Loving Grandpa Trump

A few week’s ago a thought ran through my head. What if Donald Trump were my grandfather? Not right now, but in the future after he became president and most likely began the second American civil war and started a holocaust.

A cartoon version of different conversations between me and Grandpa Trump flooded my mind. Adoring him at age 6, beginning to question him at 10, starting to hate him at 13, running away at age 15 unable to accept the reality of who my grandfather was.

Being a biracial human, I know that my grandparents were only forced to truly look at their own racism when it was too close to home. My Papa, who I love with everything I have, shared with me recently that he was horribly racist toward white people in his youth and child rearing years. Growing up a black man in a segregated small town in east Texas I can understand why. He said it was only later in life and through his faith in God that he realized this was wrong. “It’s wrong to hate,” he said.

Knowing this I want for Donald to have a beautiful biracial grand-daughter. I want for him to face the reality of his words and consequences of his actions.

More and more I see that all bullies are scared, insecure humans trying to hurt you before you can hurt them or seeking to fill a void within themselves through the pain and suffering of others. It would be great if Donald were just evil. Then I wouldn’t feel disgusted with myself and guilty when part of me, a part that I have tried to get rid of, wishes for a lone sniper bullet to find him.

The truth as always is more complicated and nuanced. Donald is a man. A man who didn’t create the rampant racism within our country. Who didn’t fill the air with hatred toward the other. Or make it acceptable for men to objectify and violate women. While he is profiting greatly off of these things, he didn’t create them. We the American people did.

We refused to get uncomfortable. Refused to call out our friends and family when they said something offensive or morally wrong. Refused to stand up for countless victims of sexual assault and domestic violence. Refused to sit at the table and have the hard conversations. Instead, we happily only listen to people who agree with our worldview. We yell and demean anyone who dare think differently than us.

So, what now?

I’m scared. I’m afraid that I might have to leave the country to prevent becoming a statistic in a history book many years from now. I’m horrified for my nieces and nephews.

But…I don’t think hating Donald is going to fix anything. And even if he died peacefully in his sleep tomorrow we would still be a country where being a non-white human means a different existence. And where having breasts and a vagina means violence or the threat of violence is just part of your life.

Regardless of what happens 13 days from now, I hope that we as a country can start looking in the mirror and start being uncomfortable. I hope that we can choose peace and love, because I’m not certain hate is going to win the minds of Donald Trump supporters. Maybe if we can speak to them in love and ask them to imagine how their world might change if they had a child or grandchild who looked like a Trayvon Martin or a Daisy Coleman things might change.

I’d happily be adopted by any Donald Trump supporter willing to hear me and comfort me in this time of great uncertainty and fear. If that’s what it takes for my fellow Americans to see me as someone worth listening to, I’m game.

And maybe if those of us opposed to Donald being our president could adopt the people in our lives supporting him as our parents or grandparents or sisters or brothers we can find a way to an America where everyone is truly free and safe and can pursue peace and happiness.

Maybe…

That’s what I’m hoping for.

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There is Peace

The world slowly tries to wake. Slowly it stretches reaching toward all the possibilities.

The city is quite. Not yet filled with conscious beings. A stillness rest on every building and road like a blanket of fresh sparkling dew.

The wind abruptly shifts the leaves in the trees. It gently kisses my skin awake.

Then the sunbeams touch my eyes. The dirt beneath me begins to warm my fingertips.

I don’t want to shift just yet. If I move I will break the delicate blanket of stillness.

But my nose itches. I twitch it.

The stillness slips away.

 

 

My mind races leaping from one to do item to the next.

Life begins to move to the tune of the train. Racing to meet the clock.

Gotta Go   Gotta Go   Gotta Go

3pm reaches my body and I start to slow. I must race forward but I can’t.

 

 

Tea time. A safe space where I can slowly sip my thoughts away.

 

 

Then back to the race. Go Faster. Be Better. Do More.

Errands before dinner.

Quick dinner then clean the house.

Take a minute to relax.

More Errands.

 

 

Twilight happens. It begs me to stop. Slow down. Twilight demands admiration.

But it is only the night. The stars and the moon. They captivate me.

They demand my attention with their beauty, their mystery.

 

 

I lay gazing upward. The grass tickles my skin. Then I settle in.

The cool earth releases all the tension in my muscles.

The moonlight reflects off of the water. It dances on the little waves. My eyes rhythmically follow the dancing.

Then swiftly the wind moves past my ears whispering ancient secrets. The last things I hear as my eyes slowly close ready for sleep.

 

 

Ready for peace.