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surviving El Trumpo en famille

Sitting in the kitchen, looking at the garden where there is not a hint of snow – so far, a surprisingly mild and lovely January – while the father of my children reads the Globe beside me. He is here from Washington D.C., fleeing the inauguration and visiting his children and grandchildren, and what a blessing it is to have him here. Last night Eli’s dad Thomas stayed with the two boys while Anna, Sam, Edgar and I went out for dinner. Ed and I were married for ten years and have been divorced for twenty-five, and we are closer now as a family, in some ways, than we have ever been. He spent yesterday afternoon teaching Eli to skate – he’s a superb skater – and wrestling and playing with both grandsons, and is exhausted today.

Especially meaningful, this time of togetherness and love and play, while the world disintegrates. Just the words “President Trump” make me sick. We tried to avoid the news yesterday, the TV, the radio – but it was impossible, we heard bits of the loathsome bombastic Mussolini-like speech, we saw pictures – it’s too horrifying to contemplate, but there he is, nastier, more vile than ever. The picture of Michelle Obama’s face says it all. Imagine, him shouting those vicious, incendiary lies about the debasement of America with a row of its past presidents, including an eight-year Republican one, sitting behind him.

Okay, let it go. Edgar and I are soon getting ready to go to the march here, in support of the women’s march in Washington. Anna and Sam are coming with the boys; Anna wants to make a sign for Eli that says, “This is what a feminist looks like.” So on this mild January day, our family will march with thousands of others, hundreds of thousands worldwide, to say, “Here we are. The world is a far, far better place than you can even imagine, and it will survive even you.”

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2 Responses to “surviving El Trumpo en famille”

  1. theresa says:

    This made me cry.

  2. beth says:

    Theresa, it was a beautiful day, as the people of the world gathered by the millions to march together – all ages, colours, creeds. Heartening and uplifting. There is hope. But it will get worse before it gets better.

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About Beth

I began keeping a journal at the age of nine. Nearly fifty years later, I started this online journal, sharing reflections, reviews, updates, and the occasional secret.

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