The Deplorables
My son has created another beautiful, heartwarming, note for me. I want to post it on facebook now! I breath into my body and try to feel for sensation that might give me some answers as to why I have this strong urge. What’s going to be fulfilled by doing it? One more piece of evidence that I have a wonderful life? “There you go fuckers, eat it.”
All my life you’ve marked me as a loser, as crazy, as not worthy to be part of your group. Who are you people really?! And why and how do you believe that there is something quite special about being part of your herd? It’s a delusional idiocy that exists nowhere outside of Warren, Ohio.
Whenever I visit there I can feel the sucking rhythm of forces I can’t control. Like a baby rhythmically sucking it’s milk. It sucks me into their vortex of perceived importance. My first steps into Warren, Ohio feel like a mind/body transformation. This weird psychological and physical molding begins. All the years of pursuing self awareness, authenticity, and bravery go down the drain. All of a sudden I start questioning myself, doubting my choices, feeling shame, my body becomes contracted and hunched.
The insecure little girl that wanted so badly to be embraced by this group of deplorables emerges. I love the word “deplorables” by the way. Hillary hit it right. When I heard that word, I thought of my family. Yes, that words’ essence, the way it lands in my body is the perfect match for the behavior I have been witness to. Deplorables who will look you in the face, smile, punch you in the gut (figuratively and literally), laugh at you, then call you “unacceptable, insane” in fact, for being upset with them.
As with any abusers, they do it because they know they can. They know they can in Warren, Ohio that is. Enabled by one another into believing they are quite special. It is within that swirling group consciousness that their power lies. Separate them, drop them into Cleveland to find their way, and they are lost toddlers crying for their mothers for fear of what could happen to them without their troops. I won’t call out names in this piece, but I do admit, it is incredibly tempting.
“Eat it fuckers!” I can feel my throat wanting to voice those words. Yes, that is why I want to post my son’s lovely note to me on facebook. Because I live a life that the majority of them would never have the courage to live. I live as myself. I don’t put on a facade so that I can be part of this group of pathetics. I have a bright, blue eyed boy who’s existence is proof of that. And yet I have to ask myself “why the fuck do you need to do that?” It’s because their story of me is false and faulty. I want so badly to take a virtual eraser to it and reprogram the picture of me imprinted on their minds.
My son’s note reads: “Love you Mom! You and me have been by many places.” He wrote it with a few misspellings. Because well...he’s 7. If I were to post that note with the beautiful picture he drew underneath the words, they wouldn’t see that I am not a loser, or crazy, or weak. They would see the misspellings and compare how little so and so, (one of my cousin’s kids) writes and he’s all of 5 years old! They wouldn’t have any inkling about who I am and my life. They wouldn’t see the beautiful little boy who took the time to craft this piece of work for me.
What they would see is their own reflection: a loser, who is crazy, weak, and unacceptable.