On Nov. 8, the morning of election day, I wrote about the first time something happened in the news that scared me.
Our family was driving home to Ohio from a spring break trip in Florida and we stayed at a Howard Johnson's in Wytheville, Va. on Mar. 30, 1981. How do I remember that? It was there that we learned President Reagan had been shot. I was in sixth grade, and it was the first time I realized a president was something like the nation's dad, and if something was wrong with him, it scared even my real dad.
On Nov. 9, I had been up blogging most of the night because I needed something to do with my hands.
Scout went to bed before it was over last night. Her mother—getting ready to teach an elementary school-full of Mexican and Puerto Rican children this morning, try to get your mind around that—told her this morning when she got up. She came to me and asked, "What happened?" And I burst into tears.
And on Nov. 15, I wrote an open letter to a friend who believed I had lost my sense of humor.
How about I won’t tell you not to laugh at a wake, and you won’t tell me it’s not a wake. Because I think it’s fair to say that neither of us knows exactly what in the fuck this is.
He and I agreed to wait a year to evaluate the level of catastrophe the Trump administration had visited upon us. That year went by awfully fast. Next time we're together, I hope he doesn't bring it up. Because I really don't want to talk about it.
I mean, do you?