I’m among the many that remember where I stood when first hearing the news of JFK’s assassination, and I stood in line to walk past him lying in state. I cried myself to sleep when Nixon won in ’68, and I recall the moment my mother woke me to tell me RFK was dead, along with our dreams. I also remember the moment Dr. King was reported murdered, and the aftermath, still. As a disabled American, despite working for a lifetime, I spent six years in desperate need, yet without medical coverage of any kind….like so many working poor before Obama’s ACA. Yet none of this pain held a candle to Nov. 8th.
I am a southern, white male, and I will spend some yet to be determined amount of time hearing how privileged and fortunate I am for Trump’s bounty of hate, and how my every dream has come true. And every person who sees me will judge me based entirely on my skin. I have to believe there’s some mysterious, yet undisclosed purpose to all this madness. Maybe this role reversal is the key to some form of understanding, or at the least some desperate search for a light in the darkness of this hate. I hope so, and that’s the only hope I still have.