I woke up this morning to news that Saint Donald has pissed off the Australian Prime Minister and the Mexican President. Two of our (maybe former?) allies have now been needlessly and stupidly antagonized. Meanwhile, Saint Donald is also playing right into the hands of Islamic extremists who have always insisted that the U.S. has been at war with Islam, and now, thanks to some stupidly shortsighted executive order, they have their proof.
And all I can think about in the midst of all this is my son. My beautiful boy, who I have loved harder than any other human on the planet in my short lifetime. And his friends, those vibrant, brilliant, joyful children that he is growing up with.
When I read this shit, I don’t worry about myself – I worry about my son. I don’t want to leave him a world that’s a bombed-out shell full of poisoned water and food and air you can’t breathe and a life of indentured servitude.
I want my son to live in a world that is clean, and healthy, and vibrant, and peaceful. I want my son to have the freedom to unapologetically be who he truly is. I want the world to have a place for my son, who is sensitive and a deep thinker, and curious and soulful. I want to create a world where my son doesn’t have to live in fear.
So when I see these things, and I read words like “World War III”, I react. I want to take him into hiding, to protect him from these things, and at the same time, I get angry and fired up and I want to fight like hell to prevent anyone from hurting my boy.
I refuse to sit idly by while stupid, egomaniac, entitled, rich, old white pussygrabbers in expensive suits send our children off to fight in a war over an imaginary conflict. I refuse. And I refuse to entertain anybody who believes otherwise. There are some things that are worth taking a stand for, and if I have to choose a side, I will always side with my son.
My mother had a pendant like this for many years. I remember looking at it when I was very young, and trying to figure out what it meant. It wasn’t until I became a mother that I finally understood the reasons why she wore it.
Not my son.
War is profitable, isn’t it? Dick Cheney’s Haliburton company made billions off the Gulf Wars and the botched invasion of Iraq. Billions of dollars into the coffers of the Men In Charge, all at the expense of lives lost and families destroyed.
Is it really worth it? Is this really what we want? Do we really want another war?
I have no tolerance for the people who would sit there and wring their hands and say, “Well, war is unpleasant, nobody likes it, but it’s necessary.”
Not my son.
I hate to break it to you, folks, but war is a frightfully outdated method of resolving conflict. I believe that we’re better than that, or we can be better than that, if that’s what we truly want. I know that I can’t be alone in feeling that there have got to be better solutions than war, and I know I am not alone in my resolve to fight like hell to prevent any more lives lost of lives destroyed, just to satisfy the egos of rich old white Men In Charge.
I always wondered how I would act if I were old enough during the Viet Nam era to take a stand. I always wondered if I would have the courage to speak out and take a stand and if I would have the strength to stand by my convictions. Thanks to my son and his friends, now I know.
Not my son. Not your son. Not our children.