I’d just voted for Hillary Clinton, and after watching her swat away the hulking schlub who stalked her on the debate stage three different times, was confident enough she’d win.
The final dreaded poll in the battleground state of Wisconsin had her outside the margin of error at a comfortable +6, or right about how Barack Obama had fared twice up here.
In only hours, the racist loudmouth was FINALLY going to be sent packing. Oh sure, he would never go away for good, but it was going to be a real win-win for everybody. Trump would raise his profile, cash in, and begin crawling out of his massive debt, and we’d have another president who understood the nuances of governing, and treated little things like liberty and justice for all with the urgency they demanded.
By 10 o’clock that evening, America was fully engulfed in a five-alarm fire. He could actually win …
By midnight, and around the time Wisconsin was officially called for the vulgar pig, our nation had fallen, and the President of the United States had devolved from a prince into a pumpkin.
That’s when I went into a state of shock, turned off the TV, poured another drink, and repeated these six words over and over: “Nothing will ever be the same.”
By 3 a.m., and three drinks later, I was mumbling six more words to myself: “Nobody will be safe ever again.”
I picked up my phone and called my daughter in the UK, who was just waking up to the news. I said two more words: “I’m sorry.”
You will have your own story to tell about the night the blast hit, and how you processed it ...
Nine years later, it has been far worse than I thought it would be. After valiantly fighting back from the shock of that ice-cold night, and restoring some order and safeguards to our democracy, a majority of Americans doubled down this past November, and decided to give their vote to the loathsome man, who by now had added “America-attacker” and “convicted felon” to a résumé that began and ended with “White Nationalist.”
Nothing in my life has gone the way I thought it would on the afternoon of Nov. 8, 2016. That damn election changed everything. If we were capable of doing THAT, we were capable of doing anything.
As a journalist who mostly viewed politics with disdain, I turned on a dime and became very damn political. As a man who did most of his work as an observer from the outside, I jumped inside the fray. I began writing earnestly, ended up with a book, became a general nuisance, knocked on doors, burned old friendships, kindled new ones, and ended up protesting on the Square here in Madison so many times I was given a reserved parking spot for my skinny a--.
I became an accidental activist. My journalism career morphed from news to commentary, because it was time to say what needed saying.
Writing is my salvation, which is the only thing that isn’t new in my life. My marriage with the written word started more than 50 years ago, and has been the most dependable thing in what really has been a hard and mostly wonderful life.
Lately, I’ve hung a shingle on Substack alongside hundreds of other earnest typists, who put heart to paper. Some of my work appears pretty regularly in other places on the Web, but most dependably at Raw Story, which is staffed by a feisty group of underdog journalists who keep their eye on the ball, our nation’s declining condition, and aren’t afraid to punch down hard on fascism.
Far too many in the working press I once revered failed miserably to do the only thing they had to do: their damn jobs, by reporting on and warning people about the most dangerous time in America since the Civil War.
My anger and heartache over their negligence and incompetence will never subside.
They didn't meet the moment. Worse, some cashed in on it.
Around here, paid subscribers come and go, but lucky for me, I’m not doing this to get rich. Truth is, there’s no money in journalism. Never has been. And a tip: Never trust a journalist who says they are in it for the money, because they will sell you down the nearest river, and leave you soaking wet.
When people go, I politely ask for feedback, because one thing’s for sure: I can always do better. Here is what they are overwhelmingly telling me these days:
“I’m tired.”
And you just sighed with sympathetic understanding …
It’s the price we pay for having the decency and love of country to pay attention.
We are being asked to process a helluva lot, good people. Walk away from it all for even a few hours, and you come back to find our museums under attack, troops in OUR streets, and public servants working to protect things like our benefits, our personal information, and our air and water on the firing line.
As I type this, Trump is accommodating the murdering Vladimir Putin by surrendering to him on American soil.
This is what a nation under siege looks like.
There’s not been a lot of blood — not yet — but sure as I’m typing this, that’s coming, too. Trump and his Republican Orcs are bringing plenty of hurt, and they aim to end America as we both know, and knew, it.
They do this by making us all sick and tired ... They do this because they hate America.
To those of you who need a break, go. Get the rest you need. You deserve it. I think I speak for everybody when I say, “Thank you for your support and all your efforts. We’ll be here waiting if you decide to return. We will no doubt be in need of reinforcements, and a sturdy shoulder to lean on.”
To those who stay, thank you.
It’s the only way through this.
We can stand and fight, or retreat. We can dare to care, or just say the hell with it. We can die on this hill, or we can conquer it.
We’re all tired.
Me? I’ll sleep when I’m dead.
D. Earl Stephens is the author of “Toxic Tales: A Caustic Collection of Donald J. Trump’s Very Important Letters” and finished up a 30-year career in journalism as the Managing Editor of Stars and Stripes. You can find all his work here.