So, I've written an open letter to 2020

Dear 2020, 

Boy, howdy, what a doozie. 

See, you have entire worlds rooting for your death. You have human beings who have lost so much during your reign. You have bitmojis showing that you’ve been a dumpster fire of a year. You have memes telling you to “Fuck off.” You have so many people who are rooting--not just for your reign to be over but--for you to be destroyed, written off as the worst year ever. 

I’m not here to do that. I mean, do I appreciate how you have packed so many obstacles into such a short period of time? No, of course not. I’m a lazy person, and I don’t like overcoming one just to find another staring at my face. 

But, really, it’s not your fault. I can’t possibly believe that you came in all bright and shiny on January 1st, 2020 being like, “Y’all better buckle up.” Maybe you’re just as heartbroken as everyone else. I can’t believe that your successor, 2021, has been rubbing her hands waiting for you to fail, so she can swoop in like a superhero. 

See, Time is a team. 2021’s success depends on you, as you depended on 2019. Decades depend upon decades. And, we *can* fight about what year actually is the end of the decade (2019 or 2020), but that thought wearies me. Your reign didn’t suck because you wanted a Machiavellian twist. Your reign was hard and difficult because you inherited a mess.

This letter will be America-centric, because it is the reality in which I am living. 2020, you came in so joyfully, so full of life and love to give. Then, COVID-19 became a real big problem real fast. But, you see, 2020, that wasn’t your fault. (Technically, it was 2019’s fault...but, again, placing blame is ridiculous.) We weren’t ready for it. America dug its heels in Anti-Science malarkey.  America’s rugged individualism, for which we are so renowned, was truly the downfall here--each person thinking for themselves, not the community. That’s not your fault, 2020...again, if we’re gonna place blame, maybe the fault lies in 1492, when Columbus “discovered” the New World and followed his selfish interests and destroyed the beautiful cultures that already lived there. Or maybe the fault is in 1776, when the colonies didn’t like being told what to do. Or, maybe in 1773, when we threw a hissy fit over some tea and taxes. 

America doesn’t always recognize the difference between patriotism and nationalism. 

Then, 2020, while you were dealing with COVID, a police officer, Derek Chauvin, knelt on the neck of George Floyd, and a *different* a police officer shot Breonna Taylor in her own home, and Gregory and Travis McMichael shot and killed a man named Ahmaud Arbury, all of which reignited protests around the world. Again, 2020, it isn’t your fault. Maybe it’s 1619’s fault, when White people kidnapped millions of people from a continent far away to work their lands because they thought they were too good for that kind of dirty work. Or, maybe it is the entire decade of the 1910’s, when the Jim Crow Era really ramped up. Or maybe, it is 1955’s fault when three white men killed a *child.* Emmett’s death and Mamie Till Mobley’s bravery set the mid-century Civil Rights Movement in motion. And, guess what, 2020? We’re still fighting that same damn fight. So, you see, it isn’t your fault. 

Then, in November...and December...and probably January...Joe Biden kept winning the presidential election. But, unfortunately, that’s not your success. Maybe it belongs to 2016, for electing a man fully inept at carrying the responsibility for anything at all, let alone an entire country. Or, maybe it is in 2018, when a giant swath of people saw what wasn’t working and ran for office to change it. And, maybe, yes, maybe it’s yours, too. But, *electing* Biden, much like the second after 12:00 a.m. when your reign ends and 2021’s begins, won’t change anything.

We, as a country, have to work to make this a place worth living in. We need to address the death of our planet and the cataclysmic natural disasters worsened by climate change. We need to work to become an Anti-Racist person, neighborhood, city, state, country, world. We need to work to believe in fucking science. We need to take our heads out of the sand and realize that all it took was two months of income instability to throw 7.8 million Americans into poverty while Jeff Bezos’ already gargantuan income increased by 78 billion dollars. 2020, that is not your fault. It is the fault of greed, corporatism, racism, and the many, many years before you that allowed it to happen. 

Actually, 2020, you have maybe been the best year of all. You have given us a year with the fewest school shootings. You have shone a light on how delicate our economy is. You have allowed us to see the true monsters within. You have shown us that we cannot continue to live in a sustainable way. You have punched holes in America’s belief that we are the best. Finally, 2020, you have shown us who true patriots are--people who love America so much that we see how hurt she is. People who love America so much that we work to make her better. People who love America because she is our home.

So, it’s December 31st. Go ahead, take your bow. Pass on your burden and relax. You’ve had quite a year.  

So, why is it important to "go high?"

In a speech on July 25th, 2016, Michelle Obama spoke about how their family had (and has) responded to criticisms of Barack. She said, “When they go low, we go high.”

In a Time Magazine article, she talks about how “going high” doesn’t mean that you don’t feel the pain or frustration. It means that you work through it to try to better understand someone’s perspective. She, notably, writes, “When I say, ‘go high,’ I’m not trying to win the argument.”  

That’s the part that gets me. I really dislike losing arguments. I really dislike the person I become when I argue because...I rarely lose arguments. However, in winning arguments, I sometimes lose respect for who I want to be as a human being because of the tactics I've used.  More often, I just walk away. 

Here is where I might lose some people, but please hear me out. It drove me bat shit crazy to see the “Not My President” bumper stickers when Obama was president. Like, “Ya dingledoos. It doesn’t matter if you agree with him or not, he is your president.” So….now the shoe is on the other foot. I will say it is a little different because Obama won both the electoral vote and the popular vote, while the current president only won one of the two. However, we can rip into the electoral college in a different post. 

While I disagree with the vast majority of what our Dingledoo in Chief says, does, reflects, represents, etc, he is still my president. I don’t agree that children are still in cages. Yeah, remember that? I don’t agree that there are “very fine people on both sides.” I don’t agree that he owns stock in and keeps pushing hydroxychloroquine as a remedy for Covid-19. I don’t agree that he has off-handedly created a medical environment where the people who need it for actual autoimmune diseases and malaria are having a difficult time getting their prescriptions filled. I don’t agree with his disbelief in science and reality. I don’t agree with his inability to be honest. 

However, he is still my president. He was elected by a minority of people with an electoral college majority. I do not, I repeat, DO NOT want him to be my president for another four years. 

I have found it so, incredibly difficult to “go high” when he is abusing his power, green-lighting disgusting human tragedy, and actively killing our planet. He evaded removal from office because the senate majority leader refused to have a real trial in the senate. He has doubled down on his border wall and has turned suspicion toward Asian Americans. It is so much easier for him to blame those who don’t look like him for his feckless leadership and inability to control...anything. He has revoked the Paris Climate Agreement. Our planet is dying, dude. There will be nothing left for you to rule if we don’t take care of it. 

The President has muddied the waters of trust so fully that any media that goes against what he says is “fake news.” Distrust in the media and pushing propaganda is a huge, giant red flag. His followers very rarely listen to anything that contradicts him. They often spout hate and ignorance and don’t support their opinions with facts based in real life. His followers listened to his pussy-grabbing tape and heard about the multiple sexual misconduct accusations, and said, “Yep, I am all in.” 

It is so difficult to “go high” because we are not even playing the same game right now. Progressives work toward bettering their people and their base. They have a moral obligation to “do the right thing.” Because a victory fought in their trenches of dishonesty, hate, and ignorance is no victory worth winning. The President’s followers are so entrenched in his rhetoric that trying to have conversations with them hasn't gone anywhere. Hasn’t “moved the ball forward.” So, what do we do?

It sucks. We are getting literally and metaphorically slaughtered. If he wins the 2020 election, our nation may be irreparably damaged. If he doesn’t win, our nation may still be irreparably damaged. He watered a chasm between the “Right Side of History” and the “Wrong Side of History.” It is now a canyon. We have to build bridges to allow people to cross.

We have to talk to single issue Republican voters. We have to talk to non-voters. We have to continue talking to Trump voters. We have to get people to give a damn. We have to rally around the common goal of progress. We have to vote like our rights depend on it. However, we  must respectfully engage in conversation with people with whom we disagree. We cannot think we are better than the people with whom we are speaking. We have to go high.

We have no idea what our future holds. We have no idea how our world will be shaped by the actions (and inaction) of our government. We have no idea what will be written in the history books. 

What we do know is how we acted. Were we fearless in standing up for what we believe? Did we do all we can for our homeless brothers and sisters? Have we protected our Black and Brown  brothers and sisters from people who deem themselves judge, jury, and executioner? Have we surrounded our Asian brothers and sisters who are not at all new to discrimination in this country?  Were we compassionate toward our Hispanic and Latinx brothers and sisters who are fleeing war torn countries? Were we kind to our neighbors?

Have we gone high when it is so, so much easier to go low?  

So, I know how to win battles but not wars

On Thursday, November 5^th, 2015, I wrote a blog post called, “So, it has been a year.” This detailed some of the things that lead to my anxiety and some of the things that triggered it. Each year that October 30^th passed, I put a little notch in my brain. Each year marked my ability to control my anxiety.

Battle: Being wholly honest with myself and the people I loved.

Battle: My last year of Korea.

Battle: The most difficult year of my academic life.

Battle: Three and a half years.

Every day a battle—a battle I was determined to win. It felt like I was winning. I was winning. The end of the war with anxiety sat on the horizon. Three and a half years.

However, this January, my sleep progressively worsened. I bit off more than I could chew. I had to give a presentation to my peers—people my age. I spend my life talking to children. Talking to adults is very, very different. I had ten thousand things racing through my mind to prepare.

Alysha and I got back from the store (buying snacks for my meeting the next morning). Alysha went inside while I moved my car from the street to the garage. I cut the angle too tight. My chest tightened. I screamed just to prove that I exist.

How will Alysha love me when I can’t even park a fucking car? How can I take care of a family? How can I be good enough? Why should I deserve happiness? I am not prepared to be a teacher. I am not qualified to teach the brilliant minds inside of my young people. How can I coach this passionate, vibrant team of Forensics kids when I hate feeling “looked at?”

I pulled a Y turn and parked the car in the garage. I stumbled inside and brushed by Alysha as she took out Gaia.

“Babe. Are you—?”

“I just need a minute.”

She walked out the door, respecting my wish.

My ribs closed in and my heart leapt out of the way. I breathed through the pain and remembered what Maizey Cakes used to tell me, her arms tightly binding me, willing me to feel safe. And, I felt calmer. I sent a wish of thanks through the winds. I hope she felt it.

Alysha returned with a quizzical look, “Do you wanna talk about it?”

“So, that is what my panic attacks look like. Let me fold laundry while I tell you about it.”

She had known that I used to have anxiety attacks, but I never really divulged more than that. I guess, I was still ashamed and stupidly thought I had won the war.

I began folding the clothes. I still hadn’t fully calmed down, but I needed to do something to distract my mind. I picked up a towel. Now, Alysha and I fold towels differently. To keep things ordered in our linen closet, I have adopted her way. I looked at the towel and held it portrait, then landscape. Folded it in thirds and unfolded it. For the second time in as many minutes, I lost control of my body and mind. Air neither entered nor escaped my lungs. My legs forgot how to work. My arms caught my body before the floor did. I gulped tears and coughed out pride.  I was left with nothing but thoughts of iniquity and dread that I somehow deserved this. I panted, waiting for the world to end, for it to stop hurting, for something to happen, for peace.

Alysha stood up and walked to me. She wrapped her arms tightly around me. She held me. She didn’t tell me to relax. She didn’t tell me that it wasn’t real. She didn’t say anything. She held me and breathed deeply, helping my lungs remember how to inflate.

“It’s not about the towels,” I said.

“I know,” she said. “I’m here.”

I’m here. I’m here. I’m here.

She’s there, arms wrapped tightly ‘round me—

She is a kite string, and I am a kite

who sometimes forgets how to fly.

Stay strong, soldiers. The war is long. But each battle we fight, remember that it’s temporary. If we can live through this one, we’ll be here to fight another day. And every day after. We are an army. I have your back. You have mine. I don’t care if we’ve not spoken in days, months, or years. I will be there to fight for you when you forget how. Take peace, my friend. Take peace.

For another person’s take on anxiety attacks, please listen to Andrea Gibson’s “Ode to the Public Panic Attack.” This poem gave me the courage to share this post that has been on my heart for three months.