History and Heroes



Yesterday my friend Tim stopped by to despair. Tim is not the despairing type. He's usually calm, measured, unconventionally sane. It was unsettling. When things in the world become crazy, I look to him as a guide toward what is reasonable. And right. Yesterday he was hard pressed to find those things. While our cat Fuzzy basked in his affections, we talked. The possibilities are bad. Can he put those ideas into law? Things look like Wiemar Germany.

Finally, we came around to the situation here in New Hampshire. It's not so bad, he suggested. The governor-elect seems reasonable... After an hour, he left to go join colleagues at the Granite State Progress. He figured he'd rant some more with them, but then begin to think about their next steps.

I succumbed to the screen.

In the early hours of Wednesday morning, when I was certain I'd dreamt my brother's text of "President Trump" was some sort of nasty joke, I vowed I would not turn on the television, radio, or check social media until the after school hours. I sat at my desk, surrounded by writing materials. I struggled to write a sentence.

At lunch I caved. I picked up my phone and did the usual. Email: Nothing of interest. Newspaper: I couldn't watch Trump's acceptance speech. I looked at the voting maps. Read some of the stats. Took note of which editorials to go back to later. I did watch Hillary's graceful concession. And then, Facebook: Some sadness. Some despair. Some words that were encouraging and filled with hope.

Over at the Paris Review, Dan Piepenbring had this to say: "... I don’t want to add to the chorus of despair, because I do believe there’s a role for art at a time like this, and I don’t say that lightly—words like these don’t come easily to me. I would rather make fun of things, and I’m struggling against an inborn fatalism...The creative impulse is such a fragile thing, but we have to create now. We owe it to ourselves to do the work. I want to encourage you. If you aspire to write, put aside all the niceties and sureties about what art should be and write something that makes the scales fall from our eyes...write to destroy complacency, to rattle people, to help people, first and foremost yourself. Lodge your ideas like glass shards in the minds of everyone who would have you believe there’s no hope. And read, as often and as violently as you can. If you have friends, as I do, who tacitly believe that it’s too much of a chore to read a book, just one fucking book, from start to finish, smash every LCD they own. This is an opportunity. There’s too much at stake now to pretend that everything is okay."

And my big sister Sharon said, "...So I will take a step to the right and the left, inhale deeply, pick up my head and do what I do best! I will choose to create..."

I went back to the writing desk, filling the page with notes and ideas. 

On the way to pick up Cameron, I listened to Terri Gross interview James Fallows on Fresh Air. Fallows writes for The Atlantic. Along with his wife, Deborah Fallows, Fallows has "made numerous trips flying around the country in their single-engine propeller plane - he's a pilot - stopping in small cities and towns that are suffering from some kind of economic, political, environmental or other hardship so that they could talk with people about the issues that are having an impact on their lives." It's called the American Futures Project. What he and his wife have discovered, and what we need to shout from the rooftops, is that this vision of America falling to pieces and being an absolute shit hole does not exist in the places they've visited. Places where you might expect it to be so. If you ask people, he said, they will tell you things are good in their community. Things are progressing in a positive way.

I believe that is the truth for us here in New Hampshire. And because that is our truth, we have an obligation to share it. We have an obligation to maintain it. And we have an obligation to teach people how to get it.

We do not have to look far to see that many people are gathering themselves up with a renewed purpose for their work. This is what will sustain us. This is what will get us through the dark days. Think about those people who lift you up. Surround yourself with them. Remember that hard work feels good. Get involved. Pick up your pen (or whatever sword works best for you).

Today I recognize and thank some of the people I see working hard, fighting the good fight. (If you feel compelled, share who you see working with us in the comments section)

Thank-you Matt B. for the lovely words of peace and reconciliation on Facebook.

Thank-you Amy P. for keeping your classroom door open to ease the anxiety and fear of your students.

Thank-you Nate G. for minding the ship while I'm not really just sitting on the couch, but wrestling with ideas and words. Thanks also for reminding us of the power of poetry. While I don't want to think about the beast that slouched toward Bethlehem  after World War I or the one that is on its way, I know that there is energy in the anxiety we feel and we must harness that force to move forward. (Shout out to Mike Reardon, where ever you are!)

Thank you Tom White and the Cohen Center for the teachers you nurture, the programs you develop and the history we must always remember.

Thank you Ben Fountain author of the funny book Billy Lynn's Long Halftime Walk (which is opening in theaters tomorrow  as directed by the brilliant Ang Lee)  and for your articles at the Guardian, especially The Big Con. With a cringe and wince you've reminded me of the few days I spent at Bennington when my political science teacher Gail Russell assigned Robert Caro's first book about LBJ, The Path to Power. I didn't know how to read it then but it makes perfect sense now (as does Gail's advice to keep trying even though I failed her class). The New Deal, in part, is why I am able to sit here today to write instead of being at my work desk grading papers. The social contract developed at that time affords me this opportunity. It is, in part, what I think, many of Trump's supporters are angry about but don't know that they need. It must be preserved.

This afternoon Cam and I will make some paper poppies. Because, as if we need a marker to recall this week, tomorrow is Veteran's/Remembrance/Armistice Day. A day that dozens of countries commemorate. We'll create something together. We'll sing about not "missing our shot" and about being "young, scrappy, and hungry." We'll laugh at silly cartoons. We'll read some books. And tomorrow we'll give thanks and remember those who sacrificed their lives for this great experiment of a country.