Deep cleaning required by Sue Robin

I am in tears brushing my teeth, thinking, “I am 78 years old and having to march to help save democracy.” The tears arrive often and at odd times. I could be sitting in a restaurant or strolling through the supermarket, and my heart cracks and the tears are running down my face.

On the 17^th of July, when I went to the corner where protests have been ongoing for the last several months, there was no one there. I was ready to honor John Lewis and make good trouble. I had made a sign, and Russ had fixed his flag in the upside-down position with some tape. The empty corner filled me with disappointment and sadness. I was hoping for even more than the two thousand who protested on “No Kings Day,” and yet no one was there. Is the movement sputtering already? I felt utterly helpless and at a loss. This all feels like life and death to me, and no one is there.

Later in the day, having a manicure, I overheard the conversation of two women in their 50s or 60s. They were talking about all the elegant and expensive places they have been and are going—Vail, Aspen, Portugal, Spain—and the incredibly costly assisted living places where they have placed loved ones.

I wondered how they could carry on without a mention of the crumbling world around them. While my life continues much as it has always been, there is a pall hanging over my heart. It impacts every conversation and my very sense of being.

Conversations often begin as they always have. “How are you?” In years gone by, I might have answered, “Fine, thanks, and you?” leaving it there to keep things light, but today’s world demands both more intimacy and more courage to push through to what is real, even with people I do not know.

At a regular dermatology appointment, the nurse asked how I was doing. I replied, “I am well, my husband and family are well, but the world is a bit of a shit show.” She greeted my honesty with an off-kilter smile and told me she feels the same way.

There is a house down the street that a couple has lived in for more than thirty years. They have lived a hard life there. Alcoholism, mental health issues, cancer, separation, and now both are in assisted care. The house is being put on the market, but before that can be done, it must be purged of all they have neglected and amassed in the last three decades. Their driveway has been filled with rubbish again and again before the workers haul the trash to the dump. It is one house, not a particularly big one, and yet the enormity of what was held in it is mind-boggling.

Saturday, we protested again in Studio City. A small, but sincere group. I was able to wave my sign. Lots of other signs and megaphones. Many seniors, some with canes and walkers, and their fears. People honked. Though we were a group of only about fifty, there seemed to be more honking than when we were two thousand. Some Trumpers drove by and gave us the bird. One yelled out their window, “But he saved you!” Too bad there wasn’t time for a real conversation.

My heart says that we must talk about the ugliness that is growing and pervading our world. I think our country, like our neighbors’ home, has been filled with rubbish and amassed much detritus that must also be taken to the dump before we can begin the deep cleaning that will be required if democracy is to survive.

We need to acknowledge the pain we are feeling, the damage being inflicted, the horrendous shit show that we are living through, so that we might begin to wash our country clean.