Name calling from the Deep South
In the deep South, women dress in hoop skirts and sing the praises of the of their plantation museums, like anything about the Antebellum South is worthy of praise. Docents guide visitors through the Grand House, clippety clopping down the tree lined drive in dainty carriages, they arrive at the lovingly restored mansions. Only in some plantations, the ones not recently painted, are the slave cabins preserved. In retrospect, breaking up the Divided States was maybe not such a bad idea, letting the Confederacy spin off (good riddance) into a separate nation. Imagining a different outcome, where there is no Electoral College, where winners of the popular vote just fucking win. A stalemate in an earlier war, agreeing to go our separate ways and Sojourner Truth and Frederick Douglass and Harriet Tubman lived long active lives, where John Brown’s body and those of his murdered sons never did molder in the grave. Passengers on the Underground Railroad making it to freedom funding the rebellion, burning down the mansions and putting up plaques honoring the laborers. From a safe distance pointing to the Mason/Dixon line and saying “There’s evil in them thar hills”.
Let us not forget President Barack Obama and how the hateful opposition sneeringly lengthened his name to Barack Hussein Obama then later, clandestinely shortened Jefferson Beauregard Sessions the Third into “Jeff”. Not one, but two Confederate Army officers honored by his parents, embedded in his name. Trying so hard to please his boss, the Attorney General of Sycophantic Southerners found no draconian policies were good enough or mean enough, as long as fact free investigations proceeded against the families of political enemies.
This is something not up for grabs, my voice, my vote, my vagina. Scandals upon scandals vie for venal victory, and former friends shrug and call us Socialists, a would-be epithet I shall embrace. If my Libertarian, dyed in the wool capitalism can be called socialism, well doesn’t that just open the flood gates to Upside Down World? And I really don’t think asserting that “the sun’ll come up tomorrow” can convince the Flat Earth Society that they need to shut the fuck up. As the muffled disagreements within the European Union break it apart, so too our shady alliances with closeted misogynists are put on display, where they are busy successfully dismantling equality and justice. Blue wave hits low tide and the Red Death strides across each beach, drowning hope in the color of blood.
Authoritarian Regime after Regime – how many more? And Frank Zappa sings in my head that “It can’t happen here, ‘cause I’ve been checkin’ it out…Suzie Creamcheese, this is the voice of your conscience speaking”… I pledge allegiance to the facts and United States of Compassion, and to the Republic we used to have, one nation under many gods, with Liberty and Justice for all.
This is what we don’t know – where are the graveyards where all the flowers went? With all the young men gone to soldiers, every one – when will they every learn? Oh, when will they ever learn?
It’s just all so repetitive, all so sickening, all so backwards. Hate is always propaganda and propaganda is always hate, and power corrupts absolutely. Chin Shr Huang Di ate mercury for immortality. Mao Ze Dong ate opium balls and let syphilis drive him mad, and the Four Olds were attacked and destroyed by blinded followers. Stalin brutally murdered his opponents, Rome begat Caligula, Hitler begat the Final Solution and these are DEAD dictators. Lame Duck President Trump cozies up to today’s bloodthirsty power mad megalomaniacs and here’s where Russia fits in – they don’t like it when democracies band together; invasion and annexations become harder to pull off. Bullies are right now licking their wounds – injuries sustained by the mere hint of disagreement, by the unforgiveable sin of dissent. They set about to silence voters where voting IS allowed, and to simply jail those of lesser means. Gaia, they are so brittle, resentful of a beautiful autumn day in early November when we threw a rock at the wall of sycophants surrounding the Emperor with no clothes. On the inside of the wall, he is striding purposefully in imaginary finery. Emerging weeks later, he dons a perfectly tailored coat and shuffles down the ramp to a guilt laden obscurity.
Catherine G. Tripp writes for grownups. She writes for the curious, for those who appreciate wry humor, and seek to be enlightened on subjects they thought they knew well. When people hear or read her work, they are invited to walk in another’s shoes and having arrived at a greater understanding, they found the walk rewarding. The thematic core of her work is righteous indignation, to express historical wrongs in terms that make the characters and their practices banal in their everydayness, yet shocking in detail.