Category Archives: Political

Channeling Hugh

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My father-in-law had a handwritten note above his desk that guided him every day through his long life (he died at age 96 just weeks after Trump’s 2016 victory). It read:

  • Pause
  • Think
  • Plan
  • Act

I think of my father-in-law a lot, especially now. Hugh was a conscientious objector in WWII, a political science professor in later life, and a committed civil-rights and anti-war champion throughout. He was invariably courteous, friendly, and even-keeled. Hugh favored reason over emotion. So he followed his credo in times of trouble, whether trouble came in the form of a clogged drain or foreign policy catastrophes: Pause, think, plan, act.

And that is what I intend to do now.

I very much doubt that my father-in-law would applaud how I’m currently fulfilling these intentions. For instance, I don’t think Hugh’s “Pause” would consist of listening to Elin Hilderbrand’s delicious Nantucket beach reads. Nor would he lie awake at night thinking about how remaining behind on New Yorkers maybe means the election hasn’t really happened. His plan would probably not involve looking at comfort food recipes. Stress-eating a batch of freshly made chocolate chip cookies wouldn’t be his chosen action.

He might be with me on doing a lot of yardwork, though.

Hugh is also with me as inspiration as I try to pick my way through Trump 2.0’s “Move Fast and Break Things” manifesto. As an antidote to this horror, and in honor of my father-in-law, I will slowly move to come up with my own, more enduring version of Pause, Think, Plan, Act.

At least I hope so.

One Conversation at a Time

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Phone banking can be tedious: Hang ups, wrong numbers, people who are angry because they’re inundated with calls.

There are also plenty of people who affirm they’re voting the way you hope they are, or need a bit of help with voting information, or thank you for your work despite the fact that they’re inundated.

Then there are the nuggets that make it all worthwhile. The other day, the father of the woman I was trying to reach in Pennsylvania said she was at work, but could he help? I said I was a volunteer calling about the presidential election. He replied, “I am a 67-year-old lifelong Republican who is voting for Kamala Harris and other Democrats all the way down the ticket.” His immediate family of five—a mix from both parties—were all voting the same way.

Last week I spoke with a woman I’ll call Kay in Wisconsin who told me that she and her husband had decided not to vote this year. When I asked her to tell me more, it was clear how overwhelmed she felt, not knowing who or what to believe. It just felt easier and wiser to lay low and sit this one out.

Immigration was one of Kay’s top concerns. She didn’t like that so many resources were going to immigrants. “It’s a complicated issue,” I said, mentioning that Kamala Harris would sign the border bill that Trump had torpedoed. Did she have any personal experience with immigrants in her community. No—she’d just read about it. Kay also mentioned that she was unhappy about the Dobbs decision.

Kay had watched the debate, and thought that Trump was a liar and Kamala was great. I noted that what disturbed me most was how Trump constantly sowed chaos and division. Our conversation then turned to Springfield, Ohio; we agreed that Trump’s and Vance’s lies about pet-eating Haitians had brought harm to the city’s immigrant and native residents alike. We talked about lots of things, including our fondness for President Obama.

Still, Kay seemed discouraged. “Does voting matter?” she asked. “Do they even count the votes?” Yes and yes. Especially in Wisconsin!

“If you were to vote,” I asked, “Who would you vote for?”

“Oh, Kamala!” Kay replied without hesitation. So would her husband.

I said, “It breaks my heart that you feel like your voice doesn’t matter, and that you’re voluntarily letting louder people drown it out.” Kay took this in. I told her how moved I was by our conversation, that it would stay with me long after we finished talking, and I hoped she felt the same way.

“You’ve given me a lot to think about,” Kay said. “Thank you for helping me see the light.”

I do not know for sure if Kay and her husband will vote this year. But I do know that this conversation mattered, and that tens of thousands of us are making these connections, unearthing these nuggets, turning non-voters into voters every day.

Happy Birthday, Mom(ala)

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My mother and Kamala Harris share a birthday. Kamala turns 60 today, and my mother would be 101 had she not died in 1995. (No Jimmy-Carter-like hanging on to cast a vote for her, alas!)

I think of my mother a lot, and especially during momentous political times. How she would have loved to mark her ballot for Kamala! On the other hand, the prospect of Trump as president once, let alone possibly twice, would have killed my mother. Although she died far too young, I am grateful she was spared having to live in an America with him as cause and symptom. Still, I wish she were here to guide me through these times.

I think back to 1972, when I was a senior in high school and highly aware of the presidential election for the first time. I found it impossible to believe that anyone could vote for Richard Nixon, and fervently believed that George McGovern would win. Did my mother share the same delusion? Or simply not want to disturb my beautiful, naive idealism? Was she as crushed as I was? How did she keep on going? Because I know she did. We all did. Less than two years later, we broke open the champagne when Nixon was forced to resign.

I miss my beautiful, naive idealism, and I miss my mother, but of course I’ve kept on going, too. I would like to put champagne in the fridge to celebrate Kamala’s victory. I find it impossible to believe that anyone could vote for Donald Trump. But the traumas of 2016 and the MAGA-fication of the Republican Party have taught me otherwise.

Still, I am cautiously optimistic. Not delusional, but hopeful. I would love to compare notes with my mother about keeping the faith through dire times. I would love for both of us to be able to bask together in the joy and fortitude that Kamala exemplifies, to celebrate her victory.

Happy Birthday, Mom. Wish you were here, though I’m glad you are not. I will work and vote with all my heart for Kamala in honor of you.

And thank you, Kamala. Happy Birthday to you, too!

Election Countdown

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Soon after Joe Biden was declared the winner in November 2020, my husband said, “I thought we’d at least get a mental health break, but I guess not.” Trump and his allies, who’d sowed chaos and seeds of doubt about fair elections long before any votes were cast, wasted no time in spreading the Big Lie and passing lots of laws to make voting harder in swing states. Although personally and even sometimes politically we’ve had many bright spots in the last four years—2 weddings, no funerals, and no red wave in 2022!—it’s been quite a psychological slog.

My mental health improved greatly on July 21, the day President Biden announced he was stepping aside and endorsing Kamala Harris to take his place as the 2024 nominee. Before then, and especially after his disastrous debate performance, I had pretty much felt on a glide path to doom. “At least there won’t be another insurrection,” I consoled myself at the thought of Trump’s re-election.

With the coming of Kamala, hope and joy returned, along with a fighting chance. I have reveled in cat memes, rising poll numbers, a pitch-perfect convention, Taylor Swift’s endorsement, Michelle Obama, Tim Walz, Doug Emhoff, and all the Every-Identity-Group-Under-the-Sun-for-Kamala fundraisers. And whose mood didn’t improve watching an unraveling Donald Trump swallow the bait every single time in their September 10 debate?

And yet, here we are at essentially a coin toss. I feel cautiously optimistic, and also increasingly anxious. It all depends on the day’s vibes, my wish-casting, whether a new Times/Siena poll has dropped, and the number of undecided people who complain that they still don’t know enough about Kamala Harris’s plans, which I fear is a way of saying There’s no way I’ll vote for a Black woman. I feel good about reports of Harris-Walz signs in deep red towns, somebody’s ancient, rock-ribbed Republican uncle voting for Kamala. Then, on a phone bank to Michigan, a guy answers, “Are you planning to vote for Harris or Trump?” with “I would not piss on her if she were on fire. Have a good day!” At least he was polite.

So I’m pretty anxious, but living by the axiom, “Do more, worry less.” I volunteer a lot for Airlift, which raises money to support grassroots groups who excel at turning non-voters into voters in battleground states. I know a lot of people who are responding to Michelle Obama’s call to “Do Something.”

We’re doing what we can for our future. And for our mental health. Let’s bring it home in the next 35 days.

Passing the Torch

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My husband Jonathan and I had recently left the Denver airport and were driving along Highway 70 on the first day of our vacation hiking in the Rockies when the texts started pinging.

Jonathan checked my phone, and there was the news we’d been hoping for: President Biden had stepped aside. The 27 minutes between his announcement and subsequent endorsement of Vice President Kamala Harris had not yet elapsed, but by the time we stopped for lunch, Biden had passed the torch and the $96 million in the campaign chest to his VP. The cafe we chose had good chili and a comfy reading nook. There on the shelf was Kamala’s Way and Let Us Dream: The Path to a Better Future, by Pope Francis. “From the Pope’s lips to God’s ears,” I said to Jonathan.

Now five weeks later, the Democratic Convention has just ended, converted quickly from what likely would have been a valiant but manufactured attempt at optimism to through-the-roof euphoria. On the first night, ear-splitting enthusiasm rocked the rafters as just about everybody’s lips sang the praises of not just the newly formed Harris-Walz ticket, but also and especially of President Biden.

“Thank you, Joe!” chanted the first-night crowd as they waved signs that reinforced the message. The ever-snarky New York Times political reporter Peter Baker wrote, “They were thanking him, yes, for what he accomplished during a lifetime in public service. But they were also thanking him, let’s be honest, for not running again.” He’s not wrong.

At the end of a long night, President Biden delivered his farewell address–reworked just a little, it seemed–from the acceptance speech he had hoped to give at the Convention’s crowning event. It was a poignant moment, and also a reminder that had Convention Joe shown up to the debate, he would still be the nominee, and we’d likely be Ridin’ with Biden over the cliff to defeat.

The most moving part of Biden’s speech came near the end, as he quoted a verse from a song treasured by his family:

What shall our legacy be,

What will our children say?

Let me know in my heart when my days are through,

America, America, I gave my best to you.

He did, over and over again, culminating in this final act of stepping aside. President Biden left the stage, left Chicago for a vacation in California, left the torch in the able and willing hands of a new generation of talent with an incredible candidate leading the way. Thank you, Joe.

Now it is Kamala’s way, a path to a better future. But let’s not just dream or pray about it—let’s work hard to make it happen.

Total Immunity

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In January 2016, some writing friends and I rented a house at the Russian River so we could concentrate on our writing. Naturally, we did anything but—instead we napped, cooked, browsed the internet, stared into space. I was in the kitchen when my friend who was reading the news looked up and announced, “So now Trump says he could stand in the middle of Fifth Avenue and shoot somebody without losing any voters.”

I burst out laughing. I was one of the many back then who regarded Trump’s candidacy as a total joke. At times I found him quite funny, and thought he could have made a go of it as a stand-up comic, what with his innate feel for the audience and sense of comic timing. Yet I couldn’t imagine him getting the nomination, let alone becoming President.

The joke’s on me. It stopped being funny long, long ago. In fact, most of the time I feel terrified. Not so much by Trump, who has always made it perfectly clear that he’s a total fraud who has no business being anywhere near elected office. What alarms me are those voters and so-called adults in the room who have continued to support him no matter how many shots he takes in broad daylight. Even inciting an insurrection hasn’t deterred his tens of millions of fans. Or most of his fellow Republican politicians and nominees who hate his guts but will still vote for him.

Of course, Trump has lost voters, which is why he’s no longer president. But still.

My mind has been boggled and broken thousands of times by what Trump has gotten away with.  His latest legal claims of total immunity take the cake. They are as ludicrous and laughable as his becoming president once struck me. But once again the joke’s on me.

So I guess it’s true that Trump could stand in the middle of Fifth Avenue and shoot somebody without losing any votes.

I just never imagined that the conservative members of the Supreme Court would be driving the getaway car.

Happy Groundhog Day: A Celebration of Same-Old, Same-Old

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I didn’t happen to have a groundhog on hand today, so I used my own shadow as a proxy to predict the future. As usual, results were mixed: Under sunny blue skies, I entered the grocery store to pick up some fruit, and emerged not three minutes later into a downpour. Shadow, then no shadow. So spring around the corner, or six more weeks of winter? Where I live, in northern California, winter and rain have become obsolete concepts, replaced by “God, how can we bear this 40-degree temperature?” and “atmospheric rivers.” So I guess today predicted Sprinter and Wing, and lots more of it. Which is not that surprising, since the daffodils are out while the creeks run high under cloudy and blue skies. Per usual.

Per usual is the point of why Groundhog Day is one of my favorite holidays, or at least one of my favorite movies. Nothing else quite captures how one day is much like another, on and on. Our routines are both deliriously comforting and maddeningly monotonous. A creature of habit, I quite like it that way.

Groundhog Day strategically falls right as January’s flush of new resolve–“This year, things will really change!”–gets flushed down the toilet. Who were we kidding? It feels good to burrow under the covers instead of rising early to write, and who wants to down a green energy drink instead of Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia just when it’s getting to the perfect melty stage? Out with the new, in with the old.

Speaking of old, you may have heard there’s an election this year featuring two old guys who’ve both been president.

One’s a malignant narcissist who tried to overturn the last election and prefers an address of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue over–Oh, let’s say–a prison cell. The other’s a decent guy who’s gotten a lot of good done despite massive obstruction, a stammer and stiff gait, and some questionable embraces that are not of the sexual-assault type favored by the first and former guy.

The election’s actually a do-over of 2020, only worse, which has a lot of people far more upset than the do-over Bill Murray faced day after day in Groundhog Day. Bill Murray’s plight had a Hollywood ending.

As for the ending of our Same-old, Same-old election contest in November? It all depends on voters whether we’ll be cast back into the shadows or emerge into the light.

The Cruelty of the Forced-Birth Movement

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This picture haunts me. It’s of Brittany Watts, a 34-year-old Black woman from Ohio, at a court hearing last month, where a judge ruled she could be tried for the felony charge of abusing a corpse after she miscarried. Such things have happened before, especially when the targets are poor or of color. But there’s no doubt that anti-choice fanaticism in the wake of Roe’s upending contributes mightily to this obscene persecution. Here’s the backstory to this picture of a woman caught in a nightmare.

On September 19, 2023, Ms. Watts had gone to the hospital because she appeared to be miscarrying 21 weeks into her pregnancy. Although doctors recommended inducing delivery of her non-viable fetus, she was kept waiting for 8 hours without treatment while the hospital ethics panel debated her fate. She returned the next day and again left without treatment. Soon after, she passed fetal tissue into the toilet, which clogged when she tried to flush. Upon returning to the hospital, a nurse called the police. In October, Ms. Watts was arrested and charged with a seldom-used law against abusing a corpse despite evidence that the fetus died in utero.

Imagine being denied treatment, miscarrying alone at home, then facing charges that could have resulted in a year’s imprisonment.

Fortunately, a grand jury recently ruled against proceeding with this persecution prosecution. The legal case may be over, but the anguish on Ms. Watts face speaks to the indelible horror of our post-Roe abortion landscape.

And this wasn’t even an abortion! But it did occur in the midst of Ohio’s ugly climate as forced-birth proponents in the state legislature tried (unsuccessfully) to severely restrict, even criminalize abortion. As Wendy A. Bach, a law professor at the University of Tennessee noted in the New York Times, “This is part of an ongoing and increasing trend to use the criminal law to punish reproductive health in this country. . . [Ms. Watts’s] punishment started the moment [the hospital’s ethics board] had to debate what to do with her rather than provide her with medical care.”

The cruelty is the point.

But it’s also backfiring. In state after state, voters of all political stripes are rejecting the wet dreams of Gilead. Abortion rights advocates have certainly capitalized on horror story after horror story of what the loss of Roe has meant: a 10-year-old Ohio girl who was raped being forced to seek an abortion in a neighboring state; her doctor facing egregious threats to her medical license, liberty, livelihood, and reputation; a mother and her pregnant teenager facing charges based on their Facebook messages; women like Texan Kate Cox who desperately want their babies but are unable to get the care they need when the pregnancy goes awry; ob-gyns leaving red states because it’s become impossible to deliver quality care without fear of prosecution in the legal morass of abortion bans.

These, of course, are the stories that generate sympathy and the will to fight back. My heart breaks for the hardships these people face, and I’m grateful to all who have come forward.

But even though the strategy of amplifying such stories has been highly effective at the ballot box, I’m also ambivalent about the hyper-focus on these relatively rare “sympathetic victim” cases. 

After all, the vast majority of those needing abortions don’t fall into this category. They shouldn’t have to. Failed birth control, no birth control, casual sex, awkward sex, great sex, acquiesced-to sex, immaturity, drunkenness, having other goals that don’t include childbirth are no less deserving reasons than a tragic turn in a wanted pregnancy or becoming pregnant through rape or incest. There are no categories of deserving or undeserving people when it comes to the decision of whether or when to bear a child. Everyone deserves the freedom to choose.

So come November, choose to overturn the cruelty of the forced-birth movement. Vote blue.

Hunting Hunter

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Of everything that’s been aired about Hunter Biden, this photo breaks my heart the most. It accompanies a recent New York Times article, “President Biden Keeps Hunter Close Despite Political Peril.” Of course he does. What I find so heartbreaking is the haunted look on Hunter’s face.

From the beginning of learning about Hunter’s history and struggles, I’ve been worried that the witch hunt against him–yes, let’s call it what it is–will break his sobriety, break him. The gun at the center of his indictment ended up in the dumpster because his brother’s widow, with whom Hunter had an affair, threw it there, worried that Hunter would use it to kill himself. I worry about that, too. It’s hard enough to face one’s demons without being the subject of a political party hellbent on destroying you in the most publicly humiliatingly way possible to get at your father.

Yes, Hunter’s done awful stuff. He used his family name to make a lot of money (unlike anyone named Trump or everyone in the history of nepotism). I’m okay with Hunter facing legal consequences, although it’s obvious that he’s been relentlessly investigated and now charged far more heavily than typically happens because Republicans want to create a shitstorm for the President.

I also wish that Joe Biden had told Hunter to stay away from any business opportunities remotely connected with President Obama’s and his own administrations–and certainly to stay away from the state dinner for Prime Minister Modi at the White House this summer.

It’s tough to be a parent of an adult child. It’s even tougher when there’s a history of trauma and addiction. I’ve not dealt personally with addiction in my family, but as a therapist I’ve seen lots of it in my practice. It is one of the most destructive forces I’ve witnessed, and nearly impossible for any parent to know how to respond. Being able to kick addiction–or be the parent of an addict–are two of the hardest and most courageous things I can think of. As a parent myself, I’ve never quite been sure if what I’m doing is helpful or harmful, and my kids haven’t had to deal with any major problems. I can only imagine what it’s been like for Joe Biden and his family.

When I first saw the aforementioned article, I thought, “Here goes, another hit piece.” What emerged instead is a portrait of anguish and an unshakeable loving bond. Hunter is lucky to have such a dad. My most fervent hope is that he has the strength to come through all this without self-destructing.

I also hope that Joe Biden and the country survive the mind-boggling behavior of the Republicans in their quest to hang onto power. After exhaustive investigations, there has been zero evidence of any wrong-doing by the President. Nonetheless, the far-right Freedom Caucus, which holds the U.S. House and its cowardly Speaker hostage, plans to shut down the government and impeach Joe Biden, apparently, as some wag said, for the crime of being a father.

Marjorie Taylor Greene has admitted that the aim of this gambit is to make sure Republicans win big in 2024. She told Donald Trump that she wants the impeachment inquiry to be “long and excruciatingly painful for Joe Biden.”

As Adam Serwer says, “The cruelty is the point.”

Paper of Record

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My husband and I just watched She Said, the film based on New York Times reporters Megan Twohey’s and Jodi Kantor’s investigation that brought down Harvey Weinstein and turbocharged the #MeToo Movement. We happened to see it on the same day that we’d contemplated canceling our Times subscription at least three times.

The first came when I listened to The Daily’s podcast coverage of the recent discovery of Joe Biden’s classified documents in all the wrong places. The sequel to the 2016 smash hit, “Oh, But Her Emails!,” “Documents!” is part of the breathless reporting that is one-tenth spelling out the differences between Biden’s and Trump’s behavior and nine-tenths implying nefarious intent with far, far more disturbing revelations to come. I suppose the one-tenth part counts among the Lessons Learned by responsible journalists whose hyperbolic coverage of the drip-drip-drip of Hillary’s misused server surely contributed to the mess we’re in now. Unfortunately, the greater Lesson Learned about stoking conflict to gain eyeballs, plus a misguided allegiance to “Fair and Balanced,” still triumphs. At least when Fox touted the “F&B” tagline, they knew it was ironic.

Later that day, I moved onto the Times Opinion section, only to be confronted with a column by Kellyanne Conway, Trump’s notorious campaign manager, counselor, and coiner of “alternative facts.” Why the Times would give over precious inches to a known liar and political hack was beyond me, though I shouldn’t have been surprised since that’s a fair description of what has happened to our political discourse in general over the last many years. But I would not let Kellyanne off the hook: “How’s your marriage? And your daughter?” I unkindly asked her in my mind.

As I complained to my husband about these journalistic outrages over lunch, he added a third reason to quit the Times: “They’re going after us because we both use the same log-in to read the paper. I’ve explained that we’re in the same household, but they say ‘It’s just one user per subscription.’”

That evening, which was Takeout and Movie Night, we streamed She Said. It’s a good, though not great, movie, and one well worth seeing for the importance of the story alone. And also for the décor of the New York Times: chic red walls, bright and airy workspaces, a stunning cafeteria with floor to ceiling windows.

But the aesthetics are nothing compared to the paper’s unlimited resources, including sending the intrepid reporters overnight to London. Given that no expense was spared, I couldn’t help but wonder why the Times never sprang for a couple sets of Bluetooth headphones so the reporters were not constantly on speaker phone as they walked down streets or made dinner while passersby, husbands, and kids freely listened in. (Then I realized that this was a cinematic device designed to allow the audience to hear all, not half, of the conversations with vital sources. Duh!)

Best of all was the unstinting support of everyone at the Times. While poor Ronan Farrow had to go, beggar-like, to the New Yorker, after NBC News squelched his simultaneously exploding bombshell investigation, Twohey and Kantor had a whole army of senior staff behind them. Their editor, Rebecca Corbett, not only dispensed hugs, keen advice, and chocolate almonds freely throughout; she also knew that the pursuit of a good story could cure post-partum depression. Executive Editor Dean Baquet personally and hilariously ran interference with Harvey Weinstein himself. In contrast to the workplace Weinstein turned into a house of horrors, the New York Times came off as the best employer in the world. It was hard to even recall that just last month, labor unrest roiled the Times, and those sympathetic to the workers were encouraged to eschew their Wordle addiction for the day in solidarity.

Still, the Times did good, does good, and no doubt will continue to do good, especially if they ever get over their fetish for interviewing MAGA enthusiasts in diners. We’re likely never to quit them (of course, they may boot us off first if we continue to share one subscription in our household of two). In honor of this exasperating, brilliant paper of record, I even played Wordle for the first time ever yesterday.

As for Weinstein? Well, RIP Harvey–rot in prison.