Saturday, November 12, 2016

'America Died on Nov. 8, 2016...'

I don't know.

I think when Obama was reelected I came out and said, unapologetically, that he wasn't my president. I still don't apologize for it, because Obama --- and the Democrats --- don't represent me and they work for everything that I oppose.

So I get it. The progs don't like Trump.

I simply do not remember conservatives being this deathly glum. Sure, folks were depressed and disheartened by Obama's elections, but I think we've reached a whole new level this time around, a much deeper, darker level of despair. This time around it's leftist identity that's been crushed. Their vision of the "new America" of diversity and inclusion (and unicorns and rainbows) has been destroyed. It's much more visceral for leftists. I always thought that Obama was a temporary phenomenon --- recall one of my most famous phrases, "the Obama interregnum" --- and that this too shall pass. That's why I joined the tea party and attended conservative conferences. I joined the movement to restore the republic to its rightful place as a center-right country of basic decency.

Maybe leftists will break out of their funk pretty soon and get back to the business of organizing for change along lines of their choosing. It's just politics, and there's more to life than that.

In any case, here's Neal Gabler, at Bill Moyers' page, "Farewell, America":
America died on Nov. 8, 2016, not with a bang or a whimper, but at its own hand via electoral suicide. We the people chose a man who has shredded our values, our morals, our compassion, our tolerance, our decency, our sense of common purpose, our very identity — all the things that, however tenuously, made a nation out of a country.

Whatever place we now live in is not the same place it was on Nov. 7. No matter how the rest of the world looked at us on Nov. 7, they will now look at us differently. We are likely to be a pariah country. And we are lost for it. As I surveyed the ruin of that country this gray Wednesday morning, I found weary consolation in W.H. Auden’s poem, September 1, 1939, which concludes:

“Defenseless under the night
Our world in stupor lies;
Yet, dotted everywhere,
Ironic points of light
Flash out wherever the Just
Exchange their messages:
May I, composed like them
Of Eros and of dust,
Beleaguered by the same
Negation and despair,
Show an affirming flame.”

I hunt for that affirming flame.
Oh brother. Dramatic much?

Still more, if you can take it.