Sometimes fiction is the only way to explain ideas, beliefs, hope, and fears. 

The Wildings

By: Teri Adams

 

The Wildings are out tonight. Close, by the sound of it. The distant whoops and the faint unmistakable crash of breaking glass are all too familiar. I check the Wilding App and see that there have been fifteen 999 Wilding calls placed in a three block radius in just the past hour. It’s early for the Wildings. They usually don’t come out until after ten at night, and it’s only twenty minutes past dusk, which means we’re in for a long night. I try to remember if I triple locked the garage. Was that yesterday or did I do it when I came in earlier today? I had had my hands filled with grocery bags. Did I set them down so I could reach the locks?  Damn it, I don’t remember, which means I have to go check.  I slip on my shoes, grab a can of wasp spray (it shoots a long way), open the back door, and stand on the stoop still as a statue for a second and listen. Yes, they sound closer, but not too close. I have enough time to get to the garage and check.

            I don’t carry a flashlight because that would be like shining a beacon telling them, “Here! Come and get me!” No, I slip out into the darkness and walk to the garage amidst the shadows, keeping close to the edge of the house.  The garage is only about forty yards but it feels like a mile out here in the inky blackness.  I trip over something and almost fall. I reach down and feel a small bike. I can just make out the silhouette. That kid next door. I’ve told him a hundred times about leaving his bike out. I grab the handlebars and roll the bike with me toward the garage. I’ll lock it inside so the Wildings can’t get it. That kid’s mom already works two jobs. She can’t afford a new bike if something happens to this one.

            I hear a sudden high pitched yelp and then a crunch of boots on gravel behind me. I duck down quickly just as a lone Wilding runs past, close enough so that I can smell the sweat and hear the quick inhalations from its exertions, a white shirt flashing in the night. Looks to be a small one, maybe eight-years-old. They’re getting younger since all the public schools closed down and went online. There’s little oversight for attendance, and all classes except Patriotism and Procreation, God and Country, Welding, Construction, Custodianship, and Basic Mathematics level 3, and Basic Reading level 4 were cut as soon as the Department of Education folded. Now if a parent has the money, usually old inherited money, they can take advantage of the specialized private academies that cater to the future doctors, CEOs, lawyers, professors, researchers, and scientists. The elite of the elite.

I stay ducked down a heartbeat longer and hear the Wilding as it runs away whooping loudly, Always with the whoops. This one must have gotten separated from the herd. I squat in the dirt barely breathing, my knees aching. I’ve dropped the can of wasp spray and can’t find it in the dark. I hear a car door slam off in the distance and then a screech. I hear sirens. Two of the sirens sound far off but one is nearby. In the space between the scream of the sirens there is an eerie silence, and in that silence I hear the close whisper of owl wings and a small creature (a cat maybe?) rustling as it darts from yard to fence. I look up and stare into the large front window of the house next door. The bike kid’s house. The mother steps to the window, peers out into the night, and then pulls the thick drapes closed. The lights in the house wink out and cast it into darkness so that it blends in with the night. The mom is hunkering down. Have there been more alerts? I reach into my shirt pocket for my phone to check the app but then realize that my phone must have dropped out of my pocket when I knelt to pick up the bike. 

            I stand up and my old football injury knee pops with a loud crack! I barely breathe. I see nothing but hear everything: far off sirens, distant screams, fireworks exploding (or gunfire?) and glass shattering.

            I glance towards the garage. I can see the garage’s shadowy silhouette just a few steps away. I grip the bike’s handlebars and make a dash for the garage door pulling the bike with me. I run my hand over the locks. All three bolted tight. I locked them and then forgot. Too much on my mind lately. Trying to remember my meds every morning; trying to censor myself at work so I don’t inadvertently commit crime speech; trying to budget my meager pay so I can buy fresh food and not that preservative, chemical flooded shit the government markets as NutriMass; trying not to breathe in the air thick with thick pollution now that the EPA is defunct; trying not to appear threatening to the cops in my dark male skin; trying not to encounter any lone Wildings in the day, although they are much less dangerous separated from their herds; trying to survive one more day in a world that seems bound and determined to crush not only me, but everyone.

            I still have the bike in my hands. It’s too much trouble and too time consuming to fumble with the locks on the garage door in the dark, so I decide to take the bike back to the house and lock it in my hall closet. I inch alongside the garage and then dash out into the open expanse between the garage and the house. The bike makes a metallic, squeaky sound as I roll it along and I wince at the sound that seems to echo above the other sounds of mayhem. A blinding light flashes on me and a voice commands, “Drop the bike, get on your knees, and put your hands up!” 

            I drop the bike like an unwanted blind date. My knee cracks and a sharp knife of pain slices through it as I comply. A cop walks up dressed in his blue uniform, his badge shining, the bullet proof vest making him seem larger and more imposing than he is, his dull black gun pointed at me.  I know to stay silent. The cop asks if I’m stealing the bike. It’s not really a question since his tone implies that I’m guilty no matter what I say. I am deferential and quiet. I tell him softly, “No sir, the bike belongs to my neighbor and I was locking it up so it wouldn’t be stolen by the Wildings.” I enunciate each syllable perfectly.

            He tells his partner to go check with the neighbor. The cop continues to aim the gun at me as the other cop goes to the mother’s tiny cement porch, climbs the three steps, and pounds on the door. The sound reverberates. She must be scared out of her mind right now, much as I am.  I glance up and a light goes on in the house. The door opens slowly. The cop says something to the mother. I can’t make out his words only the, “Waa waa waa waa” that sounds comically like the adults in the old Charlie Brown cartoons, and I stifle a nervous giggle. The cop on the porch gestures towards me. The mother says something back. The cop walks away and heads back to the gun pointing cop. The mother stands in silhouette in the door. The kid pops his head from behind his mother’s hip. His eyes are like tiny teacup saucers. The cop tells the one holding the gun on me that the mother has backed up my story and identified me as her neighbor. The cop holsters his gun and picks up the bike. He starts to roll the bike toward the mother’s house then looks over his shoulder at me, almost as an afterthought and shouts, “Go in the house and stay there! There’s Wildings out tonight.” I stand up slowly and try to walk at a normal pace while my heart hammers a staccato beat in my throat. My mouth has been parched of all moisture and my tongue feels like a dry slab lying against my teeth.

            I finally make it to the porch and I unlock and open the front door. It is only then that I look back. The police car is leaving and the mother next door is closing her front door. Her house lights go out again. I slip inside the house and close the door and double bolt lock it. Then I slide to the floor like a going-flat helium balloon left over from a birthday party. I hear the whoop and screams of the Wildings. They’ve gotten closer so I know the cops are really gone. I hear windows shattering like tinkling crystal down the street and the joyous screams of the Wildings as they cheer.  I stand up and turn off the lights in the living room and walk over to the window to make sure the drapes are pulled tight. I curl up on the couch and smell my fear rising off the drying sweat on my body. I sleep fitfully as the Wildings go about their nightly rampage.

            In the morning I see that one of the garage windows, a small one high up under the eaves, is broken. My dented trashcan is two doors down the street and my mailbox needs replacing again, but there’s no permanent damage and I count myself lucky. I find my phone miraculously unharmed in the damp dew spotted grass. The mother comes out of her house leading her kid by his tiny hand. She spies me and waves a timid wave before walking off quickly down the street. I go inside and get ready for work.

 The Baboon King

 

Whether in clouds high overlooking a city

of busy intent

or

a cottage vast draped against the blue of ocean’s swell

of excess

or

a white palace sprinkled with the visages 

of old,

he stumbles and trips, rights himself, and insists he never lost his footing.

 

His tribe grins widely and they raise their fists and eyes

towards promised greatness as they cheer on

the Baboon King.

All the while the bumbling Simian whittles at their resurrected fervor

until it is parsed down into a sharpened thorn

that pieces the skin.

A single drop of red blood eats like battery acid

at the stars of our Fathers.

 

Strutting like a hairy jungle king 

whose fur is rotting,

he bangs his chest and echoes confusion into the darkness.

The rising storms and winds

scatter the shedding truths.

The Baboon King’s faithful ones twist their

brains and duck their heads under trembling feathers of gold,

and the hairy one struts as he feeds the fire and it glows with destruction.

He preens and dances and paws

at the waving stripes and the golden grains burning

and he colors the purple mountains black as death.

The Baboon King feeds nothing to his faithful

until they are a pile of starving shaking bones,

ghosts of what once was

and will never be again.

 

Somewhere in the city a baby cries,

a man dies, a woman weeps,

and dreams are turned to nightmares.

The high rise molders into unremembrance

The cottage vast slips into the rising seas

 and the palace crumbles to bitter stones.

And we forget and we forget and we forget…

 

 

Teri Adams

December 2017

revised June 2025

Deliver Me From Sci Fi Dystopian Being Made a Reality

 The dystopian future is no longer a world of science fiction. It is on U.S shores. It has burrowed into our laws and our government and our psyche. I think back to 2016, and the following events happening in the United States would have been unthinkable:

*A nine week pregnant brain-dead woman being kept alive on life support for MONTHS against her family’s wishes so she can give birth to a fetus that will probably not even live (Adriana Smith).

*A woman snatched off the street in broad daylight by masked men because she wrote a piece critical of U.S support of Israel against Gaza (Rümeysa Öztürk). 

*An Australia woman, married to an U.S Army serviceman, who traveled to Hawaii to see her husband, then at the airport was taken to a holding room, where her bags and phones were searched, and asked a slew of questions about her work as a former police officer, whether her tattoos were gang-related, and about her marriage to an American. She was then denied entry to the U.S. and deported back to Australia the next day. (Nicolle Saroukos). 

*238 Venezuelan migrants were flown from the U.S to a maximum security prison in El Salvador. Our government deported 238 individuals, including U.S. legal residents and even some who entered the U.S. legally, to El Salvador, by accusing them of gang ties. They are currently being held in a max security prison with no contact with their families or legal representatives. No due process, per the U.S Constitution was ensured before they were arrested and flown out of the USA, zip tied on chartered flights. (Names of those sent to El Salvador are available at:

https://www.cbsnews.com/news/what-records-show-about-migrants-sent-to-salvadoran-prison-60-minutes-transcript/ ).

*Mass firings of federal employees from various departments, creating a void in services and global soft politics. Departments such as the National Parks Service, The IRS, The Social Security Administration, The Veteran’s Administration, USAid, The CDC, The National Health Service, and The Department of Education, among others have been affected. 132,000 to 280,000+ federal workers have either been fired, taken buyouts, or are slated for termination in the near future.

*The separation of as many as 1,000 openly identifying transgender service members from the United States military, both active duty and reserve, and giving others thirty days to self-identify under a new directive. These include trans military personnel who are near retirement and have served their nation honorably and unselfishly.

 

*The dismantlement of environmental laws and the firings of over 400 climate scientists and researchers who oversaw the congressional mandated National Climate Assessment. The assessment is used to draft environmental rules, legislation and infrastructure project planning to protect the U.S from the consequences of climate change.

I could go on and on because the sheer madness that has taken place in a mere four and a half months, with more to come, is mind blowing. 

All of these events are happening now in May, 2025.

The monster behind these far-right and isolationist initiatives has been Project 2025, a pet project of the Heritage Foundation. The ACLU calls the Project 2025 a “new hierarchy of rights that would elevate religion and property over basic human rights.” The Heritage Foundation was founded in 1973 and gained a foothold and burgeoning influence in federal government policy with the strengthening of the far-right evangelical movement under President Reagan. This movement was directly responsible for the termination of women’s reproductive rights in 2022. Rights that had been guaranteed by the Supreme Court’s Roe V Wade decision in1973. Rights I took for granted during my reproductive years; rights that I mourn the loss of for my daughter, daughters-in-law, and granddaughters.

And who did the Heritage Foundation pour money into electing in 2024? That’s right, Trump and every other far-right candidate on the state and national level. When SCOTUS ruled in favor of Citizens United in 2010, it reversed a hundred-year-old restriction on campaign finance and it allowed corporations and mega donors to spend unlimited money on elections and empowered super Pacs, the likes of the Heritage Foundation. Mega donors, billionaires (including Musk. Theil, and Bezos), and corporations elected Trump. The American people did not. So, it is any wonder that the far-right with its conservative Christian Nationalism is opposed to LGBTQ rights, women’s reproductive rights, diversity and inclusion, due process, federal oversight, workers’ unions and protections, immigration reform (because then who would be the proverbial bad guy?), minority civil rights, non- profit public education, protection of public lands, anti-immigration reform, and anti-gun reform. And it uses fear mongering and "othering" as a control mechanism. The Heritage Foundation's mission statement is: “Heritage’s mission is to formulate and promote public policies based on the principles of free enterprise, limited government, individual freedom, traditional American values, and a strong national defense.

Promote polices to do what? Elevate white nationalism to the determent of every minority group and every religion that is not far-right Christian based?

Does “free enterprise” mean unchecked and unfettered Capitalism that has widened the gulf between the ultra-wealthy and the working poor over the past fifty years, all but erasing the middle class?

Can “limited government” protect the rights of a U.S population of 347 million compared the 2.5 million population in 1776 when the U.S was founded?

Does “individual freedom” only mean freedom for the few chosen that Christian Nationalists deem deserving, but not women, LGBTQ+ people, the working poor, and people of color?

 And what are “Traditional American Values? The values we were founded on include these words: “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable rights that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness. (The Declaration of Independence, 1776)

If I have no rights to my own body or reproductive choices, I do not have liberty.

 If I can be arrested, incarcerated, and given no due process, I do not have liberty.

 If I do not have equal access to education, food, safe shelter, and healthcare, then I do not have the freedom to pursue happiness, and in fact the absence of some of these (food, shelter, healthcare) could interfere with my ability to have life.

“A strong national defense” is a subjective gray area. Our national defense budget encompasses 13% of our federal budget, far larger than any other nation's defense spending.  In comparison, our national resources and environment are only allocated 1% of the federal budget. Every military think tank knows that the chances of wars increase when people do not have access to water, when people’s homes and communities are destroyed by extreme weather patterns, and when agriculture is decimated by increasingly extreme heat. No amount of guns or weaponry or defense spending will stop those types of future wars. Our national defense should encompass not only military might, but also ecological and environmental research and oversight laws. But that would mean admitting that man-made climate change is occurring, and ignoring special interests like oil lobbyists. 

By the way, social services only accounts for 3% of our federal budget. So next time someone tries to blame our budgetary problems on a kid receiving free lunch at school or a minimum-wage working mom receiving food stamps, instead of putting the blame on billionaires who are exempt from paying the same tax rate as teachers, retail workers, librarians, truck drivers, and medical professionals, tell them I said to kindly bite my ass.

 

I never thought I’d live to see the day when The Handmaid’s Tale, 1984, and Brave New World would become instruction manuals.  It was real while it lasted USA. We might not have been ideal, but we were attempting to live up to them, even if those ideals were only an illusion.

FAFO I'm STILL rooting for America

 I've rooted for America by being a military brat from birth to age 19. I dropped whatever I was doing when I was a kid, usually dodgeball or Hide & Seek, and stood at attention as colors were being lowered on base.

I've rooted for American while watching the CBS Evening News with Cronkite talking about casualties that day in Vietnam, knowing my dad was in Vietnam and I that I was forgetting the sound of his voice.

I've rooted for America by losing friends and possessions (there's a weight limit on what can be shipped) when we moved every three years.

I rooted for America when my dad had to do a remote tour in Thailand when I was 14 yrs old and the Thai government kicked the US military out of their country and they had 2 hours to pack. We didn't know where my dad was for two weeks.

I rooted for America when my oldest son was in Iraq coming under fire at Al Asad base.

I rooted for America when my dad was dying a nightmare death from exposure to agent orange poisoning and my mom had to fight for four years to get him the care he deserved through the V.A.

I wouldn't wish the way my dad died on my worst enemy.

So don't talk to me about "rooting for America." I lived it. I'm still rooting for America by fighting the current president who has got to be the most incompetent, stupidest man to ever sit at the Resolute Desk. He's pure chaos and doesn't know what the hell he's doing. He's drunk on power.

Now I'm rooting for America by marching, carrying signs, writing and phoning my legislators, and by becoming an activist.

Pissing off our closest ally, Canada?????

Seriously taking away libraries??????. WTF?

Thinking "groceries" is a word no one uses anymore?

Destroying the Department of Education????

Cutting the V.A crisis line????

Removing any mention of the Underground Railroad from the Harriet Tubman Museum???? Removing the Constitution from the White House site??????

Deporting people to a notorious prison in El Salvador??? People who had the proper paperwork and had no criminal records?? Snuck them out in chains with no due process???

The stock market crashing because of ONE man????

I could go on and on. It's just insanity and chaos at this point. I can't wait for it to personally hit the MAGA voters. I'm over showing grace. I'm going to laugh my ass off when they finally get to the Find Out part.

Hold on to your seats, folks

 When Donald Trump was just a kid, no adult in his sheltered, entitled, privileged life ever taught little Donny much about morals or lessons on how to function in a society. No one told him no, no one called him to task for his behaviors. He damned sure wasn't taught not to lie, and he damn sure wasn't taught not to steal.

He never learned abut the Golden Rule about treating others as you want to be treated, and no kids ever jeered and teased him by chanting, "You don't know your ten commandments" or "You can't sing the song about red and yellow, black and white they are precious in his sight."

Because all of these things were never taught to him. And it's true that a person doesn't really need religion to be a good person, but the Golden Rule is universal.

Thus, grown up Donny is an abomination.

He's nothing more than a Mafia MAGA boss, with access to Musk's billions (but what will the price be for the American people?) and the unfettered loyalty of some of the most incompetent and immoral characters to ever reside in the political sphere. Trump's basic human empathy is lacking and his intellect is dubious at best. His ability to look at the big picture of the country and to make connections is his weakness. We can only hope, for our sakes, that he fails grandly and quickly under the weight of his ineptitude and ego.

The next four years are going to be very bumpy for all of us indeed, regardless of how you voted.

The Very Bad, No Good, Weird Year and a Half.

 My husband told me tonight, "You haven't made a post on your blog in a while. Why not?" Well, it's been a very weird year and a half. 

In March 2023 my colon ruptured and I needed emergency surgery. I had over 12 inches of intestines removed. The entire experience was made even more difficult by a family member who didn't want to honor my request for no visitors while I was in the hospital. The pain when I woke up from surgery was unbelievable in its scope, and I had an ostomy that I had no clue how to care for. Imagine waking up to discover that you've been gutted like a Sunday fish and that you have an attached bag that collects all your defecations on the outside of your body. Now imagine someone wanting to visit while you're in that condition, and when you say, "No," they become upset and then tell you that their pastor is going to come visit. First, the pastor isn't MY pastor and second, I'm a nonbeliever and I barely know him.  I should have let him visit and had my blindingly white ass cheeks sticking out of my gown and made sure my ostomy bag was leaking. The experience humbled me in many ways and also allowed me to shift through what is important and what isn't. My boundaries are important.

I had the ostomy reversed in July 2023, but I'm still having some issues. I having a colonoscopy done on Halloween. I'm dressing up like a Queen (I have a tiara and hot pink boa) for the procedure and I'm writing on my bare butt cheek in Sharpie, "Be Careful" and on the other butt cheek, "Shallow, Not as Deep as it Appears." So, that was the very bad, no good, weird year and half. 

But good things did happen: my youngest son was married in a lovely ceremony to a woman who is just perfect for him, and my other two kids are kicking ass in this thing called life. They all three are. And the grandkids are also holding their own and learning and growing and are healthy. And what more could a mom/grandmother ask for? 

I saw Buddy Guy perform in September 2023 and I saw Barenaked Ladies perform this past Friday night. Music heals. There is still a stack of books on my TO READ list and a ton of books that sit in bookstores waiting for me to buy. Some of the most memorable reads of the past year and a half are "Tender is the Flesh," "Fourteen Days," Demon Copperhead, "A Cloud Shaped Girl, "When Women Were Dragons," and "The Class of '65." 

When I revisit this blog again, the election will have been decided and all I can hope for is that we retain intact our Constitution, that a repeat of Jan 6th isn't replayed, that women's rights and LGBTQ rights are enshrined into federal law, that big money corporations are made to start paying their fair share in taxes (I'm looking at you Amazon, FedEx, Bank Of America, Citigroup, HP, Walmart, and Google), that healthcare for all Americans is made available, that the wars in Ukraine (Slava Ukrani!) and Gaza end, and that every human in the U.S and beyond is treated with dignity and respect.  When a presidential candidate says at a rally, "On day one I will launch the largest deportation program in American history. I will rescue every city and town that has been invaded and conquered," and calls immigrants "blood thirsty and vicious" then it's time to question the morality and values of that candidate (And yes, that was said at Madison Square Garden tonight). A person who views anyone who is not like themselves as "other," will one day see you and me as "other." And that can't be allowed to stand ever again.

 Also, I'm re-reading "The Stand" by Stephen King for the ninth time. Happy Almost Halloween and Colonoscopy Day!! 

No, You Don't Know Him.

 

Every time I think I’ve been able to put it behind me, it rears it ugly head and bites me again. Yesterday an arrest warrant was taken out for my small town sheriff for sexual battery on a prominent Atlanta judge.  And with that news the people came out of the woodwork who don’t believe he did it because, “I’ve known him my whole life."

            I thought I knew male members of my own family too, but two of them sexually molested two minor family members, and half of my family won’t even admit that it happened, even though one of predators (and yes, he groomed an underage girl for years so he’s a predator) tearfully begged me to forgive him and, “Please, don’t tell my wife.”  He had no concern for his victim, just himself.  The half of my family that thinks that my not wanting to be around this predatory family member is just because of politics can kiss my pale behind. Every time I read about a man doing something like my sheriff  is accused of doing, I get angry. I know how many women and girls aren’t believed and I know what they have to live with. Every time I hear women denying that sexual assault happened to other women, it cuts me to my heart. If women can’t even support their fellow sisters, what is to happen to us?

            Let justice play out, but if my sheriff is guilty, hold him accountable. And don’t make excuses for him because “I know him so well.” No, you don’t. That's not a defense.

The Times They Are A'Changin'

 

My twelve year old granddaughter and I are several generations apart. She begs for Roblox gift cards and spends her days in worlds of her own creation. She’s boujee and frenetic and carefree. She dances and throws her arms with abandon. And she wears Mom jeans.

            My teen years in the 70s, with its free love and marijuana smoke hanging heavy over concert venues while cops just winked at us as we toked, were just as carefree, but thankfully Mom jean free. AC/DC sang about wet patches on seats, Fleetwood Mac’s Gold Dust Woman addressed drugs, Rush sang about dystopian futures, Ted Nugent growled about Wang Dang Sweet Poontang, and REO Speedwagon sang about a barely legal teenage girl. We sang loudly and didn't give one thought to what the lyrics meant. It was only decades later that I realized what these songs were really about.

            Then the 80s exploded and sexual lyrics became even more overt (or maybe I was just noticing more). Women started singing about sex right along with the men. Madonna sang about being like a virgin and Pat Benatar challenged men to hit her with their best shot, and Joan Jett owned her Bad Reputation. There was sweet romance with Heart and clean good fun with the Go Gos.  We were Footloose looking over our shoulder for that Man Eater or those Betty Davis Eyes while Simple Minds reminded us, “Don’t Forget About Me.”  The Police glorified stalking with Every Step You Take and we sang along at the top of our lungs. Boy George moaned, Do You Really Want to Hurt Me and we felt the pangs of broken romance to the core of our young wounded hearts. While this music was blossoming and booming I was in my early twenties, just starting my life with a clean slate and a fresh optimistic view of the future and of my role in the world.  

            That was almost forty years ago. I’m now a bit jaded and suspicious and careful. My heart has been broken so many times it has deep fissure cracks in it and I don’t trust as easily as I once did. I walk in a mine field in a society molded by social media that has us grappling with politics and religion and justice and equality and truth. A world where science isn’t real, families are divided, a pandemic has killed over five million people worldwide in a little over a year and a half, cops kill young black men with impunity, disillusioned fear soaked people storm our Capitol building in D.C to overturn an election, people attack flight attendants on planes, conspiracy theories leave us reeling, and we’re split into our own insular communities that internet algorithms have created. A Brave New World.  

        I still listen to 80s music so I can re-live a time when worries were fewer and the future was secure with hard work and hope. Meanwhile, my aforementioned twelve year old granddaughter skips down the road on our walk to the store singing loudly,  “I always feel like somebody’s watching me!” a song released in 1984 by one hit wonder band Rockwell. 1984, the year I became a mom for the first time and my rose colored glasses began to slip.  "Yes, baby," I want to tell my granddaughter as she skips gleefully, “they are watching you. So be very careful, but meanwhile dance, dance, dance! And don’t listen to W.A.P until you’re old enough to understand it."                                                                                                                            

Insanity: AIDS vs Covid Response

 

I’m re-reading the book “And the Band Played On” by Randy Shilts about the AIDS crises in the 1980s and it’s bringing back memories of that time. It’s also showing me that we haven’t learned much, which is why the Covid response has been so scattered and ineffective.

            When AIDS hit San Francisco in the early 80s, there was a movement to shut down the bathhouses because risky sexual behaviors in the bathhouses were spreading AIDS.  The owners of the bathhouses didn’t want them closed down because they’d go broke, so they put money above public health and instituted a movement to keep the bathhouses open regardless of the health implications. There was a clear cut divide in the gay community concerning this issue. One side wanted to pretend that nothing was happening and to keep living their lives as if there wasn’t a deadly new virus worming its way into the community. Then there was the other side that was looking into the future at the long term consequences of keeping bathhouses open as AIDS exploded and starting killing off many talented, loving, productive good people. Then there was the straight community who listened to Jerry Falwell and couldn’t be bothered with the issue because "AIDS is a lethal judgment of God on the sin of homosexuality and it is also the judgement of God on America for endorsing this vulgar, perverted and reprobate lifestyle" (Falwell, 1987).  Blood banks didn’t want to cause undue alarm and hurt their profits, so the blood bank lobby pushed back against testing donors by hiding behind a false concern of how testing donors would impact the gay community (which was a real concern during the homophobic 80s). Blood banks didn’t care about the gay community though. They cared about profit. So for love of profit masquerading as “my rights,” outraged morality, and blind ignorance, there have been over 700,000 AIDS related deaths since the early 80s.

            We’ve heard the same “my rights” arguments about closing establishments and wearing masks in public since March 2020. Money over public health. “My rights’ over public health. I thought we’d be able to put that thinking behind us by learning from the mistakes that were made during the AIDS crises, and that we would be mature and responsible and concentrate on the health issues and not the “my rights” issues, but sadly I was wrong.  When a government doesn’t take responsibility for a health crises and give needed assistance to the people and the economy, we break under the non-responses. Our elected leaders have to take the lead, and the sitting U.S presidents during the start of the AIDS crises and the Covid pandemic did not lead.

             When we don’t embrace the fact that we have a societal obligation to one another and that no person is an island unto themselves, we’ll keep fucking up our responses to major epidemics and pandemics. Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. Reagan and Trump both took the wrong page out of the playbook. I only hope future administrations that deal with the next pandemic (and there will be another one) burn that page and that people start seeing this country as a collective of people whose behaviors impact one another and not separate islands of “my rights.”

 

As of this writing there have been 513,821 U.S Covid deaths, and still counting...

My Country 'Tis of Thee

 

This day is a new start for me and my country, Americans and non-Americans alike. A day of renewed hope, a day to repair the many principles and norms that were broken over the past four years, a day to reassess, to rededicate ourselves to the principles of what it means to be an American, what it means to be a country, a democracy. After four years of being dragged daily through hate, uncertainty, and temper tantrums, today couldn’t come soon enough. We are bruised and battered, but we are not down and out. 45 did not destroy us. What he did was expose white supremacy and hate in all its forms. He showed us what lurks in the souls of men (and women) and now as we move forward it is not our job to excuse or ignore that white supremacy and hate, but to defeat it with common sense love, compassion and strength. There can be no healing without justice and accountability.

             Like roaches that scuttled out of the dark crevices during 45’s administration, we must squash the hate and division with our boot heel and make certain that never again are they allowed to threaten our democracy and our forefathers’ vision for this country. We must be better. We must not ever again allow division of our country based on color, race, religion, sexual orientation, or sexual identity. Every one of us, rather we live on the shores of Oregon,  the rich lands of California, the sprawling Midwest plains, the heat and music drenched south, or in our glittering cities on the hills, is an American, and as such it is our responsibility to safeguard what we have been gifted and never ever allow another four years to happen like we just lived through.

            It is time to break the chains that corporate America has on working Americans because those Americans: the truck drivers, the military, the teachers, the fast food workers, the nurses, the lawn care crews, the factory workers are what keep this country functioning. This nation was not founded for corporations, but for the people. By the people, for the people. And right now people are struggling to keep a roof over their heads, access healthcare, and buy food. People are losing their homes. Climate change is a world emergency. Covid has decimated the foundations of our economy. The United States has more homeless children than any other developed nation on earth. The house is on fire and if we don’t put out that fire right now, this nation will fall to ash. But today I have a renewed hope. We can do better. We must do better.

            Education costs, housing, health care, food, have all outstripped wages. My hope is that a Biden administration will address these economic issues and more. I know that the problems can’t be fixed in four years, but we now have a spring board to create legislation and laws that will benefit the working class and not just the ones who hold the power and the money. Climate change, inequality, injustices for people of color, low wages, for-profit healthcare, and Covid-19 response are issues that won’t just go away on their own. WE have to help fix them. And we can’t become complacent again. WE cannot ever again say that our one vote doesn’t matter, because each and every vote DOES matter.  Stay involved, continue to hold our elected officials accountable, be the voice you want to hear. We came far too close to our voices being silenced by the voices of hate and division. Stay alert, but be compassionate. As President Biden said today, “Our better angels have always prevailed.” Let them prevail now.