Week One
Reflections on the oxygen mask
I was, like most like-minded folks, disgusted and horrified by the first week of Trump’s second term. Not surprised of course, since he did all the things he said he would do while he was campaigning - retaliate against political enemies, end aid to Ukraine, round up citizens and non-citizens alike, search and seizure rights be damned.
The one that continues to make my blood boil is the pardoning of all the January 6th criminals. Just shitting on the service of police officers and National Guardsman, and the Congress members who’s lives they saved that day. Giving zero fucks about the abject hypocrisy of a convicted rapist releasing would-be-murderers onto the streets of America while also deploying the U.S. military to protect the southern border from “rapists and murderers.” Oh and also - Senate confirmation of a rapist Secretary of Defense to lead those troops. The hypocrisy and injustice are infuriating.
Which brought me to a Friday in which a voice in my brain said “Give yourself a break from the news! Watch some comedy! Listen to some jazz!”
The usual dialogue that goes on in my head is this nurturing voice trying to help me ground and calm myself vs. another voice that’s like “How can you rest when other people are suffering? You need to stay informed and vigilant. Burying your head in the sand is what the Germans did after Hitler took over!”
“But you have to put your own oxygen mask on before you can help others do it.”
“The Oprah gurus have made a lot of money with that stuff, soothing the consciences of rich white people.”
“That’s a little over the top.”
“Whatever.”
On Saturday I took the nudge from my inner-Oprah guru and decided to drive down through the border to do a little sight-seeing. Of course, it wasn’t that straight-forward.
Wondering about the general attitude of U.S. Border agents at the moment, I debated about whether I should take my American passport with me. In recent years I’ve only taken my Canadian passport and my Nexus card. Each time I display my paperwork, its obvious that my record is popping up on the computer screen and the border agent asks me some question that indicate he knows I’m a dual citizen.
This time I got a question I never have before: “What originally motivated you to move to Canada?” Huh.
I answered honestly (which I always do): “Originally it was for work.”
The border agent let me through, but the exchange rattled me a little. What if the honest answer had been “Because the first Trump Presidential term made me not want to live in the U.S. anymore.”?
When I was considering becoming a Canadian citizen, I wanted to ensure that I wouldn’t lose my U.S. citizenship. So I called the State department, as one does, and asked if dual citizenship was legal. The employee on the phone said that the State Department’s stance on it is to essentially remain silent since the law is ambiguous.
When I think about a President who likes to take advantage of ambiguous law to advance his agenda, this seems like a loophole he could close pretty easily. He and the new Secretary of State, Marco Rubio, cancelled the passport applications of transgender Americans. What would stop them from confiscating the U.S. passports of dual citizens as they cross the border?
As I drove through the picturesque farmland of northwestern Washington State, on a rare sunny winter day, I couldn’t help myself and listened to Tim Miller’s latest Bulwark podcast. It actually comforted me a little bit, believe it or not, but I hardly noticed all the quaint farmhouses I usually ooo and ahh over.
I spent a few hours walking around downtown Bellingham, having a tasty Italian lunch at Storia Cucina and then walking across the street to Henderson’s bookstore where I picked up a copy of Regulating the Poor and a New York Times bestselling novel by Canadian author Wayne Johnston.
The whole time I saw people doing normal Saturday things - eating with friends, walking the dog, waiting at the bottom of the slide while their pre-schooler slides down from the top. Everyone was just living their normal, Saturday life. On my drive home, I listened to my “chill” playlist, admired the pink sunset, and ooed and ahed over the vintage farmhouses.
All of it served to give me the perspective that maybe we will make it through. Maybe we will be okay. Which is a different point of view than “Argh! It’s too scary to think about!” And that, I concluded, is why we should all take time to watch comedy and listen to jazz occasionally through the next four years.