I have no words of comfort.
It’s as heartbreaking in the U.K. today as it was on 11/9/16.
It’s no party here in the U.S., as we watch half of our elected officials deny the existence of factual evidence to protect an aspiring dictator; someone so petty and petulant and insecure and desperate, he corrodes the very concept of integrity.
45 is never leaving office voluntarily.
I have no words of comfort because I refuse to be comfortable with this. Comfort doesn’t try to overturn the status quo. Comfortable people don’t take to the streets.
Comfort doesn’t unseat fascism.
Times are dark, and so am I. Tonight I have love and rage and fire, and see no contradiction in this. Love fuels my indignation, so this night I offer no soothing words. I seek to irritate, enrage, inflame. Tonight the most compassionate thing I can say is:
No one is coming to save you.
Your ancestors and mine did not make sacrifices and set examples for us to throw up our hands and capitulate. Cry your tears, gnash your teeth then gird your loins. May you seethe. May your malaise simmer and boil. May your fury cast your resolve. May you know no consolation. May you know no peace until you know justice.
Comfortable people don’t change the world.