~a column by Colleen O’Brien
The Press once again is making a big deal – not about Trump and his daily lies – but, this time, about Tim Walz and a miss-speak of his years ago. Leave it, Press-folks. Keep on task. If you must cover Turmp, at least cover him completely, lies and all. Oh! Did I misspell his name? How fitting that the verb in that phrase could be the explanation for our becoming a dictatorship.
Turmp mispronounces Kamala 40 times a day and says, he “couldn’t care less.”
It is the exact phrase for how at least half the country feels about him. Let him languish in private; it’s embarrassing to watch him now.
~~~~
Monday, I went to a meeting calling for old ladies for Kamala. There were 56 of us, and we were there to sign up to make get-out-the-vote phone calls, as well as Vote for Harris/Walz calls, emails, texts, canvassing; we could sign up to help organize rallies, be drivers for canvassers and take the disabled to the polls.
Two women who came slowly into the picnic shelter were bent-over, thin-haired oldsters using walkers. They were both smiling as they took forever shuffling up the sidewalk. It was not easy for them to get all the way from the parking to the shelter, but they came with a look on their faces as if remembering when they could stride. I wish we had clapped.
They joined the welcoming dressed-up women in hats and those in casual shorts, ball caps, tank tops showing their wrinkled and flabby arms; their bruised legs exposed; in flowing, sleeveless dresses not really camouflaging their weight and not caring at all. About half of the women wore Kamala T-shirts that they had ordered or made themselves. There were a couple of homemade “ ,La “ [as in “comma La” {Kama-la}] shirts.
The shelter was alive with bright eyes. I’ve never seen so many smiles on so many cracked old visages – once beautiful faces melted by time to wrinkles and downward mouths, sparse hairbuns and sagging chins. They were all as they had always been – full of themselves and lovely.
The place buzzed like a hive just bumped.
We were alive like young girls – our conversations and our laughter bounced from the rafters, our eagerness was palpable, our desire – no, our demand – for something new and good and happy for a change; a hint – a promise coming – visible and heard in the instantaneous camaraderie among women who’d met the positive spirit of the times and were determined to be a part of it, to help it grow and succeed.
The brief speech from the head of the local Democrat Party reminded us how the only way we would “Not Go Back” was to get out the vote. We were going to have to work hard not to let the days of “carnage” promised by an ex-president, a description of our country as “failing,” of doom, a constant meanness to others, threats to people disagreeing with him, the hopelessness of half the country watching our rights to our own bodies disappear; and always – people of color losing their right to vote.
The woman spoke for several minutes about the importance of the “down-ballot” – everything on the ballot below the box for President, meaning senators, congressmembers, judges – were equally important. This is where the doomsday followers plan to get us, she explained, where the electoral vote could turmp the popular vote.
With eagerness in her voice, the woman talked about how the Democratic ticket has been hailed across the country – thousands at rallies, spontaneous lines of supporters waiting at airports to catch a glimpse of the duo Harris/Walz, front page news (for a change).
She was refreshing because she didn’t talk forever. We broke up, saying good-bye to old new friends, all of us eager for our homework for the next 84 days. Walking back to my car, I had a relieved feeling: it was hope rather than the near-despair I’ve been living with for a decade, recently reading Project 2025, seeing whose photo was everyday in my face on my newsfeeds, hearing the vileness and the not-joking phrases of “bloodshed” and “you’ll never have to vote again.”
Voting has been one of my treasured duties since my very first opportunity at 21 years of age, and in 60 years I’ve never missed the duty. A despot’s eerie threat of no more voting fades away from me now. Fewer and fewer are listening to him wage his sneaky blows for power. He is not going to win this one, either, tween his soul-damaging use of the language and my now workable hope.
