I’m a big old St Patrick’s Day curmudgeon. This is not news to anyone who was here last year or any other year. I don’t want to wear green today or get drunk today (well, sure, but children) or set up leprechaun traps today or listen to traditional Irish music today and I’m only just getting over the mortification of having to see Enda Kenny visit Donald Trump today.
When the word went out that this year’s international dinner at Dash’s school this Sunday would have live Irish music and dancing, I went from vaguely wondering if we could get out of it to deciding that I really didn’t have to show up to everything they put on.
No, it’s not sideways. That’s the way they drew the map.
Then I wondered if I was really a terrible person, denying my children access to their heritage like that. Am I like one of those immigrants who refuses to speak the language of the old country to their children so that they’ll assimilate better, thus taking the wonderful benefits of bilingualism out of their family’s grasp?
Actually, no. I don’t like traditional Irish music or step dancing. It’s part of my national heritage, but it’s not something I feel any personal connection to. Same goes for GAA (that’s hurling and Gaelic football). And we’re not even Catholic any more. But you know what my kids will grow up with?
A Hiberno-English vocabulary that they can turn on and off at will.
A bookshelf full of books by British and Irish authors many of whom are less well known here, from Oliver Jeffers’ picture books to Joyce’s Ulysses and a lot in between.
Knowledge of the canon of Father Ted, Monty Python, The Two Ronnies, and various other bits and pieces of nerdy 80s trivia befitting children of Irish people our age.
A better grasp of Irish and European geography and history than many Americans.
An understanding that other countries are just as valid and real as the USA and that normal is an ever-shifting concept.
Familiarity with the Dublin Monopoly board.
Access to plenty of excellent Irish hits of the 80s and 90s, should they choose to indulge.
Their grandfather’s watercolours of Irish scenes and historical maps of Ireland on the walls.
Not all Irish authors, but all from that side of the pond
And then there’s that book I wrote, too. It’s set in Ireland.
I think they’ll be secure enough in their cultural heritage even if it doesn’t extend to a spot of the old diddly-aye.
Last night it was cold, so we lit the fire, which is a wood-burning stove. Then one of the cats jumped up on top of the stove and hurt his paw and I spent the rest of the evening stressing out in case the other one did the same, now that it was even hotter and would probably burn all the flesh off his little pads. Of course, since they’re not used to there being a fire there, they’ve come to think that the stove is just a fun place to jump up and play on, and have no idea why it should be any different just because there’s a bright orange light behind the glass. So I guess we can never light a fire again. Oh well. I’ll just drink wine to keep warm.
Because. This entire winter has been a damp squib, more like a practice for winter than actual winter, where it got chilly for a few days and then stopped. We’ve had no snow days and only the barest sprinkling of snow. Social flakes, I think they call them, because it’s enough to chat about but nothing further. Now that it’s mid March, though, we’re expecting a doozie and we’ve forgotten how to deal with that. I’ve been thinking about sandals – I am not up for a snow day.
There appears to be snow.
Now it’s Tuesday and here I am making snow-day French toast for lunch. It’s a snow day, though the snow is mostly ice and not much fun for playing in. Dash is still in pyjamas and hasn’t been outside at all – but he did utter the immortal words “You’re right, Mom” a little while ago when he finally agreed with me that his ipad game would never end and he’d have to just stop playing it. It only took about two hours for him to come around to my opinion, so those were two hours well spent (by me alternately nagging/not nagging).
You can’t hurry French toast, as Phil Collins always says. I think it’s done now though.
Then some friends called for us and we ended up going out to sled on the big hill behind the school for an hour, which was much better than staying at home all day.
Did I have a point? Was it about the cats? So one cat now has a sore paw (he’s not limping at all but it looks nasty) and his brother looks like he’s gone five rounds with Mike Tyson because he has scrapes around his eye and something weird going on with his nose. And one of his ears has seen better days. We should’ve called him Rocky.
Life with cats goes like this: they sleep on the end of our bed, unless we kick them out. And it’s so sweet to have them there, purring away like little happy engines, a comforting weight by your feet, that we leave them there. Then halfway through the night I find that there are two cats right where my legs want to be, and I have to put my legs somewhere else. And at 5 am or so they wake up and think it’s time to play, or to climb on my head or knead their paws on my hair or pounce on my toes under the blanket, and then I lie there waiting for them to run off and thunder through the house instead, until 6:30 when they decide it’s breakfast time and someone has to feed them. (They were quite delighted with the time change that moved feeding time up an hour. They won’t be so happy in the autumn when we’re an hour late one day.)
After a glass or two of wine my fingers fairly fly over the keyboard; but they fly up to the delete button twice as often too. Still, as a method for getting my thoughts directly to paper, I have nothing but good things to say about typing. I really wish Dash would practice his keyboarding more because I think once he can type his writing will take flight. Also, his spelling will improve.
I should add that it’s after dinner now so my mentioning of wine is entirely appropriate. Merely mentioning. It came to mind for no particular reason.
Now we are waiting to see if the schools are opening on time tomorrow, since I’ve made a vet appointment for Birchyboo (not Oakiepokes – you can see how their full names are coming along) in the morning and I suspect I’ll have to bring at least one child along to it. It’s the child who wants to be a vet, so that’s okay.
I just read The Long Winter to Mabel, being the sixth of the Laura Ingalls Wilder books. I know I’ve mentioned these before, because we’ve been reading the series since I happened on the first one when Mabel was four or five. I love going through it slowly like this – I just pick up the next book at the thrift store or the book sale, but we don’t rush to get it from the library to dash through the the way we do with other series. This means that it’s a slower process but much more part of her childhood instead of a momentary blip. And as I’ve never read this series before I’m enjoying it too.
Anyway, The Long Winter, as you might surmise, is about a particularly hard winter for the pioneer family, who have finally settled in De Smet, Dakota Territory, where the Little Town on the Prairie actually is. There are blizzards from October to April that year, they have to burn sticks of twisted hay and sit around the stove in the tiny kitchen all day, they have nothing left to eat but bread made from wheat they grind in a coffee grinder – and Ma still cares about getting the laundry done. I would fail Pioneer 101 instantly.
Happily, our one paltry snow day of the year comes with wine, Girl Scout cookies, and a fireplace we can’t light because of the cats but we still have central heating. I think we’ll survive.
So you thought writing the book was the hard part. And then you thought editing your own writing was the hard part. And then you thought that getting it all through the various self-publishing engines that kept rejecting it for no apparent reason was the hard part. And then having to proof it one last time and then finding all those typos because you actually never did bother to run spellcheck…?
Yeah, none of that was the hard part. The hard part about self-publishing is the PR. You have to be your own marketing machine, and if there’s one characteristic that is conspicuously missing from the middle of the venn diagram showing the personalities of people who like to sit alone at home writing all day and people whose job is literally about developing relationships with members of the public (yes – PR doesn’t just stand for proportional representation), it’s um, well, it’s probably most things. If you even got to the end of that sentence intact. My point is that writers tend to be introverts who don’t like to call people up and try to sell themselves or the very precious and personal fruits of their labours.
But if you self-publish and you’d like more people than your best friend and your parents to buy your book you have to be prepared to blow your own trumpet a bit. This is what I’ve learned about that part, so far.
Have a product you’re legitimately proud of, from the outside cover to the inside writing. You can’t sell your work to someone if you’re saying “Well, I’d have liked it to be a bit better…” You have to go all out. That’s easier if you really do love it.
Don’t be afraid to ask. Self-published is not a dirty word – many very well-regarded books are self-published these days. Many distributors take them on. Many bookstores sell them. It’s hard, but it’s not impossible.
Places that are not bookshops also sell books, and might be easier to get your book into. Depending on the subject matter, think outside the box about where you might offload a few. I have a friend who’s selling his book in the tourist information office in his town. My neighbourhood supermarket has a local authors’ display right by the shopping baskets.
You can build a relationship with someone over the phone or email – you don’t have to be there in person. Be professional and friendly and don’t burn any bridges.
Order copies for yourself and sell them to your friends. They save on shipping charges and you can sign them personally for them, just in case you end up famous. Your friends are lovely people who want to help you. Don’t give all your copies away.
Christmas is a really good time to remind your friends that you wrote a book, because they can buy it again for someone else.
I know there are a million blogposts out there telling me how to market my book. And being me, I haven’t read any of them. I’ve purposely ignored them, because I hate being told what I should be doing. (Who me? Like my daughter? I don’t know what you’re talking about.) This is what I’ve done so far, since first publication in July. (Sure, snail’s pace. Don’t give out to me.)
I happen to know someone who works in the county library system here. She offered to give a copy to her colleague who chooses the books. Her colleague put that one copy in my local library. Score.
I emailed the person in charge of choosing books for the Dun Laoghaire library system in Dublin – where I would really like to see the book available, to kids who live where it’s set. She told me to contact their distributor, which I did. After a long wait and much to-ing and fro-ing it turned out that he’d like to carry it but his contract was being given to a UK multinational so he couldn’t. Then he might, but he doesn’t deal with CreateSpace. Then the lovely woman in the library said “Never mind, I’ve just ordered six copies from this other supplier we have.” Done and done.
I contacted several local bookshops in Dublin – small ones, not big chains – to see if they would carry the book. Not a simple matter. Very few bookshops are truly independent, it seems, and they all told me that the book had to be distributed by Argosy Books or Eason Wholesale in order for them to be able to sell them. I sent a copy to Argosy but they passed. Eason wants to know all about my launch and publicity plans – which really isn’t something I can do much on, not being in the country, so I don’t think that’ll take off. You really do need a PR machine to get into bookshops, it seems.
I sent a copy of the book and an article about writing and books and being an emigrant to the Books Supplement at the Irish Times. They haven’t selected it for review (yet) but they did run my article in the online edition, which was nice. I don’t know if it translated to any sales, but it gave me something to tell the distributors about publicity. I should try to do more of this with the other Irish papers.
I submitted a the same article, more or less, to Writing.ie for their Writing & Me section, and I think they’ll run it soon. They didn’t mind that it had already been published elsewhere.
Being in a different place from where my target market is definitely hampers me. If I was in Dublin I could try to set something up in person with the library and maybe some local schools, and that might translate into enough local interest for the Argosy people to change their minds. Maybe I’ll manage that some day. I still do suffer from impostor syndrome to quite an extent, and feel that I’d be professing to be something I’m not if I did all that.
I think what I’m learning is that good writing might bring your readers back, but you have to set the machine in motion to get those readers in the first place. The distributors don’t read the book, I’m pretty sure: they look at it with a buyer’s eye – does it look professional (thanks to my awesome cover designer and CreateSpace, I have no worries on that front) and is there some buzz built up to get people to buy it.
This’ll have to be more of a slow burn than a buzz. But it’s all part of the learning process.
Another linky, but this time I’m partaking, not starting. Nicola at Simply Homemade wrote a totally irresistable post – I actually had to trawl my archives to make sure I hadn’t done this already, because it seemed so much like something I’d do. (I have a lot of archives. If I didn’t tag it properly I might never find it.)
The concept is simple: a list of the songs that have been meaningful through your life. The execution… this is going to take a LOT of thinking.
Nicola already used Boney M’s by the River of Babylon, which is one of the first songs I remember, so I’ll have to pick one of the others. I could choose Brown Girl in the Ring, which I certainly remember twirling around to while it played on the radio, but I think I’ll pick this one, which is possibly the cutest song ever (listen for the plot twist at verse three) and very very redolent of my young childood. I was three the year this was the UK Eurovision entry.
Oh good lord, I’ve just realised that I could do this whole thing through meaningful Eurovision entries. I’ll try not to, but I can’t make any promises.
Honorable mention for this one, from a few years later – 1980 when I was 7. I was just a smidge young for disco dancing to this (ahem), but it’s absolutely iconic.
I have this weird random memory of being in a department-store shoe shop in London where this song was playing. (We would have been visiting my English relatives at Easter, probably.) It got under my skin and I found myself humming it for years afterwards, able to conjure up that exact moment with the chorus. I would have been 10 or 11, assuming it was playing on the radio as a new release. (This memory might be totally wrong. Maybe it was Switzers in Dublin.)
Honestly, I was never very much into music as a teen. I didn’t know where to find music, I had no older siblings to influence me, I went along with my friends’ obsessions but didn’t really find them hitting me as hard as they did them. My best friend loved A-Ha and Wet Wet Wet – I remember her playing a new album to me, me thinking it was okay but were we just going to sit around listening to it all afternoon? She also played me this old one, that her dad the Mary Black fan had introduced her to – and again, it’s a moment that has stuck in my mind, sitting on the floor in her darkened living room (curtains never to be opened for fear of fading the carpet) with the purple velvet sofa, trying hard but not quite managing to be moved by this. Apparently I had no soul.
I’ll spare you the songs I did gym routines to (though I can still name them); but I one of the first tapes I owned was Now Thats What I Call Music 10, which I played over and over. Really, though, it was a gem. At least, tape 2 was. At least, some parts of it were. This one: this one I liked a lot.
I really feel like I’ve written this post before. I bet it’s in here somewhere … anyway. One more from the school years, I think, before we go crazy at college. I could put in Always Look on the Bright Side of Life, because that was our Sixth Year song, or The Boxer, which we also sang at school, or all of Handel’s Messiah for that matter, but instead I’ll take you to the Gaeltacht where the Honours Irish class spent a weekend honing our conversational Irish before the oral exams. We went to Peig-land (i.e. the environs of Dingle) and stayed in self-catering cottages where we had a stereo on the mantelpiece and a constant argument about what music to put on. Mary Black and my George Michael album were about the only things everyone was okay with. I was very proud to be so generally acceptable.
I think we can move on up to the disco-attending years now. I should say nightclub, of course, because a disco is very naff and we were sophisticated young adults who could legally drink (at 18 in Ireland, Americans) and who went to nightclubs. I wasn’t a big drinker and I didn’t have much money, but Hollies was free for members on Wednesdays and Sundays, you could even take the Dart to Blackrock where there’d be nobody on duty to check for a ticket and walk up the long road to the Stillorgan Park Hotel, and four in a taxi back to Dalkey split up pretty cheaply. I wasn’t there for the shifting (generally speaking) or the drink, I was mostly there for the dancing. Sometimes we went to Stradbrook, and that was a rugby club disco, but you could walk home if you were really desperate and you were in a big group.
This one, which I had a lot of trouble finding because I call it The Elephant Song – for reasons that are lost in the mists of my brain – always says Stradbrook to me. And I like it better than the other absolute staple of those years, Right On Time.
I spent an Erasmus year in Spain – ’93 to ’94 – and I should probably illustrate that with The Macarena, but I’m definitely not going to do that. Let’s have some nice Crooded Hoosie (as the Spanish DJs called them) because I liked them then.
Sorry, I’ve just been lost in reverie for a while. There are an awful lot of songs I could put here for Spain – I suppose I met a lot of new people and was exposed to a lot of new-to-me, not to the world, music in that year – Neil Young, James Taylor, Pink Floyd … hmm. It was an interesting time.
I’ll put a song in here for the time when I was a young upwardly mobile professional in Dublin, during the Celtic Tiger years when all we had to spend our money on was dinners out in fancy restaurants and too much wine. And when we threw dinner parties we put on songs like this one:
B and I put together an entire CD of songs to be our wedding favors, so picking just one to stand for our relationship is tricky. I’ll go for this, which still manages to remind me of the cold-glistening Atlantic ocean off Lisbon, a mere week-long blip in our very very long-drawn-out courtship.
And, if you’ll humour me with another, our first-dance song:
Then came the extended new-music drought when I had small children and just wanted to listen to glorious silence in the rare moments when nobody was wailing or fighting, and when they would immediately yell at me to turn off the horrible music if I tried to play anything at all in the car. (The classical station got some airplay for quite a while.) These years are marked by songs we sang, in vain, to try to soothe the furious beasts. Like this one.
And gradually we emerged from that, all of us together, listening to the oldies station and the not-quite-such oldies station on the radio in the car, belatedly discovering the mainstream likes of Katy Perry and Adele, Lady Gaga, Taylor Swift and Maroon 5 along with the much-overplayed soundtrack to Frozen and the odd other thing – Dash was obsessed with Steely Dan’s Haitian Divorce for a while back there. So I’ll pick the Cups Song – one of the first, and one we all still like.
I hope you got a nostalgia kick from a few of those. Now head over to Nicola’s and see what everyone else has chosen.
Update for bloggers: I’ve made this a linky. Tell me yours! Check out the link at the bottom.
Listening to: The Hamilton soundtrack (all the time) and a thunderstorm (right now).
Watching:Liberty’s Kids on YouTube (Dash and Mabel). Torrential rain (me). At other times, The Crown and Orphan Black.
Playing: Jacksmith on Coolmath Games (the kids, on devices). Seems to be good.
Oak contemplates a toy, for the very much killing of
Reading:The Hammer of Thor (Dash, by himself, though he’s heard it before); Harry Potter book 1 (Mabel, by herself, she’s heard it before many times; we’ll see if she sticks with it because she has a history of starting books and never finishing them). I also just finished reading Charlotte’s Web to Mabel, which at 8 she’s finally the right age for, given that Fern in it is 8 and also that we’ve started it twice before but it never held her interest. We’ve started The Long Winter by Laura Ingall’s Wilder now; I was warned that it’s fairly traumatic so we’d taken a break from the Little House books for a while. It’s nice to go slowly through a series instead of blazing through it (like we’ve done with all the Rick Riordans). Personally I’m between books at the moment, though I did treat myself to the new editions of NODWE and Hart’s Rules, for professional development reasons.
Aren’t they lovely? No? Just me, then?
Looking forward to: The Oscars. (Ok, fine, mostly just me.)
Drinking: A nice cup of tea. At other times, white wine because the weather’s so unseasonably warm.
Wearing: Sandals. In February. Which is all wrong.
Birch, bravely killing a thing
Eating: A fancy macaron my husband brought me because he went to the mall and I didn’t.
Working on: Final layout for the print version of book two. Yay.
Permanently frustrated by: The mess.
Enjoying: The cats.
Not enjoying: The fact that one of the cats may have ringworm but I can’t bring myself to isolate him in the basement or keep him away from his brother so we’ll probably all get it. I tried to at least keep him out of the bedrooms, but Mabel doesn’t want to sleep with her door closed so they get in anyway… (NB Ringworm is not a worm. It’s a fungal infection. We are treating it topically and waiting for lab confirmation before getting medication. I am over-optimistically hoping it’s some other little random patch of ick.)
On the kittens’ first or second night here, I was a little wound up. I tried to identify the feeling – that sense of stress and weight was vaguely familiar. I didn’t like to admit it, but it was a milder version of the way you feel when you bring the new baby home, plus a little sense of put-upon-ness that now I was responsible for two more lives, in a way that I hadn’t really mentally prepared for because when assembling the feeding dishes and cat litter and various objects that we’d need, I had forgotten to account for that.
We‘ll do everything, the kids said. We’ll empty the litter tray. We’ll feed them. No, I said; you say that now, but I’ll be the one in the house with them all day. I’ll end up doing it. As I raked the litter tray for about the seventh time on that first day I thought of it again, a tad resentfully. Then I went and ordered a bigger tray from Amazon, because I already felt confident in knowing more about the sort of thing we needed. Higher sides because they like to power-drill down in the litter. More space because they’re not teeny weeny kittens, they’re more like demi-cats.
The first two nights, we put them back in the carrier and closed them into the larger cage (with food and water and the small litter tray) to sleep. I thought they’d want to get out, that they’d wake up multiple times, like babies, and yowl. They didn’t. They were cosily snuggled up together when we came down in the morning.
On the third night they were hard to catch to put away, so we left them out. They were fine. Nothing went bump in the night. I woke up a few times, alert, waiting. But nothing happened. They’re not babies after all.
I put them back in their carrier and took them to the vet yesterday, for their introductory checkup. I put the carrier on the front seat turned sidways so they could see me, and strapped it in with the seatbelt. I felt a little silly, but I didn’t want them to freak out, and I felt sorry for them because every other time they’ve gone somewhere in a cat carrier they’ve arrived at a new home. They had no way of knowing that this time they’d be coming back here in an hour or two, that I wasn’t just passing them on.
Sometimes I ascribe human emotions to animals. I probably shouldn’t do that so much.
As I pulled out of the driveway, trying to minimize bumps and take corners gently, I was irresistibly reminded of coming home from the hospital with newborn baby Dash, in deepest Texas, when B said he drove more carefully than he ever had before.
Here I am, adulting, I thought. Now we have a vet, as well as a pediatrician and a dentist and an orthodontist and an ophthalmologist and a dermatologist and a pediatric dermatologist and a psychologist and a chiropractor. (And we’re very healthy people.)
Now the kittens start to purr when I walk into the room. It’s like the baby smiling at you and making it all worthwhile. I felt an undeniable mini-glow of pride in the vet’s waiting room, when other pet-owners admired them and said how good they were and I agreed. I rooted for them to do well in their physical exam, and flinched when they got their shots, and snuggled them and talked to them as we drove home, back to the home that is theirs now, with the people who are theirs now.
They’re finding the places they like to hang out. They don’t hide under the sofa much any more. You’ll find them on the stairs, one on the top step and one halfway down looking through the bannister. On the IKEA chair in the sun. On the soft brown blanket on our bed. In the corner of the front-room sofa. Not, ever, in the cat bed or the box I prepared for them, of course. I knew that would happen. We’ve had them less than a week, but it feels right to have them here.
I have furbabies now. At least I don’t have to take them with me to the supermarket, though.
We have kittens now. I’m going to have to update my About page.
Apparently this is what bloggers do when their kids get too old to blog about. I’ve already put one of the kittens in my Facebook profile pic. From now on you’ll only see my children in photos if they’re accompanied by cats.
They’re settling in quite nicely. They’ve certainly made themselves at home on the IKEA furniture.
They were a bit confused when everyone except me disappeared on Monday morning, but they got over it.
They enjoy boxes, pens, human fingers, and peeing fifteen times a day. They like to meow pitifully for no apparent reason even when they have plenty of food and water and snuggles and I’ve just raked the litter to the perfection of one of those zen sand gardens. They have sharp little claws that get hung up on everything (scratching post coming ASAP). They do full-body purrs as soon as you pick them up, and they fight like my children but then happily cuddle up together at night.
One of them is on my lap right now, biting my elbow and popping up every five seconds to see if he can help with the blogging. He’s very helpful.
Well, it’s been what, ten days? So obviously we’re all used to the new world order now and we’ll stop whining because our guy (girl) didn’t win and we’ll just go home quietly and go about our business.
Or we’ll keep calling our representatives and writing postcards and planning marches and keeping the channels of actual facts (not alternative ones) open, but we’ll also talk about the same old stuff because that’s the new normal and we’ll be here for as long as it takes.
So in other news that its not fake, Mabel and I took a trip to the county animal shelter last Saturday. We’d been down to the local shelter a few times since announcing the big cat decision, but while they have several adult cats and four (four!) bunnies right now, they don’t have any kittens. I know that the kitten stage is very brief compared to the cat stage, but I think we should get to have it. And I feel like they’ll be more ours if they start out with us. So off we went to the bigger shelter that’s about half an hour away instead of just down the road, and lo, they did in fact have kittens.
The place was buzzing with visitors, and one of the three littermate kittens we found there already had two applications, so I will admit that I did feel a little under pressure to act swiftly lest we lose out; but on the other hand, here were two perfectly dotey kittens and what else was I waiting for? We filled out an application and left it in the lap of the gods. (That is, the well-organized office system, I suppose.)
Have you ever stopped to appreciate the smoothness of your gums? I bet you haven’t. But if you ever have occasion to spend two weeks with stitches in your gums, you’ll really enjoy the feeling of unfettered tongue-running-over when they’re removed. Just by the by.
So then on Tuesday after school we went out there again for Dash to meet the kittens (a requirement of the adoption process is that all the kids in the house interact with the animals) and today they called me to say we can pick them up on Saturday. We have a big dog crate all ready for them so that they can be safely confined in the living space and get used to the environment before they get free rein. (This was a suggestion in the cat book I got from the library – it seemed like a better idea than shutting them into the spare room where nobody ever goes or the basement that’s full of junk.)
The kids fought over who got to clean the base of the borrowed crate once we set it up, and then they argued again over who would get to clean out the litter box first. I think I should have recorded that one. They are really, really excited about this.
It’s very hard to sort out summer camps when Donald Trump is stopping legal residents of the USA from entering the country to come back to their homes and families and pets and belongings.
It’s difficult to concentrate on what we might need for new kittens when the president has barely been in office a wet week and he already seems mired in a bunch of power plays that might end in war.
It’s tricky to think about school re-enrollment forms when people are about to lose their health insurance, their ability to medicate chronic illness and keep their children alive because the ACA has been repealed with no replacement.
It’s confusing to wonder how I’m going to attend my best friend’s wedding in Italy this summer when people are being indefinitely detained at airports in spite of the stay on the order.
It’s hard to make pancakes for breakfast when I keep stopping to wonder if Trump has enough support in the armed forces to be a military dictator.
It’s hard to remember to print out Mabel’s passport photos and arrange to get her Irish passport application witnessed while noting that actual Nazi Steve Bannon was slipped onto the National Security Council as chief strategist while we were all busy watching the airports yesterday.
I spent Saturday feeling guilty for not marching and watching the photos of all my friends who were at the march, happy and pink-hatted, brandishing clever signs, many bringing their kids to be part of history.
On Sunday I told myself to stop whining to myself and just promise I’d go to the next one.
Today’s Monday and things are confusing again, because the march had too many white women who like pumpkin spice and not enough intersectionality and I made a couple of political posts on Facebook and I probably said the wrong thing and it’s naive to wish we could all just get along and see each other as a person instead of a cog in the giant wheel of their group/race/culture/class/religion/gender/sexuality.
For someone who prides herself on her words and her diplomacy, I have a long history of saying the wrong thing to a response of resounding silence. When I was twelve we were all painting pretend graffiti at summer camp. I added “IRA”, because that’s the sort of thing you saw in graffiti. I didn’t mean I supported the IRA. Obviously. But it went down the wrong way entirely. I still have conversations in my head where I try to justify that.
Any time I try to talk about racism or politics I probably say the wrong thing too. Please understand that I’m trying to do better and I want you to tell me when I say something that drops with the sound of a million clashing discordant cymbals.
This is what I know. My two children spent their most formative years understanding that it was normal and good and right for a man with a big smile and brown skin and tight curly black hair to be President of the United States – a man who looked more like a lot of their schoolmates than like them. Now they are learning the hard truth that the person in charge of the country you live in is not always someone you are happy to look up to, and not always someone smarter and kinder and wiser and better than everyone else.
I think they already know very well that it doesn’t always make sense to choose the person who looks more like them – as a friend or in an election. We choose people for better reasons than that.
The sun came out today for the first time since the Obama administration, which was nice and all, but was not reflected in any metaphorical way by the new president being any less awful or doing anything less terrible than all those things we were afraid he’d do, and a few more to boot.
But it was nice to see the sun, I suppose.
I don’t have a picture of the sun so let’s let this represent the education secretary nomination and the EPA.