotism and memories in me. Today I wore my Vietnam veteran baseball cap while waiting in line to vote. I never said a word to my fellow Americans, except to the poll workers when required. I heard my companions banter about Natalie Wood and Warren Beatty, same-sex marriage laws and legalized gambling in Maryland.

And I silently rejoiced. For I made their banter possible. I stood there, knowing they were free because I did what was asked of me when I was but a child. I enlisted in the U.S Air Force at exactly 17 years and 9 months old; I needed my parents’ signatures to enlist, and they grudgingly signed. 

It was the best move of my life. 

Back then, I began to learn how to survive in an unfair world. I learned how to communicate in spite of ignorant and intolerable rants from folks who thought themselves superior in rank, intellect, good manners and beyond. I learned about hate and rage and heroic acts that ultimately bested the former. 

Reflecting on that young life brought forward through the crucible of war and a career in public service through the art of journalism, I understand the cries of democracy and the unrelenting forces that seek to mute it. 

I remain a warrior for good thoughts and deeds. Today, while waiting in line, I changed my vote to allow children of illegal immigrants to receive low-cost college tuition. That’s because I saw a young Latino couple cradling their playful infant daughter. They too had come to vote.

They, too, are part of my America. I figured that out while waiting in line. I changed my mind because I can.

Because I am an American.