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.**

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.

Mistaken identity

Tilda Swinton has long been one of my favorite actors and style icons. She’s tall, slender, and strikingly beautiful. I am none of those things and perhaps that is why she so utterly mesmerizes me. Sometimes she can look almost otherworldly. And she always has fabulous hair. So, earlier this year, I decided to try and copy her hairstyle. Hey, be kind, it has been a shitty year so far, and I needed a diversion from the end of democracy.

In January, I showed my hairdresser, Kelly, a picture of Swinton and shared my hair goals with her. I adore Kelly and I have been seeing her for longer than I can remember. I think of her as a dear friend who happens to also cut my hair. Kelly looked at the photo on my phone and said cheerfully, “I think your hair would look great like that.” Everyone needs a Kelly in their life.

She told me it would be a process and would entail growing out the top of my hair longer than I’ve been accustomed to. So, Kelly went to work, and I was surprisingly pleased with the results. In fact, I was feeling pretty cool about my new hair. My dear wife really liked it, but only a couple of friends noticed. Still, I had a little Tilda swagger that gave me a much-needed lift.

**Twinning with Tilda – use your imagination – and maybe photoshop some lipstick on me**

That’s how it started. Now, I’ll tell you how it’s going. I’ve been called “sir” twice in the past month. This is really nothing new for me. That’s happened throughout most of my adult life – since I cut my long hair off in the mid 80’s. I’m going to be honest – it stings. And I just don’t get it. Yes, I’m a gold star lesbian, but I’ve never purchased men’s clothing – I mean, I don’t even own a flannel shirt. And I always carry a purse – not a Velcro wallet stuffed in my back pocket. I may not present particularly feminine by classic definition, but I move through the world that way. That is who I am, so it is a very unpleasant experience to be identified otherwise.

It happened recently when I was leaving a shoe store. A teenaged boy was walking out ahead of me and held the door for an older man coming in who looked at me and said loudly, “After you, sir.” I could feel the familiar rush of embarrassment and the hot tears that fill my eyes but never quite fall as I made a quick dash to my car. I was not in a great mood that day anyway and my reserves were low, and I just sat in my car and cried. Okay, I might have also visualized saying “fuck off” to the guy who called me sir.

**Stuart Smalley knows that it’s a really good feeling when the inside matches what you see in the mirror.**

On the drive home I started thinking about my trans friends – many of the female ones who are far more feminine than me. And I wondered how horrible it must be to be deliberately and forcefully misgendered by the government of your own country. The trans community was the low hanging fruit for Trump and the MAGAs during last year’s election. About 1% of Americans identify as transgender – approximately 2.3 million people – and Republicans spent $215 million on anti-trans ads. Manufacturing fear is expensive, but effective.

Imagine having to misgender yourself on a passport application for fear of being denied approval. And that’s just one of the hideous ramifications of Trump’s assault on trans Americans. People will lie and people will die. But at least Nancy Mace won’t have to worry about getting raped when she pees in a Capitol restroom.

Perspective is a good thing, so I’ve given myself a reset on how to react when I’m called sir, because it will most certainly happen again. I’m going to try and not go to a dark place. I know who I am and most days, I like that person. I’m the kind of person who smiles and holds the door for strangers. And besides, I have fabulous hair.

**I see my trans friends and I love them.**
**Original art by Cat Rocketship Art. instagram.com/@cat_rocketship**

Calling for backup

**Escape from the oligarchy – paddle faster!**

I knew Monday was going to be a historically shitty day. I mean, come on, how often is a convicted felon inaugurated as president of the United States? Note: That will be a future Jeopardy question years from now. Anyway, I knew I had to be proactive in my approach to surviving the coronation of Donald Trump, so I did what any reasonable radical left lunatic would do – I got the hell out of town. Yep, strategery as W would say.

My dear wife and I and two of our besties, Lori and Sue, loaded up the SUV and headed for Augusta, GA. Hold on, I know you’re judging our destination. We wanted somewhere that wasn’t that far of a drive (3:45) and a location that was further south so weather would less likely be an issue. We booked a pretty Airbnb apartment in a renovated house built in 1860 and conveniently located near downtown.

**Just some Dixie chicks still not ready to make nice. (Sue, me, Joy, and Lori)**

I’m sure Augusta feels different in April when The Masters golf tournament is in town and the azaleas are in bloom and well, there are people everywhere. In the bleak midwinter, Augusta made Winston Salem look like Manhattan. Not a lot was going on over MLK weekend and that was just fine for us. We strolled the Riverwalk along the Savannah River and had two of the best dinners out I’ve had in a long time. And we went to the Morris Museum of Art and heard live music and toured their current collection. And the best part? I didn’t think of Donald Trump once. Mission accomplished.

**Sometimes you just need a walk along a river.**

Actually, that’s not entirely true. My friend Ed lives in Crozet, VA and grew up in Augusta. His wife Chris saw a Facebook post I had made and knew that I was in Ed’s old stomping ground. She texted me the address of Ed’s childhood home and on Saturday afternoon we did a little drive by. I thought it would be cute to take a funny selfie in front of Ed’s house and send it to him. Augusta suffered a lot of damage during Helene and I was afraid the old home place might look really bad. Turns out, it was worse than I could have imagined.

**Sorry, Ed – you really can’t go home again.**

Sunday night, we made pizza and watched football. [Insert lesbian jokes.] And I saw that I had an in-box message from my old pal Kerrie in Greensboro. We aren’t close friends, but I’m always delighted when I run into him. He has a wicked smart political mind and we always seem to get each other. He said that he would be thinking about me on Monday and gave me a humorous pep talk about all the work we have in front of us. He told me that it was going to be a rough few years, but “one day I will wake up to the good news that he is dead, and I’m not and on that day, there will be much rejoicing.” That’s Kerrie and I was so touched that he reached out.

I woke up Monday morning with an undeniable feeling of dread, but before I could go down the rabbit hole of despair, I got a text from my good friend Sue in St. Paul. Sue is 82 and moved to a retirement home in MN a few years ago to be near family. She had a stroke a handful of years ago – not that you’d ever know it – and we have had a daily wellness check-in since then. She texts me when she gets up – which is almost the same time as me, even with the hour time difference. There have been plenty of days, especially during this election year, that I’m pretty sure she was checking in on me. Either way, it’s a lovely way to start one’s day.

**Sue always has my back and she always has a plan. And that plan has a to do list.**

Sue told me that she had invited some of her like-minded friends to join her at 10:30 AM to walk 2,029 steps in their high-rise building. Why that number? That represents the year that Trump will (maybe) no longer be president. Folks on walkers and wheelchairs were included and everyone was invited to “walk” as little or much as they wished. They planned to walk the four floors, climbing the stairs or taking the elevator as they got their steps in.

Sue’s Senior March in her retirement home sounds like a great plot for a Netflix movie and my dread disappeared for a few hours. I hope when I’m Sue’s age, I can be a wise owl, too.

I looked at social media a bit on the drive home – no, I wasn’t driving – and saw Melania’s hat and Hillary laughing about the Gulf of America. I couldn’t look at any photos of Kamala because I knew I would cry – well, cry some more. There have been a lot of tears this month.

**Honestly, good on her – I wouldn’t want to have to kiss him either.**

Our drive home was filled with laughter, 70s music, and M&Ms – girls gotta do what they gotta do. And I saw that I had an in-box condolence message from Walter, my emotional support Canadian that I met on our trip to Spain and Portugal in 2019. Sometimes I think Walter knows more about US politics than I do and I always appreciate his insights and sense of humor – like when he refers to Canada as “not the 51^st state.”

Lori and Sue dropped us off in front of our condo and I noticed that my neighbor had finally taken down her Trump yard sign. For a millisecond, I was happy. And then I saw that she had put up a huge Trump flag on the side of her condo – featuring a picture of Trump with some idiotic saying like “We took back our country.” But wait, that’s not all. She also put up one of those garden flags that says God Guns & Trump. Bloody hell! I could feel my face turning red and I was consumed by anger. I can try to not look at Trump for four years, but I can’t not look out my front door.

My wife pulled me inside and I’m fairly certain she was wondering how she could live with me for the next four years. I’m sure she’s open to suggestions. Fostering might be on the table.

That evening we drank wine and avoided the television like it was radioactive. I thought I would stay up and watch the College Football National Championship game, but I just didn’t have the heart or energy for it. So, I dragged myself to bed and was scrolling through my phone and saw that I had an Instagram message from the daughter of one of my best friends from 4^th grade. She has two young daughters and lives in VA. She sent a photo of one of her girls watching Kamala be sworn in as vice president four years ago. Her message had no words – just the broken heart emoji.

**I have to believe that she’ll see a woman sworn in as president one day.**

Even though her message gutted me, it also gave me some embers of hope and comfort. This is how we will get through these next four years – by checking in with each other and lifting each other up when we’re down. Yes, there will be a shit ton of hard work, too, but I hear from a reliable source that hard work is good work.

And when we fight, well, we’re bound to win again one of these days.

Keep fighting, friends. I love us.

**Stay focused on what’s most important to you these next four years. (Carbs highly recommended.)**

Swing for the fences

“The art of being wise is knowing what to overlook.” ~ Henry James

The election has been over for a month and three days (yes, I’m counting) and my neighbor still has her Trump sign up. I live in a condo development, so my neighbor’s tiny yard is just a few steps from my front door. Every morning, I wake up and look out the window – and there it is – the five-letter word that compels me to spew four letter ones.

It’s not just the sign – but that would be enough to unhinge me these days. My neighbor came to the U.S. from Cuba to escape a dictatorship and now she supports another dictator. Why? I would love to ask her, but she speaks little English, and I speak no Spanish.

Honestly, I’m more sad than mad about it. I have always liked her – she lives with her elderly mother and another woman close to her age. They keep their condo looking neat and pristine and they wash their cars more often than I floss. They are pleasant neighbors and now I think they are trolling me. For the record, I couldn’t take my Harris sign down until last week. It just made it all feel so final.

**Kamala served meals for Central Kitchen on Thanksgiving Day. I am grateful for the joy and hope she offered us.**

I’ve been hibernating since the election – mostly for my own protection. I have been short tempered and mad at the world, well, specifically the 49.9% of voters who elected Trump. I’ve been heartbroken and feeling hopeless at times. I’m keeping my cable news fast and finding solace in the quiet. Until I see that damn sign.

My dear wife tells me to ignore it, and I’ve tried to do that to no avail. So instead, I fantasize about pulling the sign out and throwing it in the dumpster – a perfect metaphor. But I would never take down someone’s political sign, especially if that someone had a Ring Doorbell camera.

I assume the sign will come down eventually, at least I hope so because I am fairly sure I can’t convince my wife to move. And even in my depressed state, I know it’s not really about the sign – but how the sign makes me feel differently about my neighbor. And I don’t even know my neighbor’s name. It’s not like those of you who now feel differently about folks you have known and loved for a long time. My sister is struggling deeply with two such relationships. I wish I could comfort her, but I got nothing – save for sadness and bewilderment, oh, and righteous anger on my good days.

I’m taking time to grieve what might have been and reflecting on what I want my next four years to look like. I know for certain that I want them to be spent working for something rather than against someone and I know there are almost seventy-five million folks out there like me. And there’s probably a couple of you in that group that know a guy who knows about taking out yard signs.

Just kidding.

I’m going to leave you with a sweet epilogue to my recent post about my friend Will.

Here’s an excerpt from that post:

The best advice I’ve gotten as I’ve been wallowing in despair came from my young friend Will, the son of one of my best friends from fourth grade. Will is in his late 30’s and works as an accountant. He is differently abled and like all of us who represent a minority, is worried about what the Trump administration will mean for his community. We love to talk sports – especially since my wife has below zero interest in them. He told me the story of how Jackie Robinson was angry and worn down by the racism he was experiencing as the first African American to play in Major League Baseball. Robinson’s wife simply told him, “Keep showing up.”

And that’s what Will said to me at the end of our long conversation late last week when I was feeling so hopeless – “Keep showing up, Addison.”

So, I came home last night from dinner with friends and had a package in the mail from Will. Wait for it…

Yep. Will sent me my very own Jackie Robinson action figure. Are you kidding me? And they say there’s no crying in baseball.

Batter up, friends. We’ve got work to do.

Bookends

Two writers. One blog.

Trump