Thoughts on the Second Sunday in May

Happy Mothers Day!

Or is it Happy Mothers' Day!

Or Happy Mother's Day!

Inquiring grammarians want to know.

*****

Big Cuter was born on the second Sunday in May.  

This was a fortunate choice on his part, since the hospital celebrated the holiday by gifting me a red rose and a steak dinner. 

*****

This was my 2015 Mothers' Day post, with 10 month old FlapJilly's bare footprints decorating the planter.

Ten years later, she's two inches away from being taller than I am, with feet that are definitely bigger than that painted ceramic pot.

*****

From a 2018 phone call and text from 8 months pregnant Little Cuter and almost 4 year old FlapJilly.

(Cue Happy Birthday, played sprightly and with enthusiasm to accompany Little Cuter's mellifluous tones.)

Happy Mothers Day to you
Happy Mothers Day to you
Happy Mothers Day Dear Mommy and Grandma-from-FlapJilly-who's-refusing-to-sing-along
Happy Birthday....
     OH SHIT
Happy Mothers Day to YOUUUUUUUUUUUUUU!

Her follow-up text read, simply, I'm soooooo tired!
*****

I've lived a decade without my mom. 

I want to send her a card and a prune Danish and a gardenia corsage.

Instead, I'll read some G'ma-centric posts and look at old photographs and be glad that she was in my life at all.

She would have the definitive opinion on that pesky apostrophe.

Happy Mothers/Mother's/Mothers' Day

Little Cuter likes the last one; it's the most inclusive.

A Memory

First posted on December 21, 2010, lightly edited 15 years later.  It feels like yesterday.

Big Cuter and I sang along with the Tuvan Throat Singers and Bela Fleck and the Flecktones at the Rialto Theater last night.  

Bela Flek's banjo picking is clear and precise and quick.  Even if the banjo isn't a real instrument, as the Flektone's tonsured-with-dreadlocks bass player snarkily smirked onstage, Bela Flek sure does make pretty music on it.  He's been nominated for Grammy's in more categories than any other artist, and I'd give him a statue in each and every one of them.

We were sitting in the balcony, always the right choice at the Rialto.  Floor seats are folding chairs smashed too close together on a totally flat floor.  Unless you're 7' tall, sight lines are non-existent.  But up in the loge, there are cushioned seats with arm-rests, and the rake is such that even if that 7' person is right in front of you there's a good chance you'll still see what's happening down there on the stage.  Big Cuter and I sat in the front row of the second section, with a low ledge for jacket and foot resting right there in front of us.  We were up near the ceiling, as close to heaven as we were likely to get in Tucson this season.

Big Cuter noticed it first - there was no one actually playing the drum kit.  There was definitely percussion, but there did not appear to be a musician creating it.  I wondered if it were taped, but that just didn't feel right.  The girl to my right pointed out Futureman, the Flecktone standing stage left, and told me that he was making the music... with the small wooden whatchamacallit around his neck.

The whatchamacallit was also called the Vegetarian Electronic Porkchop, but the liner notes from the cd I bought told me that it's a drumitar.   Futureman (aka Roy Wooten) invented/created/developed/played it... sometimes with his left hand while using his right more traditionally with brushes or sticks on the drums themselves.  For the most part, though, he stood upright, assuming the posture of a guitarist as he created drum sounds from that (wood?) gadget hanging around his neck.  It was odd.  It was delicious.  It was unlike anything we'd ever heard or seen or thought of before.

Just like the rest of the concert.

Three or four songs into the program, unannounced, four men in odd dress walked on stage.  Big Cuter looked at me.  I looked at him.  In one voice we said TUVAN THROAT SINGERS???

Long ago, we heard their music and their story on All Things Considered.  Captivated, we stayed in the car until the end of the piece.  Their sound was otherworldly and strange and impossible.  It tickled our fancy; we loved it for no reason beyond that we loved it.  It came up in conversation over the years, more often than you might imagine. 

And then, without warning, they were on stage right before our very eyes.  Surprised does not come close to what we were feeling. 

We couldn't stop smiling.  At one another.  At the stage. At the audience.  We were each with the other's perfect person for this moment.  

Did anyone else in the auditorium know what was coming? There were murmurs, of course; very tall men in unusual attire were setting up items which vaguely resembled musical instruments.  While my son and I talked about serendipity and answered Tuvan Throat Singers to the whisperers' Who are THEY??, those very tall men got themselves organized and the caroling continued.

It was really something, all those instruments playing Jingle Bells. The entire audience was giggling, then trying to sing along, then giggling some more.  Bela's 5-string banjo and  Jeff Coffin's one man horn section accompanied the Tuvans on their their igil and byzaanchy and doshpuluur and kengirge and shunggyrash, which really were no weirder than the drumitar.

There was a gentle light show, with snowflakes and geometric shapes wandering the walls and ceiling.  The sing-along, in Tuvan, was coordinated with the lights, which illuminated the audience when it was our turn to chime in with Aa-shu Dekei-oo.  The players were introduced by spot-light, and the mood was in turns dramatic and giddy and concentrated as the colors changed from blues to reds to greens.  

It was pretty special for Tucson.  For anywhere, really.

The throat singers did not come all the way from Siberia just to sing Jingle Bells. They came back after intermission and sang songs about fast horses and beautiful women and then some songs about beautiful horses and fast women.  They seemed to be having as much fun as we were.  

It got better and better.  Jeff Coffin played two saxophones at once (really, he did) and Bela Fleck sat on a high stool all alone on the stage and talked to us through his banjo.  This was a holiday concert, and hidden among the notes were Silent Night and What Child is This? and Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies.  

Throat singing originated before there was language, yet it blended right in with ancient Christian hymns played on modern instruments. The jam band wound around and into and over and through bluegrass and classical and Tuvan; traditional music sounds the same the world over. 

The throat singers are returning to their home on the steppes.  The Flecktones are doing their Christmas shopping. And Big Cuter and I are annoying the hell out of TBG, because we've had the Jingle All The Way cd blasting on the stereo all day long. 

Where Were You?

Do you know what you were doing every minute of the day and night the day before Mothers' Day 42 years ago?  I do.

TBG drove me down Wrightwood, the bumpiest street in the neighborhood, to get hot dogs.  I spent a moment leaning against the wall, proving that real contractions do mean that you can't walk/talk/tell a joke.

I took a shower, wondering once again if I really had feet and toes.  I took a nap.

Zanner came over for dinner, we settled into the giant couch downstairs, put Arsenic and Old Lace into the DVR, and began to time those contractions.

We sent Zanner home, drove to the hospital through a driving rainstorm, refused to take a walk around the block to speed things up, and spent the next twelve hours having a baby. 

42 years ago, Mothers' Day fell on May 8th.

So, yes, I do know what I was doing and feeling and creating on May 7th, the night before Mothers' Day, 42 years ago.  It's a memory I am pleased to replay in my mind on a fairly regular basis. 

Happy Almost Birthday, Big Cuter.

What I Learned Last Week

NPR photo

I learned that because so many people did not abide by Prohibition's restrictions, the lawless drinker needed a moniker.  25,000 entries were received; the $200 prize was split between the two people who came up with what was deemed the most appropriate response - scofflaw.

I learned that migrating birds are not migrating.  They ought to be flying north now, but they are not.  Climate change seems to be the only reason for this uncharacteristic behavior. 

I learned that Amy Beach is the American classical music composer who has sold more records/units/albums(?) than anyone else. 

And I learned that our Felon in Chief, who posted then denied then laughed about his Papal impersonation, thinks that PBS and NPR, where I learned all that and more,  needs to be defunded... y'know,  like yesterday. 

My kids learned the alphabet  and how to count to 100 from Sesame Street. Mr Rogers demonstrated manners and empathy and inclusion.  I've bought every size Elmo over the years, for kids who are now parents of kids receiving them.

In high school,  I watched my mother laugh uncontrollably at The General, my first but not last silent film. I learned a healthy disrespect for MLB's statistics after Ken Burns showed me the Negro League players. 

I know that the man has no soul, but taking on Big Bird seems a little over the top. 

And so, to lighten the load, and in solidarity with Catholics all over the globe, I give you this. 

Excellent Customer Service

In these troublous times, where government officials scoff at the Constitution and no one knows what anything will cost tomorrow,  I thought I'd share a story about people doing the right thing, and doing it well.

My phone developed a splotch and a stripe overnight.  It worked as a phone, but everything else was bollixed up by the disfiguration.  After two different repairmen were unable to restore it, I took to the interwebs to see what was available.

The various availabilities and price plans and phones were overwhelming.  From what I could discern, the only reason to upgrade my phone was to give more control to the AI, more deeply embedded in the newer models.  

I'm not interested in being judged by my phone; I have no need for it to improve my text messages or assess my health.  The first young lady with whom I discussed all this suggested that I take advantage of the insurance I've been paying.  Even better, I could order it all on-line, skipping the call center queue.

I logged on to Asurion, Verizon's insurance place.  Within a few well placed clicks, I realized I needed a human's touch.  There were just too many options.  The gentleman who guided me through was delightful, his accent and sense of humor kept me smiling.  My name had several extra, mellifluous syllables.  

His efforts to find me anything but a refurbished phone, laudable if unsuccessful, concluded with the reminder that if there was something wrong with it Verizon would replace it free of charge.  I agreed and accepted terms and conditions and the phone was on its way.  Arriving via UPS at 7pm the next day, it lived in its box until I had time to deal with it.

And it took time.

Theoretically, I could have set it up myself, at home, by following the directions included in the box. Though they were beautifully packaged and printed, they weren't what I needed them to be.  I called the helpful agent's phone number and began a lovely, if ultimately unfruitful, conversation.  Some pieces required waiting, some required restarting one or the other of the devices.

Everything was well explained and manageable, until it came to transferring the data.  There was an Auto Install button.  She told me not to use it.  She had me choose Manual.

This led to my slow descent, with accompanying existential dread, into the abyss.  Could I turn this on?  Could I find the answer another way?  What if I did this or that first?

It was awful.  She was lovely but it was awful.  Finally, after 40 some minutes of stomach churning anxiety and increasing frustration, she made me an appointment at a Corporate Store near to you and there I went, after Pilates, with my dander up

I was met by the manager who asked for my phone number and name and then told me there would be a $29.99 charge to transfer my data.  This was not what I wanted to hear, and I began to tell him why.  Fortunately, being a more mature human than I, he didn't rise to the bait.  Instead, he sent me over to a lovely young woman with an engaging smile and the easy confidence I wish I possessed when looking at my electronics.

I took two deep breaths, thanked the manager for putting up with me, and spent the next 90 minutes watching her use her phone and my phone together, like ice dancing.... leaning into one another, on one leg, going backwards, fast, on ice.  It was impressive.

I was wearing a Cubbies shirt which led to an agreeable conversation about Wrigley Field and Harry Carey and the obvious superiority of Michael Jordan.  My personal technician and I agreed without using specifics that the world is going to hell in a handbasket and that we all have a responsibility to complain about the ride.  

Finding kindred spirits in the Verizon store was the last thing I expected. We shook hands and smiled and they told me to come back anytime.  In that moment, it felt like a good idea.

And it gets better. 

Two mornings later a quality control type person from Verizon called.  Apparently, my 1-to-5 ranking of 2 for the first phone call prompted a response.  Would I tell him what happened?  Assuring him that it was what she did rather than her attitude that earned such a low rating.  I gave him the abbreviated version and then went on to rave about my happy ending with the humans in the store.  I gave him their names and made him promise to pass on my compliments as he was promising to use this information to help the employee do better in the future.  

I have a warm and fuzzy feeling towards Verizon right now.  

The People Speak

It's getting too hot to have many more of these gatherings in front of my congressman's office, so I took advantage of this one to join a fluid group of two hundred or so at any one time who were lining the sidewalks and waving signs at passing cars.

We will forgive the misspelling.  She showed up.

This giant flag has been at every one of these kinds of events.

The Ukrainian flag guy strolled up and down the street, 

pausing to laugh with the woman holding this -

There was a lot to make me laugh.

 

 

There were some that felt all too real.

This gentleman and I had a good time wondering where our checks might be hiding. 

I did my civic duty this morning.  Others can carry the torch tonight. 

And Somehow, I Feel Guilty

Today, May 1st, has been promoted as a National Day of Action by all the major and most of the minor people/groups I follow.  Tucson's three hour march begins at 5:30.

I'm not going.

I make three phone calls every weekday.  My Republican Congressman hears why I think he is misrepresenting his allegiance to FFOTUS here in our purple district.  I rarely disagree with one of my Senators; I call to tell him this that or the other thing he did was swell.  My other Senator is making me a little bit nervous;  I let him know that when I call.

I write letters to the editor of the local newspaper; sometimes they publish them.  

If one side torches the rules, the other side is not obligated to laminate them.

Brother printed my response to MAGA's outrage at Joe Biden's end of term pardons, scorched the edges, laminated the page, and sent it to me.  It has pride of place in my work space.

I share information about events/executive orders/security breaches/Congressional inaction at the drop of a hat.  I forward emails and texts with action plans from more than a few organizations to more than a few people.

I'm not afraid to show my political leanings.

My sign and I stand on the sidewalk in front of my Congressman's office with hundreds of others, demanding that he show up and be held accountable.  We stand on sidewalks at the Tesla dealership and near the Social Security office and around the edges of the big park for Hands Off!  With thousands of others who are furious at something or everything but manage to smile nonetheless, 

I've expressed my opinion often enough to joke about my part time gig as a protester.  It needs to be done and I do what I can when I can, even if it's only for 15 minutes.  I really do believe that 90% of life is showing up.

But........

The starting point is at the other end of town. I know no one else who is going.  It will be dark.  It's a long walk through unfamiliar neighborhoods with parking on the streets in that same unfamiliar neighborhood.  

Those are all valid reasons, even without the whole old lady alone business.  I have no one to whom I must justify my decision except myself.  And somehow, I feel guilty.

May Day has a long and storied history.  I'm imagining my Zaydeh, a proud union man, taking G'ma on his shoulders to march in support of the worker.  People all over the world will join in solidarity with the worker, will protest FFOTUS, will decry social injustices, and make a fairly unified noise.

They will do it without me.

We each do what we can do. I will be there in spirit.  

Paint in the Garden

TBG is quite confused.  He cannot imagine how painting has anything to do with gardening.  

The Prince gardeners, however, have no problem at all making the connection.  They're both fun.

I poured dollops of acrylic paint onto sturdy plates,

where, despite my admonitions to the contrary, they did manage to mix all the colors together.

Playing with the paint was as much fun as painting with the paint.  Below, the foam of the foam paint brush is jutting out, while the colorful, kid size handle is buried under thick layers of paint.  

I don't know why they were so proud of this, but they were.

They painted big rocks

and small rocks, 

some with more imagination than others.

They decorated the plastic containers

and the tire,

the raised beds

and the garden side of our brick wall.  

That happened while I was hosing off paint drenched hands, with the purple nozzle, over the purple trug.  

Allowing them to use the hose on for one another is, I quickly discovered, not a viable option; the temptations are just too great.  Not wanting to risk the wrath of the school nurse (who provides dry clothing) again, I paid closer attention to the water than the wall.

When I turned around, a big kid was using her fingertips to leave her own, personalized imprint 

on one corner of the already decorated bricks.

I decided to think of it as improving the space rather than damaging school property, which prepared me to follow one of the more interesting 5th graders as she proudly displayed her creation:

handprints which go all the way down the walkway and turn left to the gate, a feat which required her to pass through the garden's cacti and the Do Not Enter fence. I thought about that, and the obviousness of those bright red palm prints, and laughed.  

It was too late to do anything about it.

I don't think I'll get detention.  Neither will she.  The whole thing is delightfully cheery, after all.

Where Is DOGE When I Need Them?

We received an unintelligible letter from a nameless (for obvious reasons) government entity.

We are intelligent humans, well educated in the art of deciphering difficult prose.  These sentences were not prose, which Webster says is the ordinary language people use in speaking or writing.  

Ordinarily, when I speak or write people understand what I'm saying.  Gibberish seems more to the point.

Back with Merriam Webster again, we find a double whammy.  Gibberish is not only unintelligible or meaningless language, it lands smack in the middle of pretentious or needlessly obscure language.

The letter in question requires no action on our part; that much is somewhat clear.  Further clarification will come in a subsequent communication, although no time frame is offered.  We have no way of independently discovering anything about the account in question; it seems to be a paperwork/filing/miscalculation on someone's part.  

Ours or theirs?  Who knows?

We're fairly certain that we are not at fault.  We are equally (un)certain that the amount in dispute is less than $50 dollars.  We are definitely certain that anything coming out of the Federal government at this point is suspect.

With firings and dismantlings and furloughs abounding, only a desperate person would call a government agency and hope to speak to a human.  So, we wait and wonder.

Is it DOGE screwing around with the data base and sending out fear inducing missives to unsuspecting citizens or is there a built-into-the-system mechanism that generates these things?  If so, it seems to be an obvious place for the DOGE boys to do something useful.

In the meantime, we will fret (because that's what we do) and fume and check the mailbox.  I can hardly wait to see what comes next.

Is Anyone Listening?

My Congressman and I have issues.  He is a nice guy, by all accounts, mine included.  He is personable and a good listener and he has great hair.

Unfortunately, there's a big disconnect between his words and his deeds. He says he's for a lot of things, and against some other things, but his voting record doesn't match his speech making.

When I call his office to ask about one switcheroo or another, I always say that I'd like a response.  Sometimes, I remind them that I've called yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that.  I ask why they keep promising to get back to me if they never call, they never write, they don't email or text or anything.  Nor do they have anything to tell me when I make it easy and call them directly.

Unfailingly polite, the people behind the dial tone take down my information, thank me for calling, and assure me that the Congressman will be told of my concerns.

No one can answer my questions.  No one seems to try.  And he's all I've got.

Bernie Sanders sends me encouraging emails, urging me to run for any office at all.  My local Democrats had plans to rally behind a bullhorn outside an event featuring our Congressman.  Had I not wrenched my back (I'm okay now) I'd have taken a new sign to the protest at the Social Security office on Saturday.  

What I'm not doing is sending money to Democrats.  They had a couple billion dollars and we still got a felon in the White House.

Not-Kathy sent me this, which was not written by Liz Cheney, as rumor has it.  Dr. Pru Lee, aka PruPru on the Liz Cheney/Adam Kinzinger Against Trump Facebook group, takes credit for it.  She says it better than I could.

*****

Dear Democratic Party,

I need more from you.

You keep sending emails begging for $15, while we’re watching fascism consolidate power in real time.

This administration is not simply “a different ideology.” It is a coordinated, authoritarian machine — with the Supreme Court, the House, the Senate, and the executive pen all under its control.

And you? You’re still asking for decorum and donations. WTF. That won’t save us.

I don’t want to hear another polite floor speech. I want strategy. I want fire. I want action so bold it shifts the damn news cycle — not fits inside one.

Every time I see something from the DNC, it’s asking me for funds. Surprise. Those of us who donate don’t want to keep sending money just to watch you stand frozen as the Constitution goes up in flames — shaking your heads and saying, “Well, there’s not much we can do. He has the majority.” I call bullshit.

If you don’t know how to think outside the box…
If you don’t know how to strategize…
If you don’t know how to fight fire with fire…
what the hell are we giving you money for?
Some of us have two or three advanced degrees.
Some of us have military training.
Some of us know what coordinated resistance looks like — and this ain’t it.

Yes, the tours around the country? Nice. The speeches? Nice. The clever congressional clapbacks? Nice. That was great for giving hope. Now we need action.

You have to stop acting like this is a normal presidency that will just time out in four years. We’re not even at Day 90, and look at the chaos. Look at the disappearances. Look at the erosion of the judiciary, the press, and our rights.

If you do not stop this, we will not make it 1,460 days. 
So here’s what I need from you — right now:

1. Form an independent, civilian-powered investigative coalition.
I’m talking experts. Veterans. Whistleblowers. Journalists. Watchdog orgs. 
Deputize the resistance. Build a real-time archive of corruption, overreach, and executive abuse.
Make it public. Make it unshakable.
Let the people drag the rot into the light.
If you can’t hold formal hearings, hold public ones.
If Congress won’t act, let the country act.
This isn’t about optics — it’s about receipts.
Because at some point, these people will be held accountable.
And when that day comes, we’ll need every name, every signature, every illegal order, every act of silence—documented.
You’re not just preserving truth — you’re preparing evidence for prosecution.
The more they vanish people and weaponize data, the more we need truth in the sunlight.

2. Join the International Criminal Court.
Yes, I said it. Call their bluff.
You cannot control what the other side does.
But you can control your own integrity.
So prove it. Prove that your party is still grounded in law, human rights, and ethical leadership.
Join.
If you’ve got nothing to hide — join.
Show the world who’s hiding bodies, bribes, and buried bank accounts.
Force the GOP to explain why they’d rather protect a war criminal than sign a treaty.
And while you’re at it, publicly invite ICC observers into U.S. borders.
Make this administration explain — on camera — why they’re terrified of international oversight.

3. Fund state-level resistance infrastructure.
Don’t just send postcards. Send resources.
Channel DNC funds into rapid-response teams, legal defense coalitions, sanctuary networks, and digital security training.
If the federal government is hijacked, build power underneath it.
If the laws become tools of oppression, help people resist them legally, locally, and boldly.
This is not campaign season — this is an authoritarian purge.
Stop campaigning.
Act like this is the end of democracy, because it is.
We WILL REMEMBER the warriors come primaries.
Fighting this regime should be your marketing strategy.
And let’s be clear:
The reason the other side always seems three steps ahead is because they ARE.
They prepared for this.
They infiltrated school boards, courts, local legislatures, and police unions.
They built a machine while you wrote press releases.
We’re reacting — they’ve been executing a plan for years.
It’s time to shift from panic to blueprint.
You should already be working with strategists and military minds on PROJECT 2029 —
a coordinated, long-term plan to rebuild this country when the smoke clears.
You should be publicly laying out:
• The laws and amendments you’ll pass to ensure this never happens again
• The systems you’ll tear down and the safeguards you’ll enshrine
• The plan to hold perpetrators of human atrocities accountable
• The urgent commitment to immediately bring home those sold into slavery in El Salvador
You say you’re the party of the people?
Then show the people the plan.

4. Use your platform to educate the public on rights and resistance tactics.
If they’re going to strip us of rights and lie about it — arm the people with truth.
Text campaigns. Mass trainings. Downloadable “Know Your Rights” kits. Multilingual legal guides. Encrypted phone trees.
Give people tools, not soundbites.
We don’t need more slogans.
We need survival manuals.

5. Leverage international media and watchdogs.
Stop hoping U.S. cable news will wake up.
They’re too busy playing both sides of fascism.
Feed the real stories to BBC, Al Jazeera, The Guardian, Reuters, Der Spiegel — hell, leak them to anonymous dropboxes if you have to.
Make what’s happening in America a global scandal.
And stop relying on platforms that are actively suppressing truth.
Start leveraging Substack. Use Bluesky.
That’s where the resistance is migrating. That’s where censorship hasn’t caught up.
If the mainstream won’t carry the truth — outflank them.
Get creative. Go underground. Go global.
If our democracy is being dismantled in broad daylight, make sure the whole world sees it — and make sure we’re still able to say it.

6. Create a digital safe haven for whistleblowers and defectors.
Not everyone inside this regime is loyal.
Some are scared. Some want out.
Build the channels.
Encrypted. Anonymous. Protected.
Make it easy for the cracks in the system to become gaping holes.
And while you’re at it?
Stop ostracizing MAGA defectors.
Everyone makes mistakes — even glaring, critical ones.
We are not the bullies.
We are not the ones filled with hate.
And it is not your job to shame people who finally saw the fire and chose to step out of it.
They will have to deal with that internal struggle — the guilt of putting a very dangerous and callous regime in power.
But they’re already outnumbered. Don’t push them back into the crowd.
We don’t need purity.
We need numbers.
We need people willing to burn their red hats and testify against the machine they helped build.

7. Study the collapse—and the comeback.
You should be learning from South Korea and how they managed their brief rule under dictatorship.
They didn’t waste time chasing the one man with absolute immunity.
They went after the structure.
The aides. The enforcers. The loyalists. The architects.
They knocked out the foundation one pillar at a time —
until the “strongman” had no one left to stand on.
And his power crumbled beneath him.
You should be independently investigating every author of Project 2025,
every aide who defies court orders,
every communications director repeating lies,
every policy writer enabling cruelty,
every water boy who keeps this engine running.
You can’t stop a regime by asking the king to sit down.
You dismantle the throne he’s standing on — one coward at a time.

Stop being scared to fight dirty when the other side is fighting to erase the damn Constitution.
They are threatening to disappear AMERICANS.
A M E R I C A N S.
And your biggest move can’t be another strongly worded email.
We don’t want your urgently fundraising subject lines.
We want backbone.
We want action.
We want to know you’ll stand up before we’re all ordered to sit down — permanently.
We are watching.
And I don’t just mean your base.
I mean millions of us who see exactly what’s happening.
I’ve only got 6,000 followers — but the groups I’m in? The networks I touch? Over a quarter million.
Often when I speak, it echoes.
But when we ALL
speak, it ROARS with pressure that will cause change.
We need to be deafening.
You still have a chance to do something historic.
To be remembered for courage, not caution.
To go down as the party that didn’t just watch the fall — but fought the hell back with everything they had.
But the clock is ticking.
And the deportation buses are idling.

*****

We need to be deafening.  She's so right.  We're on the precipice.  I'm dreading the fall.