(Note: I'm out of the country for the week, taking some personal time, boss. In my absence, some great rude readers have written about life as a Trump hater in states that Trump won. Think of it as a necessary corrective to all those fucking New York Times stories about Trump voters sticking by their "man." Today's post is by Arizona resident Lauren E. Dillon)
Arizona is a lot like hell: the heat licks like flames, the air desiccates once-supple flesh, and sinners bloated with pride and privilege converge and bluster in incomprehensible callowness.
It’s at its worst in Scottsdale. These are not Rust Belt victims of modernization and downsizing. These are well-to-do white men stewing in their own juices of privilege and self-assuredness. They look upon a liberal woman like me, outspoken in my defense of brown skin, climate science, and equal rights, as deluded and below them.
They live sustained by their collective prejudices and unwavering in their Fox and Breitbart News-buoyed opinions. This is the land of Sheriff Joe with his tent city concentration camp, chain gangs, pink boxers, and Hispanic roundups. Often, they’ve served in his posse (yes, that’s what he named it), believing they’ve done their civic duty.
This is also the land of John McCain, once admired for his “maverick” qualities, now derided for defying their Orange Messiah. Whether he realizes it or not, McCain’s pulling a Lee Atwater, saving healthcare and attempting to cure Congress to make up for giving us Sarah Palin and Joe the Plumber, hawking war after war, and spewing racial epithets and insensitive put-downs.
And then came Trump. In a land where the Old West attitude of openly carrying weapons and defying social norms is celebrated, a loudmouth racist who derides everyone but their white male selves, who scorns intellect and science in favor of nineteenth century business and societal attitudes, who makes no effort towards diplomacy or decency, was manna from Wal-Mart. Any bags who once attempted to plug their inner douche have let it gush unimpeded. And they are legion.
But we live here and must for the time being. We own a house, have a grandchild enrolled in school, work decent paying jobs. Do I hate Arizona? Sometimes. Often. But I see glimpses of hope amid hate. When The Scourge came to town to rewrite his Charlottesville response and tease of his eventual pardon of Racist Joe, my 12-year-old grandson and I stood in 107 degree heat, holding signs above our heads with thousands of others, all united knowing this country is better than an imbecilic man-baby and his puffed-up minions. Downtown Phoenix contains large swaths of blue, as does Flagstaff and Sedona and Tucson. The Resistance grows, sometimes beaten back by overzealous police, overreaching executive actions, and personal despondency. But it grows.
We won’t let Pussygrabber and the Conceited Motherfuckers win. Because the answer to that one campaign question? Everything. We have everything to lose.
