Entering 2107

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Just click on the title “Entering 2017”)

Not a bad view to welcome the new year, eh? We just got back from a trip to Oregon, welcoming the new year on the coast, and then moving on to Portland for the biennial National Multicultural Conference and Summit (NMCCS), a gathering of (mostly) psychologists—about 800 of them this year—who are interested in multicultural issues. I had originally waffled about whether to attend this conference, but after the election, I knew I needed to be there. Given the state of the nation, it was the perfect way to return from the coastal retreat to the cultural fray.

            

The time at the coast was, predictably, relaxing and rejuvenating. We were welcomed by a rainbow, proof that we were at the right place. Then for three days, we bundled up for cold walks on the beach, ate good food in small local restaurants (which were pretty quiet, once the New Year’s partying was over), took multiple redundant photos of Haystack Rock and some of the beach as it changed colors, and conversed with gulls accustomed to handouts. 

                                    
 

We slept with the window open and the ceiling fan on so we could hear and smell the ocean during the night.

And then, re-entry. NMCCS is something of a haven for people who are committed to diversity work. I think it’s the only place I regularly hang out where I am, along with other white people, in the numerical minority for days. My queer identity is a part of the “multicultural” programming, but the (relative) invisibility of this identity means that my whiteness marks me as an outsider, for a change. An important position to experience occasionally—more often than I typically do.

The beauty of this space is that people collectively assume that those around them are firmly invested in issues of diversity and work against oppression, so it’s never necessary to defend or explain a position that honors these issues as central (rather than peripheral) to how we do psychology and how we function in the world. As a result. it’s a remarkably non-judgmental gathering. People generally trust the good intentions of others, grant space for “mistakes,” and honor growth rather than perfection in understanding the experiences and perspectives that folks bring with them.

I always learn here, and I always feel challenged in realizing what I didn’t know. This year, it had an added impact for me: it was one of several recent experiences that have left me in a reflective mood about my own place in the world—appropriate for a new year. More on that later.

So, let me take you on a quick tour of my time at the conference and some of the insights I gleaned while I was there. I was very aware from the start of the vigilance that folks who gathered for this event are feeling in the wake of November’s election, with frequent references to the incoming administration and the mixture of anger and anxiety that its ascendance evokes. Both the pre-conference reception and the opening plenary began by describing this conference as a place of safety, where “all of your complex identities” are welcome, a place to “enjoy feeling brave,” to “renew your strength, encourage, and be encouraged.” It seemed clear to me that other folks came to this conference guided by an impulse similar to mine: to join with a like-minded community in nourishing energy for the challenges ahead. Sprinkled among these comments were summons to “carry the water, even when it’s not popular” and “speak up anyway.” These words of encouragement reminded me of a Martina McBride song, “Anyway,” which suddenly seems totally suited to this moment in history. Excerpts:

Anyway

You can spend your whole life building
Something from nothin'
One storm can come and blow it all away
Build it anyway

You can chase a dream
That seems so out of reach
And you know it might not never come your way
Dream it anyway

…..

This world's gone crazy
It's hard to believe
That tomorrow will be better than today
Believe it anyway

…..

You can pour your soul out singing
A song you believe in
That tomorrow they'll forget you ever sang
Sing it anyway
Yeah, sing it anyway

I sing
I dream
I love
Anyway

If feeling beseiged, these people were also inspired and inspiring. “Don’t let anyone take away your power,” one speaker urged, “the struggle is as important as the outcome.” More than once, I heard the presidential campaign and election described as a backlash—and this framed as good news: Those who resist diversity wouldn’t work so hard to stifle, deny, and discredit it if they weren’t frightened by how far we’ve come, what a force we can be for change. An empowering perspective that certainly inspires me to more action!

So, besides these general messages, what else did I learn? I’ll just mention a few sessions to suggest the flavor of the conference.

In one session, elders from several indigenous groups discussed their experiences with colonization. Most of the material they discussed was familiar to me from previous events and workshops I’ve attended. But drenched in two hours of references to colonization, this information took on a new quality that changed my gut sense of indigenous experiences, erasing any impulse to exoticize and leaving only the reality of systemic, persistent, to-the-bone deep marginalization. And remarkable resilience. 

Another workshop examined the roles of allies to marginalized groups, couched in terms of using the word “ally” as a verb rather than a noun: to be an ally is to take action, not just to invoke supportive rhetoric or adopt symbolism that carries no commitment to actually do anything.  One woman suggesting the term “accomplices” as a replacement for “allies” because it implies active engagement, even in the face of resistance. This was a challenging discussion for me. I agree with this position, and my agreement is another element in my personal reflections.

And then there was a session on aging. First, we shared hopes and fears about aging. Predictably, the fears were mostly about physical and cognitive decline and about social isolation. The hopes were mostly about remaining vibrant, presumably until the very moment of death. One African American woman who grew up in the rural South, living in a multi-generational home told us that aging and death had never carried any particular stigma because in her world, both were so integrated into life. Her comments led us to the topic of ‘good’ dying (and the book Being Mortal by Atul Gawande. I recommend it highly). From there, we shifted to the ageism implicit in the concept of “super aging,” and from there, we were off on a conversation about daily microaggressions, those well-intended words and acts that are meant to be kind, but are actually patronizing, even infantilizing. I’ve written about this plenty of times here, so I won’t go on about it.

I left the conference feeling inspired by the community and the political power I’d just experienced. Then, the night we got home, I awoke around midnight to a feeling that something was missing in my life. I went back to sleep easily, and just before I woke up the next morning, I had a dream that left me feeling alone and lost, aimless. After a long talk with my partner and some reflective walks, I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m hunting for something I used to have and now don’t. I have to find out what it is, and the answer is almost certainly related to this conference (OK, and maybe the beach). I joked with my partner, “Maybe it’s just a dog.” But honestly, I think it’s something more, some sense of purpose. Just what it will look like isn’t clear. But I’ve been here before, and I know a few things about my process at this juncture—words like patience, openness, exploration come to mind. I know I can’t force it, but I also know I have to be actively engaged in the search.

I’m confident I’ll find it, whatever it is. Meanwhile, the process itself brings a sense of meaning that feels good. As the woman at NMCCS said, the struggle is as important as the outcome.

© Janis Bohan, 2010-2017. Use of this content is welcome with attribution and a link to the post. 

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Dickens and the waterfall

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It was the best of times, it was the worst of times,

it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness,

it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity,

it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness,

it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair,

we had everything before us, we had nothing before us …

- Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities (1859)

Here it is, amazingly, the end of another year. It’s been a remarkable one in so many ways. Dickens pretty much nailed it. It’s all so disorienting, I thought a bit of reflection on what the year actually held might help make sense of it. It’ll also serve as a catch-up of sorts, since I was incommunicado here for most of the year.

And, as so often happens, I figured out what I wanted to say as I wrote. Hence the odd allusion to the waterfall in the title.

So,  for starters, I promised to comment on my bloggish silence from January to November. The short explanation is that I had “blogger’s block.” But that’s a cop-out, a description that explains nothing. So let me try again. At some point, I noticed that instead of enjoying writing, I was feeling obligated to do it, and then I got anxious when I didn’t. The best defense against anxiety is avoidance (think elevator phobia), so that’s what I did. But why the lack of enjoyment, when I’ve always loved writing? And why the sense of obligation to do a totally voluntary activity? The second is easier: I know it’s good for me to have an outlet for my ponderings, and some folks appreciate it, so of course I should do it. The first is harder: why the resistance? Complicated. Partly just too busy. Partly, some experiences that left me feeling tentative about writing. Partly a growing discomfort with the “selfie /facebook culture” and the assumption that everyone (anyone) would want to hear about what I was doing or thinking. Seemed pretty self-centered to me … heck, writing about myself and my life is self-centered, by definition.

So, although people encouraged me to return to this space, I stayed away. Until November 8. At that point, I so needed an outlet for my feelings and thoughts—and connections to a wider community—that all the rest seemed unimportant. That elevator stuff is still there, in the background. But it just doesn’t matter in the same way. I need to be here, and if others appreciate it, that’s a bonus.

So, a few glimpses of what I would have written about in 2016, if I’d been writing.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times

You may recall that 2015 was the year of my return to fitness program, culminating in a hike in Southern Utah (specifically, Capitol Reef) that had been my aspirational aim through my self-rehab process. I had a wonderful hike, although I didn’t find the arch I was aiming for. I loved the day … and in the back of my mind, I wanted to go back and try again.

It was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness

This past spring, feeling my oats after a full year of orthopedic health, I decided to visit Utah again, this time to hike a favorite trail in the Needles District of Canyonlands. En route, I stopped to take a shortish hike in a small canyon I remember from my desert rat days. It was a very hot day, but I’ve always loved the dessert heat, so I figured I’d “warm up” for the next 

day’s planned long hike by doing this short one. Right at lunchtime. Perfect for a picnic beneath the arch at the canyon’s end.  

Unfortunately, I hadn’t reckoned with what about 15 years’ added age would do to my tolerance for mid-day 103° direct sunshine. I struggled out of the canyon with a mild case of heat exhaustion, sadly certain that I couldn’t recover enough for the next day’s long (equally hot) walk in Canyonlands.  So I postponed that hike until next year … and congratulated myself on my wisdom.

And I was back to the best of times …

I had a glorious summer, resurrecting my long-dormant passion for hiking in the mountains. I hooked up with a couple of friends who are also avid hikers, and together we visited old favorites and explored new (to me, at least) hikes along streams, to glacial lakes, among early summer flowers and fall colors, with moose families posing for pictures just before tiny snowflakes spotted our jackets. This return to the woods was wonderful for me. I’d forgotten how much I love it.

          

     

                

                                                             

The year held lots of indoor adventures, too. Plays, concerts, educational events—talks, panels, documentaries, a CU on the Weekend course—any of which would have been blog-worthy. And my mega-cultural undertaking: working with Resonance Women’s Chorus through the spring  concert and the early summer (the national conference of LGBTQ choruses, GALA, was here) and then again through the fall. Stories, stories, all untold. And then there’s OutSources, the weekly LGBTQ-themed radio show that a group of us produce. Over the year, I did a dozen or so shows, most with my partner—we pretty much work as a DJ duo these days—on topics ranging from religious freedom restoration acts through trans misogyny and Orlando to non-binary identities and AIDS work in South Africa—lots of these also warranted blogs.

 

We traveled to a few conferences, and added in playful travels, like a trip to DC with my partner’s 14-year-old grandson. Predictably, his favorite parts were the Air and Space Museum and crabbing with his great uncle. Some pictures, but no blog. Then there were the un-travels: a couple of “staycations” at a hotel, featuring sleep-ins, coffee and newspaper while lounging in the room, and lots of movies. Blog material galore.

To finish off the summer, my partner joined me on a trip back to the site of last year’s delightful, but incomplete, adventure. The walk in Capitol Reef was wonderful, again, and this time, I found the fork in the trail that led to Cassidy Arch. And here it is (in slightly washed out light).

Then came the campaign and the election, the staple of my schedule through the fall (with a side of weekly hikes). Starting in September, I spent several hours a couple of times each week working on the election—first doing voter registration, then shifting to door-to-door get-out-the-vote canvassing. I hated it. Every time I got out of my car, I had to talk to myself: "Just go do it, Janis. One door-knock at a time." I knew I had to do whatever I could, because if she lost / if he won, I didn't want to wonder if I should have done more.

The campaign and its outcome well warrant the remainder of Dickens’ words:

it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity,

it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness,

it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair

You know what the campaign was like. Belief in the ultimate power of the process to select someone qualified, at least somewhat, for this most important job … and incredulity as we watched his ignorance and boorishness be rewarded over and over. The season of Light emerged occasionally in the words of someone sane, brilliant, speaking from the depths—like Michelle Obama—but that Darkness was close behind, as even brilliance and poignancy were disregarded. The perpetual spring of hope, as the polls continued to show 90%+ probability that the nation would soon have its first woman president. And the winter of despair that settled in early in the evening of November 8, when even the (very partisan) commentators couldn’t tweak the results enough to make her victory look likely.

 we had everything before us, we had nothing before us …

And you know what happened on November 8. It’s what brought me back here. That was, without a doubt, among the worst of times. We had everything before us: the expectation for positive change ahead, the certainty that at least the outrageousness of the campaign would end on a sane note. And then nothing. Hopes dashed, confusion, anger, fear setting in. Nothing to feed the dreams we might have dared dream if she’d won.

On the other hand, that “nothing” did actually give us something: one of the biggest challenges of our lives (at least mine). I think about that arch I didn’t find last year, but reached this year. And the trail that I decided not to hike in a moment of clarity, but that I plan to walk next year. There’s a lesson here.

And that brings to mind a now decades-old story about a waterfall:

I was on a canoe trip with friends in the Boundary Waters between Minnesota and Canada, six of us, each pair paddling a two-woman-and-a-dog craft crossing lake after lake, portaging in between. We were pulling away from the shore onto one of the string of lakes we were traversing. Just around a bend in the shore from where we were putting in was a falls that flowed from this lake into the one below. As we pulled away from the shore, the current drawn by the falls took our canoe, and we knew we were headed for trouble. I was thinking to myself: This is it. I can just give up and go with this rushing water and see what happens … or I can put all my energy into it, and maybe we can get out of the flow. Without saying a thing, both of us started paddling harder than we ever imagined we could. Slowly, we started making headway, dragging the canoe out of the current and into the calm water of the lake, where we set out in just the direction we had planned.

Landfall that day and camp that night felt especially good. We picked wild blueberries the next morning right outside the tent.

I don’t think of that story too often, but it seems fitting now.

© Janis Bohan, 2010-2015. Use of this content is welcome with attribution and a link to the post. 

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Ooof. The electoral apocalypse, a week later

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Just click on the title “Ooof ….”)

So, I’ve been missing from the blogosphere for a long time. Sometime, I may try to pull my thoughts together to explain why. But not today, one week after Hillary Clinton gave her concession speech. A week and a day after Donald Trump became the official president elect. Today, I have to talk about that event, because it pretty much dominates what I’m thinking and feeling as I go through these days. I don’t presume that I have anything novel and newsworthy to say here. Lots of people who are lots smarter and more informed than I have already written volumes. But I’m hoping that writing about this experience will clarify it for me … and maybe speak to someone else as well. Maybe I’ll throw in some pictures, just to break up the ocean of text. Visual notes from a sunnier summer.

OK, how to begin describing the plunge in hope and mood that started last Tuesday evening – an experience I know I shared with many – and my efforts to crawl back to the surface? Background: I worked a lot on the Dem campaign because I knew I had to do something. Otherwise, if Hillary lost, I’d feel awful, knowing I hadn’t done whatever I could. So I started in early September, registering voters. Then in November, I moved on to canvassing, going door to door and encouraging people to vote … preferably to vote Democratic. Let me just mention that this activity is my second-least-favorite pastime in the world, surpassed in its awfulness only by phone banking. I’ve done lots of both over the years, and I hate it. But out I went, into local neighborhoods, clipboard in hand, knocking on doors and checking folks off my list. Each time I got out of my car, I’d take a deep breath and tell myself, “Just do this, Janis. Just do it.” Then I’d put on my friendly face and start knocking on strangers’ doors. I was glad I was doing it.

Then election day, at last. I worked all day, coming and going from the campaign office with a new list every few hours. The mood there was so up-beat, so casually confident, I caught the easy optimism, and left there late in the day, looking forward to going home and cheering as the results came in. You all know what happened next.

I went to bed late, slept poorly, and awoke feeling like I had a sandbag on my chest. I recognized the raw feeling that comes when you realize that a terrible thing happened yesterday, and it’s still there. It wasn’t a dream. I spent hours buried in news stories, hoping for a glimmer of hope, disbelieving what I read. Some moments, I felt angry – at Trump’s very existence, at the people who voted for him, at the media, at the Democratic party, at Hillary … looking for someone to blame. Sometimes, I felt deeply fearful, a bit for myself, but mostly for the very vulnerable people that Trump so actively, egregiously targeted during the campaign. Mostly, I felt depressed. Heavy of heart, unable to move from my computer chair, not interested in … anything. I was hugely relieved when my partner quietly said to me, “It’s not depression. It’s grief.”

            

Grief, I thought. I might be able to manage grief. Struggle through it rather than sink beneath it. I know some ways to keep grief from becoming full-fledged depression. Like getting active, physically and in other constructive ways. The first thing I did was go for a long walk. And on that walk, I began to sketch some thoughts for surviving the coming days of this to-my-core sadness and for getting active as it lifted.

My first thoughts focused, not surprisingly, on this question of grief. I asked myself what I was grieving for, what had I lost? Well, for starters, the possibility of a continuation of relatively progressive politics in this country. The possibility of shifting the Supreme Court toward a more positive stance over the next several decades. The chance to see a woman as president, which would be a remarkable experience, given that I personally remember being unable to get a credit card or a bank account in my own name. But more: I had lost my country. Or, more accurately, my fantasy / beliefs / assumptions about my country. I knew that there were lots of folks who disagree with me on many levels. But  I did not know that there were so many of us who could endorse this man, whose unself-conscious bigotry, ignorance, and meanness you all know too well. And now, I realized that I had just lost that imagined country.

(By the way, none of this was as rational and linear as my description. I cried as I walked, felt simultaneously too alone and very glad for time alone, simultaneously strong and off balance, generally disoriented. And I noticed that I wasn’t noticing my walk – which is unusual for me.)

                   

The walk helped, but that heavy, hopeless feeling was still there. I had to figure out what I could actually do about this state of affairs – my own internal state, and the state of the nation (heck, the world!)  I’m really lucky here, because I know there's a ton of psychological thought and research on how to survive these miserable moments, much of it done by my partner. Years of osmosis have paid off, so I had lots of these ideas at my mental fingertips. For those who aren’t quite that lucky, she just wrote a column for Out Boulder, so you too can have access to this wisdom. If you read it, you’ll spot the influence of these ideas in virtually every step of my own process.

So, following my Wednesday morning walk, I knew that my first step had to be learning  to understand the people who had voted for Trump – not just as bigots, but as people with real needs that they imagined Trump’s presidency could meet. I knew this would be a stretch for me. I was feeling far too fragile to start reading hateful diatribes against Hillary or “big government,” too angry to hear how inspiring Trump is or how he’s the perfect person to save his “fans” from The Machine. But I really did want to understand his supporters, what their lives are like. I needed to do this to interrupt my tendency to demonize and stereotype them. That path gave him too much power over my well-being,  and me too little.

My partner and I began a concerted effort to locate and read information about Trump voters. This turned out not to be too hard, once I got outside the “echo chamber” of people as demoralized and outraged as I. I soon located  a series of articles that addressed just this aim (you can find some of them here, here, here, and here). 

Gradually, I/we began to see and talk about these people in a new light. Not just as white men (mostly) who resented the progress of women and people of color over recent decades, who were suffering from “privilege deprivation.” But as people who have been … are being … genuinely ignored, dismissed, trivialized, discounted, and taken for granted by governmental systems that purport to support them. People who feel isolated from urban centers of power and privilege, and who want their governments, local and national, to “see” them and reflect them. Some folks have described the loss of dignity that people in this situation might well feel. In this vein, I was so struck by a comment made by Arthur Brooks in an exchange with Gail Collins (both of the NY Times): “A few years ago,” Brooks reflected, “I was having lunch with [the president of a progressive think tank]. I asked her to given me a simplest explanation for why some people who never prospered over the past few years nonetheless loved President Obama so much. She said, ‘He gives them dignity.’ I thought that was very profound, and I think that’s a big part of what’s going on today as well with Trump,” he finished. Maybe that was what Trump's supporters heard beneath his hyperbole: a promise of simple dignity.

I could  say much more, but I’ll let this sketch suffice for now. If you’re interested, you’ll find more discussion at the bottom of this blog entry, or you can read more about it in the articles linked above.  

So, with a tenuous handle on my fear, rage, and disbelief, the next step was to manage my sadness and sense of powerlessness. I needed to get myself active. The physical part was pretty simple I happily slid into my now-regular pattern of daily activity. Beyond that, I needed to be politically and socially active. Buoyed by the hope of coming out of this a better human being, I imagined great leaps into activism, sailing forth on a wave of indignation and inspiration. But I knew I’d have to start slowly. Really slowly, as it turned out. Those first days, I managed to write checks to some orgs that I really respect. I considered where I might volunteer down the road. I pondered a lot and read some. I talked to myself and with friends. But actually acting, as opposed to considering acting, was harder.

My first tiny step came while I was walking home from the gym on Friday, three days after the election, I encountered a pile of dog poop left by a pooch whose human hadn’t bothered to pick it up. I added a detour to my walk to fetch a plastic bag, returned to the scene of the drop, picked up the offending pile, and carried it to the nearest trash can. A small act, but it seemed important. I felt like I had made a gesture toward the universe, saying I can make a difference, a change for the better in my world.

The next day, I passed a woman on the bike path whose dog was keeping a careful eye on me as I approached from the rear. I greeted them both and then said, “It’s nice to have someone watching your back right now. The world is more dangerous for a lot of people since the election.” I realized I had just made a mini-ally statement, calling to her attention the reality that for some people, the potential for real danger is greater this week than last. Another tiny step toward showing up.

Then on Monday, my partner and I met with some other folks to help plan an upcoming event related to the election’s outcome, and I agreed to help organize an event in January – although the last time I organized an event, I swore I’d never do it again. More steps. Today, I went to Denver for a rally in support of immigrant families. Small steps. But slowly, I feel more present to life as I go through my days,

This is not to say that it's been a steady path forward. During the past week, I've had moments of progress and enthusiasm, and moments of descent back into deep sorrow. I’ve felt empowered (picking up poop), and I’ve had tears come to my eyes for no apparent reason (stretching in an aerobics class). In the low times, I’ve tried to call up the advice offered in the aforementioned Out Boulder article: to pause and think of what I value, what’s important in my life. It helps me get away from the obsessive focus on what’s wrong and back to what I want to create from this. In those moments of reflection, I’ve realized that writing this blog has been something I’ve valued, for a whole host of reasons. As of today, I’m planning to resume blogging, as time permits. I’ll be good for me, I know. It always was. I’ll try to catch up with some blog-worthy stories from the past year – or at minimum, some pictures. I’ve passed up on so many opportunities. Anyway, here I am, writing a blog. Whether or not anyone reads it, writing this particular post has helped me pull together a week’s worth of struggling to dig out from the sticky post-election morass I sank into Tuesday night. It’s another step.

…

Now it’s Thursday morning, and Nicholas Kristof, a NYT op-ed writer whom I love, has weighed in with a column that summarizes beautifully much of what I hope to take from this week (I told my partner he’s channeling her work). For an added boost in your own process, read it here.

...

Now it's Friday morning, a week after the dog poop incident. There's snow on the ground, and a sunny day ahead. I'll be taking a long walk with a friend's dog, a fun companion for me. And I'll be telling her all about it, sorting it out some more. And waiting to see what happens next, where I need to show up.

-----------------------

Post  Script:

If you’re interested, here’s more about what I’ve come to understand about the people who voted for Trump.

Many of the people who voted for Trump – especially those in rural areas and the Midwestern “rust belt” (who have historically been reliable supporters of Dem candidates) – are people who work dawn to dusk at back-breaking labor, playing by the supposed rules, who are still unable to make ends meet. Their parents did the same work and were able to get ahead, leaving more to their kids than they had – but now those kids find themselves stuck, with no hope for getting ahead.

They see highly educated people who live in big cities with tons of resources and opportunities – schools, museums, culture, support services, government offices – who are far wealthier than they are, although those urbanites don’t appear to work anywhere near as hard. They see the seats of power located, always, in these cities, readily accessible to city dwellers as sources of information, services, and high-paying jobs. They read about people of color and other minority populations, mostly clustered in cities – unfamiliar to folks living in rural areas, and therefore easily stereotyped and misunderstood, even vilified. They hear about government programs like affirmative action, that (in their understanding – but how would they know otherwise?) – assure jobs for these folks who look nothing like the people they know, whether or not they’re deserving. They see officials of all stripes who never ask them about their lives. Who never visit their homes, never work beside them, never talk to them. Politicians who drop by during the campaign, visit the state fair and eat a corndog, maybe have coffee with locals at the diner, and call that “connecting” with their rural constituencies.

Add to this the implicit biases we all learn just by growing up in this culture and absorbing its mores: racism, sexism, and abelism; xenophobia, anti-Semitism, and Islamophobia; homo-, bi-, and transphobia. We all learned them. But some of us have had opportunities to unlearn them, or at least to temper them. Those opportunities are available almost entirely in cities; anti-racism intensives would be hard to find in rural mid-America. So those of us who have had those learning opportunities condemn those who have not, labeling them bigots – when what really separates us from them is our (often unrecognized) privilege.

Why wouldn’t these people believe that the deck is stacked against them? Why wouldn’t they think that city dwellers – even “foreigners” in the cities – have a better shot at the American dream than they have? Why wouldn’t they believe that they system has left them behind and left them out?

All it takes, then, is for someone to tell them just that: the system is rigged against you. Of course, they shout, Yes! Finally, someone has seen us! Has recognized our distress!

To fire up the enthusiasm even more, that person need only violate all the norms of “polite” (or “politically correct”) conversation – ill-defined norms that are foreign to their lives – by saying the things that they dare not say, have been condemned for saying. We’ve created, in the words of political scientist Katherine Cramer, a politics of resentment. And resentment is a mighty motivator.

In a sense, this isn’t even about Trump himself. It could have been anyone who poked the right tender spots, who saw the distress and resentment of these people and named it, pulled for it, capitalized on it. Who made them feel visible, important, central – and named the system that had previously left them feeling the opposite: their own government. The added energy evoked by allowing them – in fact, encouraging them – to think, to say, and to do the things that are forbidden by “polite” society energized a movement that made them feel powerful, like they could change the system.

It just required someone who seemed not beholden to the system (at least in the usual ways), someone who was willing to thumb his nose, flip the bird at the system. Someone to tell these abandoned Americans that they, like he, are the real Americans.

Deal sealed. No need for millions of demons. Just ordinary people, rendered invisible by the powers that be, plus a rank narcissist willing to use their distress for his own aggrandizement.

Oops. I guess I’m not totally done villianizing yet. Like I said, it’s a slow process …

© Janis Bohan, 2010-2015. Use of this content is welcome with attribution and a link to the post. 

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Music for a Sweet Land

OK, enough of the second-guessing, the recriminations, and the self-adulation. Enough of the analyses and the pundits, enough of the advice from every splinter of every constituency of every party. That’s not to say that there’s no wound-licking left to do, no crowing, no slicing and dicing. But in a broad sense, it seems like time to move forward. Time to apply the lessons of the campaign and election, mapping and morphing them into useful directions. It's time, as Hebrew scripture advises, to beat the swords into plowshares. And what better way to do that, I say, than with music.

And, lo and behold, with exquisite timing born of sheer luck (on my part) and wisdom (on the part of others), I get to hear two concerts this week that are destined to provide hours of healing, inspiring, motivating music. The first is a performance on Wednesday by Jackson Browne, who, in addition to making beautiful music, is also known as a human rights and environmental activist. My personal all-time favorite is “The Rebel Jesus.” I don’t expect him to perform it this time, given that it’s really a Christmas song. But it’s relevant no matter what the season, so I can always hope.

And then, on Saturday, a concert that anyone within travelling distance of Boulder really, seriously wants to attend. Sweet Land—Choices of Dignity is a free, everyone-invited performance “inspired by the challenges of the presidential election and reflecting on our lives, our history, and our shared future.” It’s sponsored by Resonance Women’s Chorus of Boulder and Sound Circle, a women’s a cappella ensemble (both of which I’ve written about before and both of which are directed by Sue Coffee) and by One Action, One Boulder, a year-long program to encourage conversations and action around issues of race, class, and inclusion. In addition to performances by these two choruses, the event will feature local musicians, spoken word, the 1000 Voices Project, and more. The performance will be at First United Methodist Church (also a sponsor) at 14th and Spruce in Boulder. It starts at 7:00, but doors open at 6:30, and you can count on a line.

This is sounding like a promotional ad, but it’s really not. For one thing, the event is free, so there’s nothing to “sell.” But more to the point, the reason I wanted to call your attention to it is that I’m so impressed by the very existence of this event—which itself has nothing to sell, other than community.  A bit of a back story: 

Sue Coffee is best known as an inspired conductor, and you’ll see why in this concert. She is also deeply committed to building community, and she’s quietly wise in how she uses music to do that. This is not the first time Sue has worked with others in the community to create a free concert with precisely that goal in mind. She did it after the 2004 election and after the 2008 election. 

To quote Sue (with permission),

“We did a concert after 2004 called Music for a Purple Country, and after 2008 called How Can I Keep From Singing. . . . the collective need in 2004 was to come together, the collective need/gesture in 2008 was to celebrate.”

And here we are again, at the end of a horrendously long and bitter campaign, trying to find our way out of the sludge of political posturing, pandering, and prevarication and into sunrise in America (to reprise the theme of my last two blogs). And here are these two gifted choruses led by this gifted woman, joined by other artists and co-sponsored by a grassroots program intended to build community. It's perfect.

In Sue's words,

“The collective gesture of this election is a sigh of relief and a readiness to look ahead. . . . The Choices of Dignity subtitle speaks to 1. regardless of the outcome of the election, still there is the question: what are your personal choices? and 2. [it also] refers to Obama's intent to focus the country on important questions about how to be together.”

The evening will bring these many artists together to wrap us, residents of this sweet land, in hope even as they challenge us to make “choices of dignity.” What better way to spend a Saturday evening than in the midst of this kind of community, building community?

So, come! You will be ever so glad you did.   

Sunrise in America, part II

If you’re like me, you’ve been reading and listening to endless commentaries on the election—what happened and why, what lessons are to be learned, where we go next. Of the many, many post-election pearls of wit and wisdom, here are some I thought were especially good. If you haven’t already read them, take a look:

• Gail Collins (New York Times opinion columnist) on lessons from the election. I really enjoy her writing—her humor, her sort of down-home presence. And, of course, her politics.

• David Brooks (New York Times opinion columnist) with a very different “take” on what the Republicans should learn from this election, especially about the changing face of America. Brooks is the NYT’s most noted conservative columnist, yet I very often am challenged by his thinking and learn a lot from him. Instead of scolding, this column “schools” the Republican party in a most thoughtful way.

• Richard Socarides (former special assistant to President Clinton on LGBT issues— and son of a prominent psychiatrist, Charles Socarides, one of the prime proponents of so-called “conversion therapy” for LGBT folks) commenting on the amazing progress toward equal rights for LGBTQ folks we saw in this election. The steps forward were remarkable, and so is the deep shift in attitudes that these steps reflect. Which leads me to …

• Glenda Russell (the person who probably knows more than anyone else in the nation (the world?) about the impact of anti-LGBT politics on queer folks) writing about on the meaning of these events for the LGBTQ community. The positive across-the-board results were unexpected, and this piece discusses how we got here and where we go next.

•  Finally, to highlight the speed with which LGBTQ rights have changed, yesterday, Colorado’s Democratic legislators elected the state’s first openly gay Speaker of the House. This is an especially poignant event given that it was exactly 20 years ago, on November 2, 1992, to be precise, that Colorado voters passed the now-notorious Amendment 2, which literally legalized discrimination on the basis of sexual orientation, leading Colorado to be branded the "Hate State." 

In case anyone thought “that hopey changey thing” wasn’t working …

Sunrise in America

"Sunrise in America" ... the title may be too close to an old Reagan slogan (“It’s morning in America”), but today, the sun is definitely, happily, showily up in America!  The light’s returning. Things are looking brighter than they have for months—since Romney’s rise first appeared to actually threaten “that hopey changey thing” (as Sarah Palin called Obama’s inspiring 2008 campaign theme). It may seem especially bright against the dark possibility of a president who had dismissed 47% of the electorate as irrelevant. An administration that would have gutted women’s rights, Dreamers’ dreams, the promise of decent health care, student loans, civil rights legislation, environmental regulations, LGBT gains … basically everything I believe in.

This early November morning, it is finally, happily sunrise in America.

I was reminded of Obama's iconic logo as I stood on a hill near my house watching the sun rise. Today, mercifully, the election is over, hope has won, and the sun is shining for real, as you can see.

To the east ...

                           to the south ...

                          

                 to the north ...

and to the west, the glorious west ...

welcome, sunrise.