On questions and capes: A poem about post-election survival
The cashier at the
pharmacy verifies my name, address, date of birth,
looks me over and says,
"Solomon, huh?
Is that Jewish?"
It is 3 weeks after the
election.
We are standing in a
Walgreens in a blue state
across the corner from
where the
high school kids stood
on election day with signs reading,
"build that
wall" and "Hillary for Prison." We are
down the road from the
Starbucks where I was lectured on
how young people will
be the downfall of society because
we don't know any
better, and up the street from the
house with the Confederate flag painted in its garage, from the
Trump sign that lights
up in the dark, from the
pick-up truck with two
Confederate flags flying off the back above the gun rack, from the
Safeway where men followed
me to my car, tried to get in after me, where I
did not buy from the
Kosher for Passover section because
a man in a Trump hat
was in the aisle with me spouting ignorance and now I
wonder
why I am standing in
Walgreens
trying to answer this
question as
my mouth goes dry.
*****
Dr. Laura?
If Donald Trump is president, will he hate me?
Dr. Laura?
When Donald Trump runs the world, will he make people be cannibals?
Will they eat people with autism first?
Dr. Laura?
Is it okay to worry about Donald Trump?
Sometimes I can't sleep because I worry about him, like, about what he
might do to my family.
Dr. Laura?
Will it be the end of the world when Donald Trump is president?
Dr. Laura?
Can I be a superhero and save the world from Donald Trump? Sometimes I imagine that.
Dr. Laura?
I don't know how to be a superhero.
I tried to fly once, but
I just falled down.
*****
Each session feels like
a Bingo card of heartbreak:
a unique pattern of
life on the margins.
I find newfound fear as
the day's
headlines flash by.
Session 1:
White single father
with mental illness raising teenage son with
disabilities on the
Eastern Shore has to give up
a day of work to wait
for Medical Assistance
transportation.
Session 2:
Muslim woman in hijab has
twins with autism, works
nights to support them,
about to lose her job due to
inability to find child
care.
Session 3:
Non-English speaking,
immigrant mother with
intellectual disability
raising child with autism.
Session 4:
Black lesbian
grandmothers, one with cancer, one an immigrant, raising
child with multiple
disabilities on
food stamps in section
8 housing with a history of
multigenerational trauma.
Bingo.
*****
I receive an email:
"I don't
understand why you're so upset.
Now is the time to send love and prayers and compassion."
I fire off a response:
"Fuck your
prayers.
Now is the time to
fight for the superheroes flying
across the margins."
*****
I feel so small in the face of the
I feel so small in the face of the
resilience I sit across
from.
What privilege it is to
feel
shell-shocked and
curl into my
white, lesbian,
half-Jewish shell when all day I
sit with people who
only had a quarter shell to start with and it
leaks when it rains.
*****
Dr. Laura?
I was teaching my son to ride the bus.
He was going to do it himself.
Should I let him? I'm scared.
Dr. Laura?
I want him to be able to work
but I don't know what people will say.
Have you seen all these hate crimes?
Dr. Laura?
He runs away from me in public.
He hugs strangers, he's
a grown man now.
A 14-year-old black boy.
What do we do?
Dr. Laura?
****
I spend days telling
myself I cannot do this.
I cannot find my
breath.
I ask myself: what if the next person you meet is the one
the world is waiting for?
I give everyone capes
in my mind so they are
flying as I
learn to ask the
questions that will
imagine our survival.
//
Note: All clients portrayed above are fictionalized and/or composites of actual clients I see/have seen.
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