Judith Armatta

Judith Armatta is a lawyer, journalist and human rights activist

What Doesn't Kill You . . . .

 Don’t you just love cliches? Particularly when they’re offered in the form of advice, as in, “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger?” Really? Wowee! We should all be Atlases after four years of Trump and nearly a year of the Corona Virus. I’m not feelin’ it. I am relieved that Joe and Kamala won the election (though Donald and 70% of Republicans don’t accept it). Not that the skies opened up and showered these Dems’ path to the White House with stardust. Wasn’t going to happen. Trump is hanging on for dear life or is that pomp, power, and attention? What of the Republicans? With a few exceptions, they’ve fallen in line, “waiting until all votes are counted.” I’m waiting to see if that child arises to tell them that the emperor has no clothes. And whether they’ll believe her. 

I can’t say I feel any stronger after four years of DJT’s lying, blasphemy, and bullying, not to mention the holes he’s ripped in our democracy (ok, it wasn’t perfect, but still). Is it right that the majority of Americans should be ruled by a minority cabal of senators, supreme court justices, federal judges, always Trumpers, Rush Limbaugh, and Fox news? And that one senator from Kentucky of all places can determine who should sit on the nation’s highest court, in essence seizing one of our three branches of government for the Republicans for the rest of my life?

A quarter million Americans aren’t feeling too resilient these days, having succumbed to the Corona Virus. But Trump survived. He’s resilient. He also had special treatment and a team of the finest expert doctors not available to Grandpa Robinson or your next door neighbor or you. 

Like the rest of the country (and the world), Oregon is undergoing a spike in CoVid 19: over a 1500 people were found positive for the virus today. Fourteen died. Not to be outdone by the crowds of worshippers assembled to hear their great MAGA  leader defy the medical experts, Oregon has our own eminence: Tootie (swear to god, that’s her name; also the name of my partner’s childhood stuffed lobster) Smith, chair-elect of the Clackamas County Commission. Chair-elect Smith tooted on facebook: “My friends and family will celebrate Thanksgiving with as many family and friends as I can find. Governor Brown is WRONG to order otherwise.” She says she’ll do the same for Xmas. I wonder how resilient Tootie, her family, and friends will be? And the nurses and doctors who will have to treat them?

 Let’s not take the spotlight off Mr. MAGA for too long. We don’t want a tantrum. Mr. Trump (which he’ll be on January 20, 2021) also believes in his POLITICAL resilience. Facing 79 and a half million people who chose Joe Biden and Kamala Harris over him (6 million more than voted for him), he’s doubled down, aided by his trusty sidekick Rudy let’s-file-another-lawsuit Giuliani, and declared himself the winner. Now that’s resilience!! No matter that his lawsuits are being thrown out of court right and left and five of his attorneys have resigned rather than be laughed or kicked out of court. So, his latest is to take over the Electoral College and have himself declared the winner no matter the people's choice. America's first dictator? 

I wonder if Trump is stronger after his humiliating loss? Perhaps. Most likely, he will persist in giving his opinion as often as the media allows. Given theirs and the public’s penchant for the outrageous, he will continue bullying, pontificating, lying, stirring up trouble, and reinforcing the divisions among us. Resilience isn’t always a virtue. 

And what about my resilience? My “what doesn’t kill you . . .” self?

*     *     *

I’ve always been considered resilient, i.e. having “the capacity to recover quickly from difficulties,” according to google dictionary. I made it out of my origin family alive and hopeful despite some serious, if invisible, emotional scarring. There were a few bruising relationships resulting from my disability to choose well and one or two who escaped because they weren’t so disabled. But, alone among catastrophes, partnership failures grew a few muscles, enabling me to find and hold onto my one true love. Yet, like a moth to a flame, I sought career and volunteer opportunities where other injured souls gathered to work out their karma on each other. I wasn’t strong enough for that. I grabbed a life vest and abandoned ship.

But ever resilient, I packed up my papers, books, and supposedly stronger self and headed for a foreign land to help establish a fair and independent judiciary struggling under a “soft” (read “lying” and “manipulative” with a healthy dose of secret police) dictatorship. That didn’t work out so well for me or them. Next stop: a war zone. I should have been mucho strong after that. I crawled home taking thousands of tragic stories with me. 

Self-deceived into believing in my resilience, I took in a disturbed teenager to keep him out of jail. Success? Not so much. He went to prison for 16 months. Continuing my strength training, I defended him, bailed him out of jail, provided a free home and meals. Objects started disappearing: a keyboard, binoculars, prescription drugs, money. Slowly, oh so slowly, I began to realize he might fit into my resilience pattern. I cut him loose. Stronger? I became ill for three months with an undiagnosable mystery disease.  

None of this has killed me. But am I stronger? I don’t feel it. I retreat into the warren of rooms in this old house, and, lacking motivation, obsessively read the national news that substitutes for a life. I feed the birds, squirrels, and the neighborhood cat who’s adopted us at least for meals, though no lap sitting or sleep overs. I feed myself and my partner —with a different menu, of course. I walk and rake leaves in lieu of strength training and cardiovascular exercise at the gym. With atrophied biceps, I now need help to open jars and lift our cast iron pans. Occasionally, I think of the memoir I’ve been writing for three years or more. It rests in pieces somewhere in my new laptop, inexplicably saved in different programs that refuse to recognize one another. The piano has been neglected so long it can’t carry a tune. And seven years of my photos are floating somewhere in the ether.

Resilient? I don’t feel like it at 1 a.m. as I lie in bed obsessively reviewing the things I didn’t do right, the things I didn’t do, the people I’ve lost (dead and alive), searching for positives to replace the negatives, but the negatives have a built-in dominance to keep the bears and snakes away. I take a CBD tablet to fall asleep and silence these insistent voices. Morning draws me from dreams scattered like pieces of a dozen jigsaw puzzles all mixed up. What for, I wonder? My bladder forces me to put on slippers and head downstairs. After the toilet, I turn on the kettle for tea and my computer for the latest news, where I expend half my day. During the other half, I feed all the animals, walk in the neighborhood, and go another round with my computer before collapsing in a chair to read with little comprehension. Is this resilience? Is this a life? Maybe next year.

 

 

 

It's Been Gone A Long Time and I Don't Remember Where I Left It

I’ve been hunting high and low. It’s not on the top of the refrigerator. Nor hiding in a cupboard or crouching in the back of a closet. Underneath the couch conceals only dust bunnies. I thought it could be inside one of my thousands of books. Likely not the ones on Genocide or Racism or Mental Illness. I don’t think I have any Dave Barry, which would be a more likely place. 

I look through the pantry: it’s not among the bags of coffee or cereal; not under the cans of Costco tuna, sardines, or chicken; nor behind the almond milk; the crackers, cookies, pickles, five jars of mustard (it was a mistake), 6 bags of hot cereal (intentional), green tea, gifts of cactus candy which we are hoping to regift, 3 bottles of catsup (another mistake), two gallon bottles of canola oil (They didn’t look so large in the pictures — a problem of online shopping.).

Maybe it’s outside. Not buried in the squirrel food. The bird seed is also a no show. Perhaps the weeds, the weeds, the weeds!!! Could I ever find it there? How many years would it take? Maybe a squirrel or a bird made off with it, enticed by a shiny object. Stashed in the garden bed or a tree? I would look in the basement but I don’t have a hazmat suit and my nephew tore down the fiberglass insulation, leaving it hanging.

OK, it’s unlikely, but there’s still my office. Oh no!! It can’t be stowing away in the broken laptop or the broken printer. No way. The framed photos couldn’t possibly hold it. I just realized they’re all of dead people. Filing cabinets? Not a chance. And if it is, I’ll never find it since I can’t find anything else in them. 

I’ll try the living room. My reading chair offers a slight possibility. I recall laughing out loud over something in the Mitch McConnell book, but I can’t remember what could possibly be funny about Mitch. The stack of newspapers with articles on the Corona Virus, Trump, the 2020 election, the Corona Virus, Trump, the 2020 election, the Corona Virus, Trump .  . . . Why I read more than one edition is a self-defeating mystery and there is not a chance in hell it could be lost among the stories on the Corona Virus, Trump, the 2020 election.

Not much left besides the bedroom, the place that wakes me the instant my head falls on the pillow, unless it’s morning, in which case it takes a loud siren to get me out of bed. Why would I even consider that it might be here? Because I’m running out of possibilities.

Perhaps I lost it during my travels or my sojourn on the East Coast. I didn’t have it during my treatments at Dana Farber. It wasn’t useful when I was writing my book. Just didn’t belong. Nor was our Nation’s Capital a welcoming environment, despite the Obamas living there. I might have to go farther back in time and place to The Netherlands, but I don’t think it was with me when I first went there or throughout living alone monitoring the trial of a war criminal. It was definitely not in Serbia. Maybe Montenegro. Maybe that’s where it still is. But if so, why would it want to leave and join me in the U.S. these days, though it is very much needed and would be highly welcome?

I’m at a loss. Lost in Trumpland in a pandemic. Separated from my once-reliable friend. I don’t know how to win it back. 

So I googled. And, it appears, it’s been with me all the time. Very close at hand, so to speak. The internet tells me that a synonym for “sense of humor” is “funny bone,” which my mother told me was my elbow because it went all pins and needles when I hit it. Somehow, that did not make me laugh. Yet I know I used to have a sense of humor that let me laugh at others’ jokes and witticisms and even let me make some of my own. It seems to have taken leave of me. I don’t know when and I don’t know where to find it. 

So what is a sense of humor and where is mine? Maybe I’ll go listen to old George Carlin records or watch The Daily Show videos. 

 

 

"IT COULD NEVER HAPPEN HERE"

 

I was preparing for my new job as legal liaison for the American Bar Association’s Central and East European Law Initiative (ABA/CEELI) in Serbia, one of the remaining republics of the former Yugoslavia after its breakup. That required some new clothes. At a little boutique in Ashland, Oregon, the young clerk who was helping me asked about my upcoming travels. When I told him where I was going, he surprisingly knew something about recent Balkan history, specifically the five years of war that divided the country geographically along ethnic lines. When he pronounced “That could never happen here,” I realized he didn’t know so much about U.S. history. “But it already has,” I informed him, reminding him of our Civil War.

My main job in Serbia was to find ways to support a handful of judges who had defied the authoritarian regime of Slobodan Milosevic, which bore primary responsibility for the years of war. Cities throughout the country had just voted in the opposition to Milosevic’s rule. Never one to shy away from electoral manipulation, Milosevic sued and the court overturned the results. But the citizens were tired of his autocratic ways which had proved disastrous for the country, so they took to the streets in massive numbers — and stayed there for three months in the winter despite freezing temperatures. Five courageous higher court judges supported them, publishing an open letter that showed how Milosevic’s actions were illegal and violated the constitution. With the judicial support and demonstrators’ persistence, Milosevic backed down and the opposition took over in Serbia’s major cities.* 

More than two decades later, the U.S. is immersed in a similar situation. We’re facing an election that many fear will not reflect the people’s vote, an election where the winner (if it is not the current inhabitant of the White House) may refuse to concede. Moreover, our judiciary is losing its independence. Trump and McConnell have appointed 216** judges of their political persuasion. And now, they will take the opportunity to appoint another ideologue to the highest court in the land, the U.S. Supreme Court. 

I am reminded of a speech I gave to a conference of the nascent Serbian independent Judges Association. I congratulated them on their achievement (several hundred judges had joined by this point) and added these fateful words: “Someday we may need your help to maintain the independence of our judiciary.” While I knew our judiciary wasn’t perfect and reflected class and race biases, I never thought it would become the puppet of one political party.

We are experiencing a nonviolent coup, where a minority has persistently acted to take control of our government — all three branches: the Executive, the Senate, and the Judiciary. While the House stands apart, its power is hamstrung by the Senate that walks in lockstep with the President. Where are those Serbs when you need them? Sadly, they are experiencing a return to nationalism. Those still fighting for independence have their hands full and cannot come to our aid.

There’s an ill wind blowing around the earth. Despite deep feelings of despair and hopelessness, we have no choice but to continue fighting. I am not an optimist, but I know that change is a constant. I am also reminded that in Serbia’s darkest days, citizens were encouraged by their young people. And their youth never gave up. They ousted a dictator. I am also reminded of what I said to a Serbian colleague when he was despairing, “Democracy and human rights are never permanently won. We must get up each day and fight for them anew.” And so we must.

 

 

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* Unfortunately, that wasn’t the end of it. Milosevic triggered another war in Kosovo and hung on for five more years. In 2000, the citizens voted him out of office and followed up with mass demonstrations. Within a matter of months, the reform prime minister shipped him off to The Hague to stand trial for war crimes and crimes against humanity, where he died from a heart attack on March 11, 2006 before the trial could be completed.

** As of September 17, 2020

 

 

 

 

Waiting for Time to Pass

I remember standing in my Den Haag flat, staring out the balcony doors, seeing nothing. I was wishing for time to pass, for the endless days of a trial I was monitoring to finally end so I could go home. I’d been at the Tribunal three long years, and there was no end in sight. I missed my partner, friends, and family. I missed Oregon’s giant fir trees and its scrubby pines. Den Haag was a sweet village with cobbled and bricked roads, canals, boutiques, museums, cafes. It was not a hardship post like Belgrade. But I wanted time to pass. It struck me how appalling it was to wish my years to pass more quickly, for what’s at the end but death. I didn’t want that. I wanted an imaginary future, where I was always happy, loving, and loved, where beauty abounded, life was interesting, I was never bored or burdened with other people’s sorrows.

It is now sixteen years later and I find myself wishing these days would pass, these days of confinement, of being locked down, locked away from friends and family. I’m older and there’s not so much time left. Will I yet sip cappuccino or Turkish coffee at Marino’s funky Bosnian café? Talk with Zoa for hours at Monti’s about politics, philosophy, and family, snacking on a blueberry almond scone? Will my favorite restaurants still exist? My precious Jade District is shut down and people are afraid of anything Asian, especially Chinese. Will we lose Ocean City, HK Café, and Pure Spice? Will my local farmers’ market, where we shop for fruit and veggies but also go to meet neighbors and listen to music, open as the crops come in? Will the crops come in? Who will harvest them?  Is there a visit to the Academy Theater in my future? Do I have a future? I have an “underlying medical condition” and I am over 65 (by quite a bit).  

I do not want to wish time to pass. There’s so little of it left. But I am not in prison. I am not surrounded by grey cement walls in a 6 X 10 foot cell. I am not confined in solitary. My beloved Kate is with me, as she was not in Den Haag. We have a lovely house (these days, it is well-lived in and I trip over stacks of books, shoes, and displaced chairs). Our refrigerator and freezer are finally getting cleaned out. Our pantry still holds nourishment and cookies. I can sit in my overstuffed chair patterned with books and read from the hundreds I have not yet read and reread any of those I cannot remember having read. Kate will always be here for dinner. We can walk together in our neighborhood and occasionally up Mt. Tabor when others stay home – a boon of all those rainy days. There is Britbox on our TV, though streaming is a challenge at times, as are most technical devices in my vicinity – the printer is broken, the computer has three dozen programs on it that won’t close, most of my photos are inaccessible, entire files vanish when I save them to my three terabyte thumb drive. (I think fondly of the old days when I just turned on the TV and a screen appeared. I could twist a knob and select from four channels, but then PBS only showed British mysteries and comedies on certain nights, not Friday evening at seven or whenever we have time and inclination to watch. Nothing is perfect.) I can watch the squirrels gobble up corn and sunflower seeds on our side porch, though I’ve run out of squirrel food and they’re not so fond of bird seed, of which I have 44 pounds. But then there are birds to watch. Kate, for the first time we’ve lived here, has planted a garden. Every day at least once she rushes outside to see whether any sprouts have pushed up their wee heads. She’s keeping worms in a compost bucket and assiduously cutting up veggie and fruit scraps. We have a few flowers. The tulips are up. The geraniums and primroses that wintered over continue to display their multicolored petals, while the jasmine drapes over the neighbors’ fence, safely dispensing fragrance through the air with no chance of carrying a virus (I don’t think). I saw a fat, black and white bumble bee the other day, foraging on the ground. I don’t know why. We are warm. We eat well. We have gloves and masks (bought several years ago for cleaning and preventing wildfire smoke inhalation).

A bounteous life. Why would anyone want time to pass quickly? We don’t know what May, June, or July will bring. We only always ever have today, now, this minute. A mix of abundance and loss. Today I am given the opportunity to observe and accept what is – with equanimity, and possibly joy. Am I up to it?

THIS MACHINE HATES ME!

It’s only the latest. First there was my desktop computer. Then it was the new laptop. Before that, it was the television. And, of course, my cell phone. The latest is my printer/copier. None of them are fond of me. They find ways to disturb my peace and to make me sound like a raving maniac. Very successful, they are.

Confession first. I am a Luddite. I miss my electric typewriter. I miss a landline. I miss a television with only four channels and a dial. I called the first computer I used “Murphy” after Murphy’s law (whatever can go wrong will go wrong). You young folks keep “improving” technology, then try to explain it to us Luddites from another era using your tech terms that make instructions read like Mandarin or Gaelic spoken backward. I do not live with anyone under the age of 40. I do not have an IT person at my beck and call. I’m on my own with changes (should I mention that I hate Microsoft 10?) and glitches and major breakdowns. Now, without the ability to take a device to someone with tech expertise, I’m really on my own—an unhappy prospect for my partner who must listen to me rant and rave. I haven’t yet destroyed anything.

Which brings me to the latest breakdown. My printer/copier. It was working fine until I tried to stop it in the middle of a print job. It didn’t like it. Though it eventually started again, it didn’t last long. Soon, I got the dreaded flashing light and ERROR MESSAGE: “An error has occurred. The printer needs repair. Turn the device off and unplug the power cord from the power supply [i.e. electric outlet]. Then see the manual and contact the service center.”

I looked through the entire 100 page manual but found no advice for this problem. The service center was closed. I went on-line and watched several videos, showing me how to fix this particular problem, one video was in German. In another, a very pleasant woman demonstrated a trick, which unfortunately didn’t work for me. She suggested the company programs this error into their printers so that people will buy new ones (assuming we would be stupid enough to buy the same brand!). My favorite video was by a fellow who started by laying out the tools I would need, beginning with a bottle of beer. So far so good. Then, a screwdriver, an electric screwdriver, and a hammer. He proceeded to take a swig of beer, then to unscrew parts of the printer. I was a little disconcerted when he took the beer outside, then returned for the printer which he placed in his firepit. He opened the printer cover and poured beer all over it. Next, he walked over to a woodpile and selected a large log and proceeded to smash it on top of the computer. He wasn’t done. He picked up the hammer and struck the printer over and over and over until it was a jumble of plastic and he was well satisfied. He finished the beer.

I haven’t been that brave yet, but I do have a hammer.

How NOT to Win Over Bernie Bros

Bernie Bros and others who support and have supported Bernie Sanders are good people. They are not miscreant children so please do not lecture or condescend to them. They have good values just as Bernie does, just as you do. They don’t want a totalitarian state or a communist government. They want our communities to be healthy, educated, comfortably housed, well-fed, gainfully employed with a livable wage, and safe. That includes addressing the global warming and Covid-19 emergencies, prioritizing life on this planet over corporate profits.

If Joe Biden becomes the Democratic candidate for president and your highest priority is defeating Trump, bullying and criticizing Bernie supporters will not get them to the polls. How about recognizing their concerns as legitimate and having a discussion with them (and Bernie) about which ones should be included in the Democratic platform? How about valuing them (and their votes) and INVITING them to support Biden? Some pundits believe we cannot defeat Trump without courting disaffected Republicans and moderates, at the same time they disparage Bernie supporters as leftwing extremists. Does this make sense? Is this any way to unify opposition to Trump after a bruising primary?

I am not a Democratic Socialist, but I share many of their values. I supported Elizabeth Warren and am saddened on many levels that so few saw her brilliance, vision, compassion, and leadership. Now, in my seventies, I have spent nearly all my adult life voting AGAINST a candidate (Richard Nixon, Ronald Reagan, George H.W. Bush, Robert Dole, George Bush). Only twice did I enthusiastically vote FOR a candidate (Barack Obama despite disagreeing with some of his policies).

If Joe Biden is the Democratic candidate, I will once more vote AGAINST the Republican. I worry about Biden’s lack of courage and vision, evidenced in his leadership in passing the 1996 Crime Bill, a major factor in mass incarceration, and welfare “reform” that significantly increased the number of Americans living in poverty, as well as his opposition to busing to implement Brown v. Board of Education. I worry about his belief in compromise and bipartisanship given today’s Republican Part. Consider how it worked for Obama. I am not convinced he is the best candidate to defeat Trump, as I imagine him on a debate stage with this unscrupulous bully and liar. Will he be able to stand up to him? Still, I will vote AGAINST Trump.

Please, Biden supporters, have some respect for those who have a different view, but also want to hold onto and improve our democracy. ASK (politely). Don’t TELL.

ARE WE IN DANGER OF LOSING THE DEMOCRATIC PARTY?

            For a while now, I have been worrying about the characterization of Senators Elizabeth Warren and Bernie Sanders as extremists, likening them to extremists on the Right – who promote white supremacy and oppose anything considered “politically correct.” We Leftists or Liberals are warned that, if we support Warren’s and Sander’s policies, we’ll be responsible for Trump’s reelection. We need to be more centrist, we’re told. We need to support those who favor compromise with Republicans, aka “working across the aisle.” This, despite the fact that Republicans are not interested, as they’ve so blatantly shown over the last 11 years.

            On November 16, 2019, Roger Cohen wrote an op ed in The New York Times relating an interview he had with “Chuck Hardwick, lifelong Republican, former Pfizer executive, now retired in Florida, voted for Donald Trump in 2016, but not without misgivings.” Hardwick isn’t sure who will get his vote in 2020. “He admires the president’s energy, his courage in taking on difficult issues like China ‘stealing its way to prosperity,’ his corporate tax cuts, and what he sees as a revitalizing impact on American ambition.” But he’d fire Trump if he was a corporate officer because of his inability to manage people. Hardwick is looking to the Democrats. He likes Michael Bloomberg (a former Republican), but he might be okay with Joe Biden. Cohen, who knows the Republicans in Congress will never vote to impeach Trump no matter how damning the evidence, tells us “he will never be dislodged the conventional way.” And advises, “Think Hardwick.” In other words, let disgruntled Republicans determine the Democratic nominee and, by extension, the next President.

            On November 17, the NYT published an Op Ed by N. Gregory Mankiw, chair of the Council of Economic Advisers for George W. Bush, and later, economic advisor to Mitt Romney’s presidential campaigns. Mankiw has relinquished his Republican Party membership and become an Independent because of Trump’s trade wars, huge budget deficit, attacks on the Federal Reserve, denial of climate change, and attacks on U.S. allies – AND because, as an Independent in Massachusetts, he can vote in the Democratic primary. So, who will he vote for? Not Elizabeth Warren (Senator from his home state) or Bernie Sanders. They “are proposing to move the country too far in the direction of state control of the economy,” which “will tempt those in the center and center right to hold their noses and vote for Mr. Trump’s reelection.”

            Mankiw will vote for the Democrat who supports a return to Free Trade, a market-based approach to climate change, incremental healthcare reform (i.e. not “medicare for all”), and doesn’t demonize the wealthy. In the past, that would have been a Republican agenda. It is now creeping into the Democratic Party and will influence who their presidential candidate will be. In other words, Republicans are diluting the progressive policies of the Democratic Party. The Party is becoming more Republican as Republicans look to it as an alternative to Trumpism.

            Warren and Sanders are no more moving the Democratic Party to Socialism than Franklin Roosevelt did. Their platforms favor community, where all can reach their fullest potential, improving society as a whole, over a self-aggrandizing individualism, where the wealthy believe they earned every penny solely through their own efforts, ignoring the hard work of those (underpaid) workers who made it possible for their businesses to succeed. Mankiw does not want to share because he apparently believes that his business success has already raised living standards and contributed to higher productivity – which sounds like the debunked trickle down theory that Republicans have been promoting for decades. So, he should not pay higher taxes, and, as he says, the proposed wealth tax won’t be enough to raise living standards anyway. (I can’t help wondering whether he uses loopholes available to the rich to significantly reduce or erase his tax contribution so those who might also be entrepreneurs could afford an education and contribute to society.)

            First, the pundits warned that the Democrats needed to court white working class men who abandoned the Party to vote for Trump, i.e. dump the ‘radical’ Left and support centrists. Now, we’re told we need to support centrists (who sound a lot like Republicans) because the rich feel demonized and Republicans won’t vote for Leftist “extremists.”

            Trump is driving Republicans toward the Democratic Party. With their influence, are we in danger of turning the Democratic Party into what was once the Republican Party?

 

 

A POLITICAL CONUNDRUM: WHO IS MODERATE?

A conundrum: Many pundits and media assert that only a “moderate” Democrat can beat Trump. That apparently means they expect that all those Left of Moderate will compromise and vote for the Moderate, but that the Moderates won’t compromise and vote for someone considered more Left. Who is moderate here? Who is willing to compromise in order to defeat Trump? Why are so-called “Moderates” so inflexible?

I’m Running for President!

Well, why not? Everyone else is. And I could certainly do a better job (even with my failing memory) than the current holder of the office, who has no memory at all of what he’s said from one day (hour) to the next. So, I’m joining the list of 21 (soon to be 22 when de Blasio jumps in) Democratic candidates. You might consider running as well and others among your friends and family and maybe your French Poodle.

What are the benefits? I can write a book and become rich. Well, I probably won’t become a millionaire like Bernie, but richer than I am living on Social Security. I will get my name in The New York Times, if only because I will be the 23rd or 40th declared Democrat. They may even ask me my opinion about . . . Healthcare for All, the Green New Deal, immigration, taxing the rich and jailing corporate officers for failure to pay taxes. When reporters ask if I believe in the death penalty, I will say yes, for corporations that willfully contribute to climate change. They are “people,” after all. In this way, I will gain notoriety.

And think of the enemies I’ll make: the NRA, Fox News, Mitch McConnell, Lindsay Graham, Tucker Carlson, Sean Hannity, the list is endless. I might even get a tweet or two from Bonzo (oh, that was another troublesome president), uh, the Orange Menace and a nickname like “Jude the Obscure.” Of course, you will all have to pay me gobs of money and contribute to the 65,000 signatures I’ll need to debate the other 22 or 39 Democrats. Or you could pay me not to run. Perhaps, we might do that for some of the other 22 or 39. Other ideas? Oh, and please let me know if you plan to run. I’ll add my signature, but don’t expect a check until the book revenues come in.

Democrats, Don't Take Me For Granted!

I am not a white working class male. I am a Democrat only because I want to vote in the primaries and Democrats put forward policies I usually support, though they don’t always follow through. I am tired of voting for the least worst candidate, which I did until 2008. Now, the Dems are telling me I have to do that again because white working class males are more important than I am. Don’t take me for granted. Yes, Trump is a disaster. He’s done untold damage to our country. So, you say, I should vote for anyone YOU think can beat him. I think you’re wrong. The Democratic Party has long been cowardly. It tries to make nice when faced with a bully. From personal experience, I can tell you it doesn’t work.

Apparently, you think the Dems lost the 2016 election because working class white males jumped ship. What about Russian interference? That’s been established by all our intelligence agencies and the Special Counsel. What about the failure to take decisive action against those efforts? What about Democratic campaign mistakes? What about Comey’s announcement on the eve of the election to reopen the investigation of Clinton’s emails? What about an unfair system (the Electoral College) that weights Ohio votes heavier than California votes? What about an unfair system (gerrymandering) where political parties carve up the map to dilute the other party’s votes? What about voter suppression of black and brown people? Do you really think that all those who voted for Obama in 2012 and Trump in 2016 will vote for Trump in 2020? And all independents?

I hear that we need a white male candidate. Cowardly pandering to racism and sexism. The media promotes that view, the view of the establishment, read “old white males.” Were you asleep in 2018 when women, people of color, and young people changed the make up of the House? Or have you just disregarded that because it doesn’t fit your view of what is right and proper, what power looks like? Most of the mainstream media promotes your position, trying to make it a fait accompli. I don’t think it will work.

The primaries are nearly a year away. Debates begin in June. Democrats should celebrate the diversity of those who have stepped up to run in the primaries.