Grant Me the Serenity —

by W.D. Ehrhart

I had an unusual experience this week. Very rarely does our Alleged Editor decline to publish something I’ve submitted to him. But a few days ago, he passed on not one, but two essays I sent. One about Trumpasaurus’s various cabinet choices because he has elected to write on that topic himself in his Fortnightly Rant. The other because it was too long.

He suggested editing the long one, which dealt with how, though the elevation of Dolt .45 to Dolt .47 is perceived by many people as the end of democracy in the United States, in fact our country has never really been all that democratic.

Political power was originally held by a small elite collection of rich white men—our so-called Founding Fathers—and to a large degree to this day, regardless of who has the right to vote, power is still held by a small elite collection of rich white men.

My arguments supporting this assertion cannot easily be condensed into a few paragraphs. I would simply urge you to consider Elon Musk, Jeff Bezos, the Koch Brothers, Rupert Murdoch, Harold Hamm, Phil Ruffin, or Peter Thiel. Take a look at the net worth of Dave McCormick, who just bought a seat in the U.S. Senate to represent Pennsylvania, though he actually lives in Connecticut.

Or you could just read Howard Zinn’s A People’s History of the United States. That’s a good place to start learning the real history of our country.

Anyway, what am I left to write about this time around? I got an e-mail this morning from a friend of mine who wrote, “I have been on an election and news break since America decided to elect a con man, rapist, fascist President.” Just about everyone I know is feeling some variation of this. Others have written, “Dark Times”; “Time to hunker down. Again”; “A future that is fraught with peril”: “Only question left is ‘How bad does it get?’”

But I just went to a memorial service for a neighbor who died recently. A woman I hardly know came over and sat down next to me. She proceeded to tell me how happy she was that Trumpelstiltskin had won. “It’s about time,” she gloated. “Now we’ll have some businessmen in charge.” We were in a church. It took all my willpower not to shout, “You ignorant dunce! What is the matter with you?”

I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. I don’t know any of them—for which I am increasingly grateful—but millions and millions of my fellow citizens seem to agree with this woman. If I believed in an active and benevolent God, I would say, “God help us.” But the election of this man in 2016 cast serious doubt on that quaint notion. And his re-election is proof positive that either God Is Dead or has the most twisted sense of humor in the universe.

After a few weeks, I did begin to get my sense of humor back. Well, sort of. (I’m reminded of my poet-veteran friend D. F. Brown, who wrote, “Our sense of humor / embarrasses me. Something / warped it out of place.”)

How can one fail to enjoy the humor in appointing Matt Gaetz as Attorney General, or RFK Jr. to head up Health & Human Services, or the Wizard of Oz to administer Medicare? Such appointments are certainly a disaster, and will have disastrous consequences, but they are also hilarious.

Meanwhile, how do the rest of us who don’t have worms in our brains or shit between our ears cope with this sorry state of affairs? Well, as I said in an earlier essay, I’m taking solace in the companionship of friends who are as outraged by this outrageous turn of events as I am, and who are just as disgusted to be an American. I’m still not sure if misery loves company, but it is comforting to know that I’m not alone.

Here at home, my wife and I have once again taken to facing each other while holding hands, and reciting aloud our version of the Serenity Prayer. She begins with “Wise Presence,” I begin with “Great Spirit,” and then we say together, “Grant us the serenity to accept the things we cannot change, the courage to change the things we can, the wisdom to know the difference, and the eyes to see what’s good. (We added that last phrase ourselves several years ago when the Orange Cheeto was soiling the White House the first time around.)

We also remind each other—multiple times a day, actually: three, four, five—that at this very moment, we’re fine. And it’s true. As I sit here typing this, I’m fine. I can’t change what has happened. It’s done. It’s a fact. And I cannot know what will happen tomorrow nor do anything about it until it arrives.

I have only one decision to make, only one choice: what is the next right thing I must do? I did the right thing by not punching that lady in the face today in church. I hope I will continue to do the right thing each time I have a choice to make. I can see no other way of successfully navigating the coming days and weeks and years.

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W.D. Ehrhart is a retired Master Teacher of History & English, and author of a Vietnam War memoir trilogy published by McFarland.

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Correction: In the third paragraph of the essay, “What Now?”, by W.D. Ehrhart, published in our paper of November 15th, the author mentions Marion Edelman. He meant to write Miriam Adelson. “Edelman is a hero (heroine?),” he writes. “Adelson is a MAGAMinion.”