I opened Facebook, and looked at the box. I typed my thoughts and perceptions… then backspaced until the box was empty. I tried again, a different version of the same thoughts. Backspaced. It was as if I was out of politics into the fire.
Is there a point to expressing what I see? Preaching to the choir. Opening Pandora’s box to add my fear to mingle with the rest. Fear. I am pushing it away from every direction.
I have kids (in all forms). I have grandchildren, indirectly, and probably directly in time. Fear. Fear for them, for the future.
They are strong people. They are chosen people. There are no mistakes in omnipotence, omniscience, omnipresence. There is only the misperception of my human mind.
But what about history? What about looping? What about the fate of a nation?
All around me, I quietly watch as the actions of dictatorship rise. I attended history classes. I even enjoyed many of the stories. Ima Weed was an Herbalist in Oregon Territory. I’m a Weed. I’ve always wondered if the term “weed” arrived in our vocabulary during her lifetime.
Some stories are not my favorites, because of the ramifications. And some of the stories are not my favorites, because they are fully twisted to suit dominant white supremacy.
How is it that there are eyes in this nation that do not see? Minds that cannot interpret? How is it that the repetitions of the past are playing out boldly, powerfully, and there are so many jumping in on the eventual side of “wrong”, of hate, of greed and power?
Fear.
micheleplumbstowell.org 