Heather be thy name

Heather Cox Richardson.

For millions of us, that name sounds like a call to prayer – and I’m not trying to be blasphemous – not at all. I simply mean that her name feels like a supplication for guidance to those of us who read her social media posts every morning. And give me a break – this January has made the average shitshow look like Oklahoma and I need to write about something remotely fun. Besides, who doesn’t love a cool woman known by all three names. I see you Sarah Jessica Parker.

I’ll confess, I may not floss everyday – don’t tell my dental hygienist – but I read Heather Cox Richardson like it’s my job. Yes, I do Wordle first to jumpstart my brain, then proceed immediately to Facebook (yes, I’m old) to see Richardson’s post. You can also find her on Substack where she emerged as one of the breakout stars of that platform in 2020. She publishes her newsletter Letters from an American daily and she provides a straightforward explanation of the events of the previous day. No grandstanding or hyperbole – just the facts and scholarly analysis, often providing in depth historical context for the day’s chaos. Richardson is all business, but sometimes she uses the word bonkers which delights me.

She’s a bit like a decaf Rachel Maddow without The L Word wardrobe and fashionable eyewear. Simmer down – I love Rachel, too, but watching her percolate in real time can make me even more jittery about current events, and when I read Richardson’s posts or hear her speak, I can almost feel my blood pressure dropping. There’s something quite comforting about her calm, measured delivery and her L.L. Bean fleece – you feel like you’re sitting down to coffee with her.

Richardson, for those who have been living in a FOX hole, is a Harvard educated historian who works as a professor at Boston College. She has authored several books, hosts a podcast, and makes speaking appearances all over the country. She’s like the smartest girl in your hardest class, but she’s so easygoing and accessible, you feel comfortable asking to borrow her notes.

Her presence has never been more critical since Trump’s reelection in 2024 and his all-out assault on democracy. Her posts are never political fast food – she is thoughtful and thorough in her analysis of events. Boy, is she thorough. I know I’ve learned more about the rise of fascism after World War I from her than I ever did in any history class – and I almost always feel a bit smarter after I’ve spent some time with her.

I just worry about her – and I know I’m not alone. Many of us wonder when/if she ever sleeps. She usually posts late at night – way past my bedtime. And during the day, she pops onto social media for live chats about the crisis du jour. Richardson lives in Maine with her lobsterman husband Buddy and sometimes when it has been a particularly horrendous day in the USA, she’ll simply post a photo Buddy has taken somewhere along the beautiful Maine coast. She gets us.

**Sometimes you just need a dose of Maine. Photo credit: Buddy Poland**

I love Maine and I rented a little cottage on the water’s edge there for two weeks last summer. It was something right out of Cabot Cove – just without the murders. The owners of the cottage live nearby, and we had some brief conversation as I would come and go. On my last evening there, Dorothy, one of the owners, texted me to see if she could pop over to tell me a proper goodbye. I was delighted to spend a little time with her in “our” cottage and learn a bit more about her. Our conversation quickly turned to politics and how much we both want to get rid of Sen. Susan “I’m concerned” Collins. Spoiler alert: Her lobster is cooked.

Dorothy and I talked about the state of things and discovered that our fall of democracy survival kits were similar – NPR and the NY Times app to name a few. Then she asked me if I followed Heather Cox Richardson. “Of course,” I replied. Dorothy smiled and said, “Well, you know, she lives down the road about 10 miles.” WHAT????? My reaction was not unlike a group of 12-year-old girls hearing that KPop Demon Hunters were in the house next door.

**Me when I heard I was within stalking distance of Heather Cox Richardson**

I tried to remain nonchalant, but Dorothy could clearly see that I was a hardcore HCR fangirl. She laughed and said that they were friends and that she was as down to earth as could be. This made me happy and I was grateful I did not know Richardson was a neighbor until my last night in Maine. I know myself too well. I would have spent way too much time hanging around the local market – just in case. Nonetheless, I slept a little better that night knowing that Heather Cox Richardson was right down the road preparing her post for the next day.

But if I return to my little cottage this summer – all bets are off. Heather Cox Richardson – you’ve been warned.

Thank you for your service

Last week was rather Dickensian for me. It began by seeing a group of Buddhist monks pass through my city on their Walk for Peace. Hundreds and hundreds of people lined their path in reverence and were lifted by the wake of hope they left behind. It was the best of times – and I did not want that glorious day to end.

And my week ended watching and rewatching videos of an American citizen being shot dead by a gang of ICE agents – one of whom applauded after the victim lay dead on the street in front of a bakery in Minneapolis. It was the worst of times – and it feels as if these horrific days will never end.

You all know by now that Alex Pretti, the man executed by ICE agents on Saturday morning, was an ICU nurse at the Veterans Affairs hospital in Minneapolis. Jesus, irony can sometimes be as bitter cold as a Minnesota winter. Alex Pretti was a helper – by all accounts a kind man who held a deep respect for the veterans he served. In the aftermath of his death, the son of a deceased veteran who Pretti had cared for posted a video of Pretti giving his father a final salute in a hospital corridor as he somberly read aloud from text that began with these lines:

“Today, we remember that freedom is not free. We have to work at it, nurture it, protect it and even sacrifice for it.”

Like any reasonable American, I was appalled that Pretti was killed exercising his First Amendment freedoms, and his connection to veterans made my heart ache even more. The grandfather I was named for was a veteran of both world wars and my father served in the Army. And I worked as a development officer for the Paralyzed Veterans of America (PVA) for eight years. I was responsible for cultivating planned gifts – bequests, trusts and annuities – and would always visit the local Veteran’s hospital whenever I was meeting with donors. These hospitals are deeply attuned to the veteran experience, and you certainly feel a sense of respect for service and love of country when you spend time in one – especially when you see some of the collateral damage left behind by combat.

And I think that’s why I mourned Pretti’s senseless and unnecessary death even more deeply when I learned he cared for veterans. And I’m certain that is why I was utterly consumed with rage when Kristi “ICE Barbie” Noem and other federal agents immediately tried to defame Pretti’s reputation and described him as a domestic terrorist who had taken to the streets to sow carnage. We’ve all seen the videos – deep gratitude to Pink Coat Lady who risked her own safety to record the definitive angle of the murder on her own deadly weapon – an iPhone. Hey Siri – Please save us.

**NO SUCH THING AS THE INNOCENT BYSTANDER – poem by Andrea Gibson**

“The Revolution Will Not Be Televised” is a well-known 1970’s spoken-word/song by Gil Scott-Heron that condemns passive consumerism and argues that real change only happens in the streets – and not by watching TV. I guess the song could be updated to include doom scrolling. As it turns out, the revolution will be live-streamed, and that is what is saving us, and democracy, these days.

Alex Pretti knew this and he was an active participant in what Rachel Maddow eloquently describes as “principled, peaceful, and relentless protest.” And he paid the ultimate price – his one, precious life. And cue the irony again – yesterday, the Trump administration – reacting to the massive public outrage over Pretti’s killing, booted Gregory Bovino – the Nazi Munchkin in charge of immigration operations in Minnesota – and signaled that the number of federal agents in Minneapolis would be reduced. And just this morning, we learned that the chief federal judge in Minnesota has ordered the head of ICE to appear in court on Friday for a hearing on contempt for violating court orders.

**Pretty sure Mary Richards would have been protesting. Rhoda, too.**

Enough? Not even close, but it’s a start and none of it would not have happened without the good and brave people of Minnesota taking their ire over how their neighbors are being treated to the streets – in sub-zero temps mind you. Operation Metro Surge – the ICE mission in Minneapolis – was doomed from the start. For starters, don’t invade a city full of descendants of Vikings in the dead of winter.

I just know that a modest group of Buddhist monks in plain robes and throngs of Minnesotans in puffer coats have given me tangible hope that better days are ahead. But as Alex Pretti knew all too well – we have to work at it.

**Alex Jeffrey Pretti, ICU nurse and patriot, 1989-2026**

**Alex Pretti’s colleagues offered a moment of silence yesterday in a hallway of the VA hospital where he served.**

Bring in ‘da peace, bring in ‘da monks

**The Walk for Peace came to my corner of the world yesterday.**

I saw a small parade of superheroes yesterday. Instead of capes, they wore simple, handmade robes in earthy colors – no flashy costumes. And they were not accompanied by a pounding soundtrack. No, these were the minimalist Avengers but make no mistake – their superpowers are enormous. Yes, I’m talking about the Buddhist monks who are participating in the Walk for Peace – a 120-day, 2,300-mile journey. These monks are walking from Texas to Washington, D.C. – talk about getting your steps in – to promote mindfulness, compassion and peace – something akin to hidden treasure these days.

The monks passed through the Piedmont Triad – where I live – and were greeted like the rock stars they are. 10,000 people gathered at a stadium in High Point, NC to welcome them on a frigid morning. Hundreds of other folks lined the route as they made their way to Greensboro. The turnout to support the monks was amazing and even more remarkable was that none of those thousands of people behaved badly – at least from my vantage point.

My bestie Carla lives in Jamestown and has been following the monks on social media for weeks – they began their journey in Fort Worth, TX on October 26^th. I knew she was planning on seeing them and my dear wife and I decided to join her. It was a great decision because Carla had mapped out the strategy to secure the best viewing point like it was the invasion of Normandy. In her own words, she was “obsessively” following (stalking) their route. She even made a test run earlier in the day to scope out the elementary school where we planned to park and she texted me their progress on the hour. I could almost hear the theme from Mission Impossible in the background.

**The Monk Squad – Andrew, Carla, Arlene, me, and Joy**

We convened at Carla’s house with her husband and mom and waited until it was time to depart. Finally, Captain Carla gave the greenlight, and we dispersed with the efficiency of a SWAT team. We were on a mission – not unlike the monks. I think we all knew that this is what we desperately needed in the midst of the chaos choking our country every day.

There were already hundreds of folks lining the route when we reached the school, but we had no problem parking. My little KIA Soul is the unofficial vehicle of Radical Left Scum and is adorned with bumper stickers that leave no doubt as to my politics. When I got out of my car, I saw a young mother kneeling to zip up her daughter’s coat – they had parked directly behind me. When we passed them, she looked up and smiled at me and said, “I love your bumper stickers.” I returned a big fat smile, patted her on the arm, and told her she was good people. Her husband was wrangling their other child and said, “No, you’re good people.” And that was just a joyous appetizer of things to come.

**Yesterday was a blessing in all manner of ways.**

We staked out our spots on the sidewalk with a bunch of strangers who felt like friends. Everyone was buzzing with excitement and anticipation. A woman near us was tracking the monks on her phone and kept updating us. “They should be here in about 20 minutes,” she called out. Our tribe was downright giddy, and Carla and I shared a spontaneous bear hug. We are both unabashedly emotional (understatement) and we were just so happy to be there. And then the monks passed right by us – more like whizzed – those monks are quick on their feet. I was shocked that we were so close to them – you could have easily touched them – but that is strictly prohibited. One of the monks offered us a short blessing as he passed by. I was so overwhelmed, I can’t recall exactly what he said. What I do remember is the sound – the sacred sound of silence. You could hear a pin drop. The only sound was the rhythmic treading of the monks’ steps on the asphalt. It sounded like prayer to me.

And just like that, they were gone. No one rushed off – I think folks simply wanted to linger in the gentle haze of the peace we had just born witness to. And a word I had not thought of in a long time popped into my head – unity. I felt united with all those people on the sidewalk. It was a bit like staring directly into the sun – it was almost too much to take in and I had to close my eyes for a moment.

**Sometimes peace finds you in a parking lot.**

When we got back to our car, my wife found two little flowers stuck in the door handle of the driver’s side. They looked like the simple flowers that the monks carry. I bet they came from the little family that liked my stickers. They were a bit dilapidated from the cold, but still so bright and cheerful – downright resilient. Folks, sometimes the metaphors write themselves. And that’s how a humble band of monks lifted a weary community on their slight shoulders for a few glorious hours on a cold day in January.

And that is the Marvel Universe I long to dwell in.

May you and all beings be well, happy and at peace.

This is a blessing that the monks repeat often on their journey.

**I’m hoping these last a very long time.**

Prayers of the people

I went to church this past Sunday. That’s not exactly breaking news – I know lots of other people did, too. The thing is, except for a few memorial services, I haven’t been to church in a long time. I guess Monica and Ross would say we were taking a break and like many breaks, it’s a long story that involves a toxic man or two – the kind of men who feel threatened by women who don’t agree with them. Sound familiar? Anyway, I’ve had enough of that dung to last a lifetime, and I surely don’t need it at church.

But nothing like watching an unarmed American citizen be shot in the head (three times) by a masked ICE agent to drive me to seek some divine intervention. Honestly, I couldn’t think of anything else to do – I was desperate to find some peace. And so, my dear wife and I bundled up on a brisk January morning and made the familiar drive to our former church.

And we were greeted by a tsunami of smiles and hugs – big fat hugs – long ones that you feel in your spine. We were almost a bit embarrassed, but good Lord, it felt so good to held by kind folks who were feeling the same way we were after the horrible events of last week – last month, last year. I was glad I had come even before I sat down.

The priest began the service by asking for a moment of prayer for Renee Good and I swear I could feel the weight of those prayers pressing on my shoulders. I’ll be honest – I’ve had a really hard time praying for a really long time. It’s hard to pray when your heart feels rage. I hate that feeling and it was so lovely to have it extinguished for a few hours.

I’m a lifelong Episcopalian and the liturgy of the Book of Common Prayer (BCP) has always comforted me. No matter how long I’ve been away, those words remain the same. They are the words I spoke as a child in a world that was so different than the one we’re living in now. Don’t get me wrong – even as a kid, I knew that world wasn’t perfect, but it seemed like Walter Cronkite was telling the truth and that everybody agreed that masked men shooting unarmed folks were the bad guys.

To be fair, I’ve been a bit of a prodigal daughter when it comes to the church – drifting in and out only to return in times of grave distress. That was the case in November of 2016 following Hillary Clinton’s soul crushing loss to Trump. I was devastated and didn’t know what else to do – besides rage. Are you picking up on a pattern here? I will never forget that Sunday – it was a lifeline to the hope of better days. That was 10 years ago and here we are and I’m getting some strong Job vibes as the locusts continue to swarm over Minneapolis.

And yet, once again on Sunday, sitting with a group of diverse folks who share a lot of the same hopes and fears as I do, made me feel better. A guiding mantra of my life has long been “safety in numbers” and maybe that’s what led me to church. And this prayer in the BCP is a more eloquent version of that sentiment:

A Prayer of St. Chrysostom

Almighty God, you have given us grace at this time with one accord to make our common supplication to you; and you have promised through your well-beloved Son that when two or three are gathered together in his Name you will be in the midst of them: Fulfill now, Lord, our desires and petitions as may be best for us; granting us in this world knowledge of your truth, and in the age to come life everlasting. Amen.

I’m certainly not here to proselytize. Religion is not everyone’s lane, and my own faith has wobbled plenty over the years, but one thing that has not waivered is my belief in community – two or three or a thousand. And that is what is saving me these days. The brave citizens of Minneapolis-Saint Paul have been preaching the gospel of community in all manner of ways since the horror of last week. My friend Mitch sent me a beautiful essay by Maribeth Romso, a writer who lives there. Here’s the link to the entire piece, but I’m sharing the last few paragraphs that read like a prayer to me.

Minnesotans know that grief can hollow a place out if it’s not met with care. But we also know the assignment.

Show up.
Feed people.
Listen.
Protect one another.
Name the harm.
Love anyway.

Right now, life in Minneapolis feels like being in the belly of a whale: dark, disorienting and heavy with sorrow. We have been here before, but our broken hearts are not alone.

Two or three… Keep gathering, friends. You know the assignment.

Cry January

When are you going to start writing again? This is the question I’ve heard from no less than half a dozen people over the past couple of weeks. Okay, six people is not exactly a mandate (unless you’re Donald Trump) but be careful what you wish for. I’m writing again.

Writing is how I process the world and the first nine days of January have given all of us a lot to digest – and regurgitate. What the absolute fuck? I feel like we’re rats on the Titanic, only the sinking ship is our country. In nine interminable days, we awoke to learn that the U.S had invaded Venezuela, seen a bear eating former(?) heroin addict change the childhood vaccination schedule – and flip the food pyramid on its head. Make Meat Great Again!

And that all pales in comparison to what we saw – over and over and over again – on Wednesday, when Renee Nicole Good – say her name, say her name, say her name – was murdered in cold blood by an ICE agent in Minneapolis. Unless you live in a Fox News bunker, you know the stone-cold facts by now. I don’t need to recount them for you.

And I don’t need to recap the hideous demonization of Good from the right – who are deadly wrong on just about everything. I can rant and rave about them – and God knows, I do – but that doesn’t really make me feel better. This week, I have not recognized myself in my own rage and that is not a good feeling.

I have been comforted by the passionate but peaceful gatherings of heartbroken and bewildered Minnesotans who once again find themselves at ground zero of an unfathomable act of violence against an American citizen. How ironic that George Floyd’s name was recalled so many times on Wednesday, when so many of us felt like we couldn’t breathe as we saw a young woman be shot in the face at point blank range.

We should all be enraged – but living in rage is not sustainable. Trust me on this. We need to do something tangible – and that something is not the same for everyone. Here’s the thing – we all have a voice and there are many ways to use it. I can be bossy (understatement), but I would not begin to tell you what to do. I just know what I need to do today – so I’m writing. And quite selfishly, it makes me feel better to tell you about it.

Even in this black hole of a week, there have been glimpses of hope – the thousands of peaceful protests all over the country, some members of Congress finally growing a pair, and a faint but growing sense that there are more of us than maybe we thought.

These days are hard, my friends, but they are getting shorter.

Damn, I love a good metaphor.

Bookends

Two writers. One blog.

Author: addisono