Over the last 1 year, 11 months, and 29 days, Trump, his cronies, and his enablers have driven me into a depression so deep it’s damaged my physical health.
In the gloating argot of Trump’s thuggish supporters, I guess that makes me a “snowflake.”
According to them, because I care, perhaps too much, about environment and all the creatures that live on the planet, and because I worry, perhaps too much, about the poor, the sick, the imprisoned, and the vulnerable, and because I love my country passionately, perhaps too much, and want to see it safe and strong, I’m “triggered.”
I can’t go to war against Russia for inflicting the worst foreign attack on US soil since 9/11, imposing the worst threat to American democracy since 1860, and dividing American citizens as badly as they were divided during 1960s over Civil Rights and the Vietnam War.
I can’t go to the border to aid the refugees abused and imprisoned by a government which, by law and basic human decency, should treat them with dignity and offer them sanctuary.
I can’t file lawsuits or run campaigns against the pervasive evils that the Republican party has unleashed on the nation.
I can no longer walk far enough to canvass.
I can’t fight to register voters or to restore the civil rights of people the Republicans have prevented from voting.
I’m too poor to give money to Democratic candidates or worthy social causes.
I’m the worst person you’d never want as an elected official.
But, today, by the grace of whatever divine powers there might be, I can do the one thing where the actions of a poor, sick madman are just as effective and meaningful as those of a a healthy plutocrat:
This snowflake is going to vote.
And I pray that my vote will be the fraction of a fraction of a milligram that starts the massive, inexorable motion that crushes and smothers Trump, Trumpism, and the Republican Party forever.